55

Boris Tirov was back on his set on time that morning, and he made a special effort to be affable with everyone and charming to the more important members of the cast and crew. He settled into his on-set chair a few minutes before shooting and called his L.A. attorney.

“Good morning, Boris,” the man said, sounding weary.

“Good morning, Kim. I’d like you to file a lawsuit today.”

“Who are we suing this time?”

“A newspaper called the Santa Fe New Mexican, a reporter named Christy Mayson and her editor, whoever that is.”

“And what are we suing for?”

“Libel.”

“Boris, I’ve explained American law on this subject to you more than once. We will have to prove actual malice to win. Are you personally acquainted with this reporter?”

“Yes, I met her yesterday when she came to the set to interview me.”

“Do you have a sexual relationship with her?”

“No, but that’s not a bad idea.”

“And I assume that you don’t know her editor, since you can’t come up with his name.”

“That’s correct.”

“It’s going to be, practically speaking, impossible to prove actual malice on the part of two professional people, one of whom you just met and the other, you don’t know at all. Are the allegations they made about you true?”

“Get on the Internet, go to the paper’s website, and read the article,” Tirov said. “Call me when you’ve filed the suit.”

“I’m not licensed to practice in New Mexico. I’ll have to find a local attorney to bring the suit.”

“Then do it.” Tirov hung up.

—

Kim Kopchinsky found the newspaper article and read it. He found it plausible that two attempts had been made on Tirov’s life—he had often been tempted himself, but the man did pay his legal bills on time. The part about putting a rattlesnake in his ex-wife’s bedroom did not seem too far-fetched, given his previous experience with his client during the divorce proceedings, and the part about having another rattlesnake put in his client’s bed seemed just, if not legal. He called Tirov back.

“Yeah?”

“Boris, I’ve read the newspaper article, and I’ve noticed that both the Santa Fe sheriff and hotel employees have been cited as sources. There is one anonymous source, for the part about the rattlesnake in your wife’s bedroom, but having witnessed your behavior during the divorce, I find it completely plausible that you would do such a thing. Now, it’s one thing to represent you in career and divorce negotiations, but it’s quite another to file a frivolous lawsuit against a reputable newspaper, and I am unwilling to sully the good name of this law firm by being a party to such an idiotic proceeding.”

“Are you willing to be fired right now?”

“I’d be proud to be fired by you, Boris. I might even take out an ad, bragging about it. Go fuck yourself.” Kopchinsky hung up the phone, feeling unaccountably clean.

Boris could feel his blood pressure going up. He got out of his chair and walked into the street, headed for the armorer’s trailer at one end. He walked up to the open window through which the man issued and accepted firearms.

“Morning, Mr. Tirov,” the man drawled. “What can I do you for?”

“Good morning, Frog. Give me a shotgun,” Tirov said.

“What kind did you have in mind?”

“What do you mean, what kind?”

“I’ve got twelve- and ten-gauges, both antiques, with open hammers. That do you?”

“How about something sawed off?”

The man disappeared into his trailer and came back with a weapon sporting about eight inches of barrel. “How ’bout this ’un?”

“Fine. Give me a box of ammo.”

“All we got is blanks.”

“I want a box of live ammo for that shotgun.”

“Coupla things, Mr. Tirov. First of all, you load this weapon with live ammo, and you’re breaking the law. It’s a felony to possess a shotgun with a barrel shorter than eighteen inches.”

“Then how come you’ve got one?”

“This ain’t a shotgun, it’s a prop, unless you load it with live shells. Second thing is, this place ain’t a firing range, it’s a prop business, and we don’t stock no live ammo—at all, for any weapon. I’ve already been accused of issuing live rounds to whoever shot you, and I didn’t like it much.”

“You’re fired,” Tirov said. “Get your ass off my set.”

“Tell you what, you round up the thirty-four folks I’ve issued firearms to and tell ’em to bring their weapons down here, and when they’ve done that and checked ’em in, I’ll get my ass off your set. Then I’ll call my union rep and my lawyer, and this shoot will be shut down before the sun sets. Oh, and good luck staging all them shoot-outs in the script without no weapons. You’ll have to find somebody in L.A. who will replace mine.”

Boris stared at him for a long moment, trembling with rage, then he swallowed it and said, “Sorry about that. Carry on.”

“Yessir, I’ll do that, because I signed a contract, but don’t you bother calling on me for work in the future.”

Boris turned and walked away, seething. His internal rage gauge was threatening to blow its top off, and he had to relieve the pressure. There was only one way to do that.