WE GO TO Maggie’s house and I get Maggie back.
You probably want to know what made her scream. A stiff wire under her fingernails. There’s no permanent damage and, as Maggie herself notes, no visible scars. Just like the movies, the good guys walk away.
I give David the memo.
Steve Weston. We go and get the body and bring it back to L.A. It’s important that the body be found for the sake of his family, for his pension and social security. When the cops find the body they label it as drug-related. Short for male, black, cause of death: gunshot wound. Maggie and I go to the funeral.
I got two promises to keep. One to Steve. One to his son. I’ll get to that in a minute or two.
You asked me, did I make a copy of the memo, before I gave it to Hartman? Yes. I did. But I don’t have it.
I call C. H. Bunker. He loves secrets, believes in them. He has two favorite war stories, the Battle of Midway and the Tet Offensive. I offer it to him, in return for peace. I tell him again, “C. H. I kept the secrets, I’ve always kept the secrets.”
And I kept them all. All of them. Until now. Even now I’m not telling you a lot of the things we done.
C. H. shakes my right hand and takes the memo with his left. “Alright, son,” he says.
So what is the first picture deal that Hartman comes up with? American Ninja. The movie that Sakuro Juzo is supposed to do, that he can’t because he’s dead. They do a quick rewrite and give Maggie the lead, Sakuro’s part. It’s projected as the first in a series. It has a james Bond level of artistic complexity. Roger Moore jokes that all he ever has to say is, “My name is Bond, James Bond.” Maggie jokes that she has twice as much to say, two lines: “Yes, there are American Ninja,” and “The female is deadlier than the male.” On the other hand, it’s got a James Bond level of production, it’s a lot of money up front plus gross points with a good definition. It’s got a ten- to twelve-week shooting schedule, Toronto, Japan, Mexico, and I think it’s a good idea to get out of town. Let people forget a little bit.
Two weeks later, we’re on location.
It’s the first time I ever see a big movie made. It is almost as insane as war. I can see how someone can go from making a movie to making a war. Maybe Atwater, Hartman, Beagle, they understood that. There are deaths every year making movies: stunt people, helicopter pilots, cameramen, sometimes even an actor or two.
It seems like Maggie and I are totally happy. We joke about it from both sides. On the one hand she talks about how she’s tricking me into making her pregnant so that we’ll have to have a shotgun wedding. Once or twice she warns me that she’s an actress, a creature of emotion, historically fickle, faithful only to the dramatic moment.
It’s July in Mexico. It’s hot. But we’re by the water, the Pacific coast, and we’re having a good time.
We’re hanging out with Catherine Held, Maggie’s stunt double, and Tommy Tommassino, the key grip, her boyfriend. They’re in love. We’re in love. Tommy was in ’Nam. We decide that we’re all taking off when we finish shooting, which is scheduled for the first, maybe the second of August. Disappear for a week or two or whatever. Party. Swim. Pretend we’re not in the movie business.
So everything is perfect except that I have been seeing some people that don’t look quite right. But I’m not sure about that because this is Mexico, not a place that I know well enough to know who belongs and who doesn’t. And of course Mexico is not one place. People are different in different parts. We’re in Oaxaca, in a resort hotel near Puerto Angel, about 300 miles down the coast from Acapulco.
The last thing we film is a night sequence on the beach. We get the final shot thirty minutes before sunrise.
The crew breaks out cases of beer and bottles of tequilla and big fat joints, Acapulco Gold, disco biscuits and pretty much whatever else they can think of. We light bonfires on the beach. Maggie gets high. More than high, flying. Which is fine. She’s worked hard. Everyone’s worked hard. Besides, it’s Mexico.
I’m sober. Like a designated driver. Like I’m still on duty. I don’t know why. I just am. The world sends me signals.
I told you I would tell you about one time that Maggie and I make love. Just one time. Because it’s . . . cinematic. So if someone ever gets it in their head to make a movie of this—not the big movie, the war—my story and Maggie’s. I don’t know if it would play. If people would understand. If you’ll understand. But I’ll tell you. We leave the party. We go back to the room. Maggie makes me undress. She goes into the bathroom. She comes out wearing nothing but cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, carrying a box.
“A present for you,” she says.
I take it and open it. Inside are two original Colt Peacemakers and a gun belt that looks to be 100 years old or more, oiled leather that someone’s kept meticulously all this time.
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re loaded,” she says.
She makes me put the gun belt on. Then I lay down on the bed. I’m down in Mexico, wearing nothing but a pair of six guns with walnut grips, circa 1873. Magdalena Lazlo, naked except for her head and feet, is in love with me, and she is riding me for all she’s worth. We have music on the CD player and it’s turned up loud.
The door opens.
It’s just as if I’d been expecting it. My 9mm is under the pillow, beneath my head. That’s all right. The Peacemaker is in my hand, long and heavy. I sit up. I thumb the hammer back, as if it is what I do every day.
Bo Perkins comes through the door.
I hold Maggie to my chest. Her legs are still around me. There’s a straight line down the barrel of the Peacemaker to that spot in the center of Bo’s forehead that some people believe is the third eye. I fire. The bullet goes where I know it will, like it’s connected to him. Like it’s on a wire. It’s loud. The explosion echoes in the room.
This takes place on Thursday, the morning of August 2.
At that time I don’t know what that means. Later in the day, I hear the news. Saddam Hussein has invaded Kuwait. George Bush is in Aspen with Maggie Thatcher. In the afternoon or the evening, I don’t know which, he makes a statement. “We’re not ruling any options in. And we’re not ruling any options out.”
Hartman has decided he can’t take a chance on our staying alive. The faces I’ve been seeing are like the faces of the death squad guys down in El Salvador. Nobody I know, they were careful about that. Probably guys who used to work with Bo and Chaz. I don’t know why Bo didn’t wait for backup. He should’ve waited. He should’ve known he couldn’t take me alone. No matter what I was doing.
You want to know all the thoughts and strategic considerations and what it was like and all of that? Or you want to know what happened? Bottom line.