Dog Heavies (A Lucas Hallam Mystery Book 3) Page 2

  He put that out of his mind and went on, "Do you have anybody keepin' an eye on young Tremaine while he's still here in town?"

  Darby nodded. "I had Chief Morton assign some men to Eliot. Unobtrusively, of course."

  Hallam knew Seth Morton, knew that the head of the studio police was usually on top of things. "Where's the boy stayin?" he asked.

  "At his father's estate in Beverly Hills. I'm sure he'll be all right till tomorrow, Lucas. It's Texas we're worried about."

  Hallam nodded. If that was the way Darby wanted it that was fine with him. "I'll be on the train when it pulls out," he said.

  "Eliot and the others will be getting together here at the studio about eleven in the morning and then going over to the station—if he cools down enough to listen to reason. Why don't you meet us here? You can leave your car in our lot while you're gone."

  "Sounds fine," Hallam agreed. "I'll be here."

  "Thank you, Lucas," Darby said, shaking hands with him again. "I'm sorry about giving you such short notice—"

  Hallam waved a big hand. "Don't worry about that. It don't take me long to pack. All I've got to do is throw a few clothes and a Colt in my warbag."

  "Yes. Indeed."

  Grinning, Hallam nodded to Darby and turned to leave the office. As he pulled the door shut behind him, he heard Darby muttering. The man's job had to be a hard one, Hallam thought. Darby had to juggle all the different projects going on at the studio, not only handling technical and financial problems, but also dealing with all kinds of people. And Hallam knew from experience that people could be more trouble than anything else…

  The next morning dawned bright and clear, promising the kind of day that usually made Hallam glad he had wound up in California after a lifetime of wandering all over the West. Today, though, he paid little attention to the weather, not even noticing the warm breeze that swayed the fronds of the palm trees lining the boulevards. As he drove toward the studio, he was thinking instead about the job he had taken and the fact that he was going back to Texas after a lot of years.

  Texas held plenty of memories, both good and bad. He had seen his father die violently there, had gone on a vengeance trail that could have wound up putting him on the wrong side of the law. Instead, he had hooked up with the Rangers after a few years, and that had led to other work as a lawman, first as a deputy U.S. marshal and then as peace officer in assorted tough burgs as the last days of the old West were dying away. Eventually he had become a Pinkerton operative, and finally had drifted to Hollywood.

  Damn, but the years went by fast.

  Some of them were just blurry recollections of gunplay, of blood and death, cold weather and bad food, hard beds under an uncaring sky. But there had been some good times along the way, too, and some good people who had touched his life for a while.

  Like Liz Fletcher…

  Hallam grunted as he put on the brakes and slowed down to make the turn at the studio gate. He had spent a couple of hours the night before thinking about Liz when he should have been sleeping. He had almost decided to polish off half a bottle of Who-Hit-John that he had been keeping for emergencies, just in the hope that it would help him sleep, when he had finally dozed off.

  This morning he had told himself sternly that there wasn't going to be any more fretting about Liz. She was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions, and if she had chosen not to stay with him, that was her own damn business, whether he liked it or not.

  From here on out, Hallam vowed, he was worrying about the future, not the past.

  The guard at the studio gate consulted a list on his clipboard and then nodded. "Yes, sir, Mr. Hallam, they're expecting you. Just park anywhere over by Building Six. You can leave your car there for as long as you like."

  "Thanks, son," Hallam said. "Eliot Tremaine come in yet?"

  "Yes, sir. Both Mr. Tremaines are here."

  Hallam nodded and eased ahead in the flivver. He had thought that Peter Tremaine might come to the studio to see his son off on the journey to Texas. Obviously, Tremaine had been able to talk some sense into the boy and convince him that the best thing to do was to go along with the studio's wishes.

  As Hallam drove around several of the long, massive buildings that housed the stages where all interiors were shot, he passed a couple of tour buses, parked and empty. The pilgrims who had come here on the vehicles were probably in one of the buildings, watching raptly as crews cranked out scenes from the various productions underway at the moment. Tourists were a fact of life in this business, and Hallam had learned that it was best just to put up with them and ignore them as much as possible.

  He found a parking space next to the long, featureless wall of Building 6 and left the flivver there. His warbag was the only luggage he had, and he slung it over his shoulder as he walked toward the administration building.

  He was wearing boots, jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and his Stetson. The Panama was back in his apartment; it had seemed more fitting to wear the Stetson, considering where he was headed. He supposed he didn't look too different from the actors who were making a couple of different Westerns here at the studio, so it came as no surprise to him when the members of the tour group that emerged from one of the buildings began to gape at him.

  "Oh, dear me!" one of the women said excitedly. "I think that's William S. Hart!"

  Hallam had to grin. On his best day, he had never looked as handsome and distinguished as Bill Hart, not to mention the fact that Hart didn't sport a moustache. Hallam knew from experience that it didn't do any good to argue with the paying customers, though. He just smiled and reached up to touch the brim of his hat, nodding to the woman and saying pleasantly, "Howdy, ma'am."

  He strode on quickly, not wanting to give any of the tourists a chance to whip out an autograph book. They would have been disappointed if they had insisted on his signature. His scrawl wasn't easy to read, but it would have been plain enough that he wasn't anybody famous.

  The studio was busy this morning, as usual. Actors in costume hurried here and there, along with technicians hauling equipment, script girls with pencils stuck in their hair, and jodhpur-clad directors. The tourist group trailed along behind Hallam, listening to the slightly bored drone of their guide, taking in all the sights with wide eyes.

  Hallam looked ahead at the administration building and saw a small group of people emerging from the big double doors of the entrance. He spotted J. Frederick Darby in the lead, and beside the production chief was the burly, red-faced form of Peter Tremaine, looking more like a scrappy middleweight boxer than a movie director. Just behind Tremaine was the young man Hallam had seen leaving Darby's office the day before. Eliot Tremaine was almost the same height as his father, but he was slender and fair-skinned, with sleek dark hair and a vaguely sullen expression on his handsome face. He wore an expensive suit that looked hot in the bright morning sunshine.

  Behind Darby and the two Tremaines were half a dozen men in Western suits. Hallam grinned again as he recognized them. They were even more duded up than he was, sporting their Sunday-go-to-meetin' best for the occasion. He was more accustomed to seeing them in patched and dusty range clothes.

  Red Callahan, pure hell on the back of a horse… Harv Macklin, who could fall off a cliff better than anybody but Yak Canutt… Jeff Grant, a wizard with a rope… Stone Riordan, one of the best trick shots in Buffalo Bill's Wild West before coming to Hollywood… Max Hilyard, bull-doggin' champ of many a rodeo… and Tall Cotton Jones, lean and leathery and one of the best all-around cowboys Hallam had ever known… Men who had done it all, some of the best stuntmen and riding extras and character actors in the business. Hallam had worked with all of them, and he couldn't have assembled a better bunch if he had tried.

  Hallam lifted a hand in greeting and kept walking toward the group. As he stepped past an alleyway that ran between two of the buildings, a pair of men emerged and almost bumped into him. Their voices were loud and rancorous, and they were glaring at each other a
nd not paying any attention to where they were going.

  "You filthy no-good redskin!" one of the men barked at the other. "If you know what's good for you, you'll go back to that reservation you came from!" The speaker was young, with sandy hair and a broad, open face that at the moment was set in angry lines. He wore cowboy clothes and had a Colt revolver holstered on his hip. Obviously, he had just stepped off the set of one of the Western productions.

  