10
IN THE MORNING, after breakfast, I called the Film
Bureau and they told me that Jumbo Nelson's movie was shooting all
day today at the Park Street Station on Boston Common.
"What's the name of
the movie?" I said.
"Working title is
Oink."
"Perfect," I
said.
So, showered,
shaved, and splashed with a bouquet of aftershave, I put on jeans
and sneakers, a gray T-shirt, a .38 revolver, a leather jacket and
a tweed scally cap, and headed out to confront Zebulon Sixkill. I
was so clean and sweet-smelling that I decided to up my
fee.
It was April 2, and
it wasn't raining, but it looked like it would, as I walked across
the Public Garden and across Charles Street and through the Common.
At the intersection of Park and Tremont Streets, across from the
Park Street Church, a block from the State House, the Park Street
Station area looked like the staging site for the invasion of
Normandy. There were equipment trucks, lights, trailers, honey
wagons, mobile homes, a craft-services truck, some cars, extras,
grips, best boys, script girls, assistant directors, production
assistants, a detail cop, and a mare's nest of cables. Some
spectators had gathered behind the barriers, and as I walked down
into that scene, a limousine pulled up onto the corner of Tremont
Street, and Jumbo Nelson, dressed like a street person, got out and
walked slowly into the subway. A director yelled, "Cut!" Jumbo came
back out. Got back into the limo. Shepherded by the detail cop, it
backed up out of sight. Somebody held up a clacker board in front
of the camera.
"Scene eighteen,
take two," she said.
Somebody else,
probably an assistant director, said something that sounded like
"Speed?"
"Quiet on the
set."
"Rolling for
picture."
"And
action."
The limo slid into
view again as the camera tracked it. The director was looking at a
small monitor as it rolled. The car stopped. Jumbo got out. An
airplane went past overhead.
"Cut."
"Scene eighteen,
take three."
Shepherded by the
detail cop, the limo backed up out of sight. I'd been around movie
sets before. They'd do this all morning. I asked a production
assistant with a clipboard where I could find Zebulon
Sixkill.
"He's over there,"
she said. "By the camera. He likes to watch the shot in the
monitor."
She had blond
streaks in her hair and looked to be about twenty-three. I thanked
her and started over.
"Z's got kind of a
short fuse."
"I'll be careful," I
said.
I walked over by the
camera and stood silently beside Zebulon Sixkill while Jumbo did
his walk for the fifth time.
When he disappeared
into the subway entrance, the director said, "Cut. It's a
keeper."
Jumbo came back
out.
"For crissake,
Vaughn, it was five takes to get a fucking walk?"
"Want to get it
right, Jumbo," the director said.
Jumbo looked at the
spectators.
"Fucking directors,"
he said, with a lot of projection. "Won't do one take when five are
almost as good."
A few spectators
tittered. The director ignored him. He was already conferring with
the first assistant director about the next shot.
"I'm going to craft
services," Jumbo said. "Z?"
Zebulon Sixkill
started after Jumbo. I went with him. As he had in Wellesley, he
walked carefully, as if the ground was slippery.
"Zebulon?" I
said.
He was watching
Jumbo, in case some crazed fan jumped out and assaulted him for his
autograph.
He said, "Call me
Z."
"Okay, Z, can we
talk for a few minutes?"
He looked at
me.
"You," he
said.
"Me."
"What the fuck?" he
said.
"Wanted to ask you
what happened to Dawn Lopata," I said.
"Don't know shit.
Now take a walk or I'll mess you up."
"You were in the
next room when she died," I said.
Jumbo saw
me.
"Z, who you fucking
talking to," he said.
"The asshole I threw
out of Wellesley," Z said.
"So throw him off
the set, too," Jumbo said. "And throw him off hard. I'm sick of
him."
The detail cop was
up Tremont Street, dealing with the traffic disruption that the
drive up had caused. It was gonna be me and Z.
Z said, "Move
it."
He put both hands on
my chest and shoved me. He was strong. I took a step
back.
He took me by the
lapels with both hands. Up close, he smelled of booze.
Ten-thirty in the morning?
"I told you, move,"
he said.
I clamped my left
forearm over both his hands, which pinned them to my chest. Then in
a sort of leisurely way, I brought my right arm up and back and
drove my elbow into his face. He bent backward. I brought the same
right hand around and hit him on the right temple with the side of
my clenched fist. His knees buckled. I let his hands go and pushed
him away. He stumbled back a couple of steps. His head was down,
and he shook it as if things weren't in place. Then he lunged at
me. I put out a straight left and he ran into it, and I followed
with a right cross that put him down. He was on his hands and
knees. Again, he shook his head a little and started to get up. I
let him. When he was on his feet, I waited. He rocked a bit, and
then came at me again with a wild right hand. I checked the punch
with my left hand, blocked it with my right, and slid outside the
punch. I kept hold of his arm with my right, holding him at the
juncture of hand and wrist so he couldn't twist loose. I pulled him
slightly forward so he was off balance and hit him with three left
hooks into his exposed kidney area. He gasped. I jerked him forward
hard and he went down, face-first. He stayed there for a minute and
then, painfully, he started to get up. I had to give him points for
tough.
"Stay down," I said.
"You couldn't beat me sober, and you got no chance
drunk."
He got himself onto
his hands and knees, almost feeling for the ground as he started to
inch one leg under him.
"Z," I said. "So far
I've just been discouraging you. You keep coming and I'm gonna have
to hurt you."
He got both feet
under him, and like someone doing a clean and jerk too heavy for
him, he forced himself upright and faced me. He put his hands up in
front of his face as if he could box. Which he couldn't. He stuck a
feeble left out at me. I leaned away from it. He followed with an
aimless right cross, which I leaned away from in the other
direction. He stood, then, with both hands up again, in front of
his face. His eyes looked blank. Then, quite suddenly, without any
visible volition, he sat down on the ground. Our dance was
done.
"You fucking wimp,"
Jumbo yelled at him. "You let this fucking local keyhole sniffer
kick your ass."
Z simply sat. If he
heard Jumbo, he gave no sign.
"Fucking loser,"
Jumbo said. "When you can get your sorry ass off the ground, take a
goddamned hike. I don't want to see you again. You're
fired."
The detail cop came
through the crowd that had gathered.
"What's going on,"
he said.
"My bodyguard,
ex-bodyguard, is a fucking coward, that's what," Jumbo
said.
"He's not a coward,"
I said to Jumbo. "He's hurt."
"You put him down?"
the detail cop said.
"We were sparring,"
I said. "It got out of hand."
"My name's Ed
Keohane," the cop said. "I know you?"
"Spenser," I said.
"I'm a private license."
"Yeah, I know who
you are," the cop said. "Aren't you pals with the homicide
commander?"
"Captain Quirk," I
said. "Sort of."
The cop bent over
Z.
"You got anything to
say?"
Z shook his
head.
"You want to press
charges or anything?"
Z shook his
head.
"You need an
ambulance?"
Z shook his head.
The cop felt his pulse for a minute and straightened
up.
"Anyplace he can
rest, until he's got himself together?" he said.
"We could put him in
Jumbo's trailer," the first AD said.
"Like hell," Jumbo
said. "I'm done with him. Fucking fraud. Claimed he was
tough."
"He is tough," I
said. "He kept coming a long time after he should have
stopped."
"So how come he's on
the ground?" Jumbo said.
"He's tough enough,"
I said. "He just can't fight very well."
"Put him in my
trailer," the director said.
The cop and I helped
Z to his feet and, one on each side, we walked him to the trailer.
The director opened the door and we brought him in and laid him out
on the bed. The young PA I had talked to before came
in.
"I'll stay with
him," she said.
I looked at Z. He
looked back at me. There was consciousness in his eyes. I nodded
slightly and turned and left.
Outside, the ADs
were getting everybody back to work. Jumbo was still there. He was
eating a large cinnamon bun.
"You want a job?" he
said.
"Working for you?" I
said.
He took a big bite
of his cinnamon bun and chewed it while he spoke.
"Good money, lotta
starstruck pussy," he said.
"No," I
said.
"Why
not?"
"Don't like you," I
said.
"Oh, fuck," Jumbo
said. "Nobody likes me, but everybody likes money and snatch, and I
got plenty of both. Chemicals, too, you like that."
"No," I
said.
"I need a
bodyguard," Jumbo said. "You're good. What'll it
take."
"No," I said, and
started away.
"For crissake, at
least gimme a fucking reason," Jumbo said.
I paused and turned
back.
"I think you're a
repellent puke," I said, and walked away across the
Common.
Zebulon Sixkill IIBy his freshman year in high school, Zebulon was six feet two inches tall. He discovered the weight room, and by sophomore year he weighed 210 pounds and was an all-county running back. By senior year he weighed 240 and was considered the best running back in the state. The newspapers started calling him "The Cree named Z," and the recruiters arrived in force. Bob and Zebulon talked to each of them in the neat kitchen of Bob's cabin.The recruiter from California Wesleyan was a very rich alumnus named Patrick Calhoun who had been an all-American tackle at Cal Wesleyan thirty years ago. He was a large man, gone to fat, and very pleasant. He told Zebulon to call him Pat. He told Bob he'd be like a father to Zebulon while Z was at the university, and reminded both of them that four members of last year's Rose Bowl team had been drafted by the National Football League in the first two rounds. Zebulon and Bob talked it over for two days and opted for Pat Calhoun.By the end of his first season he was starting as the feature back in Cal Wesleyan's pro-style offense. Pat Calhoun paid Zebulon's tuition and gave him money every week. He bought Zebulon a Mustang convertible. Bob couldn't afford to come to the games, so Pat arranged for a video of each week's game to be sent to him. Zebulon called Bob the day after every game, and they often talked for an hour. Two weeks before the beginning of Zebulon's sophomore year, Bob died. Zebulon was two weeks late coming back to college.He sat in the football office with the head coach, Harmon Stockard, and Pat Calhoun, whom Stockard, with a smile, referred to as "one of the owners.""I want you to take your time," Stockard said. "You're not ready to play, that's okay. We can redshirt you for a year.""I can play," Zebulon said."Z," Calhoun said, "think about it. The level we all need you to perform. It takes a ton of focus.""I can play.""Be sure," Stockard said. "You owe it to yourself, and you owe it to me, and you owe it to the team. We go into the season with you, and you're not ready . . .""I can focus," Zebulon said.The first game he played after Bob's death he ran for 136 yards and two touchdowns.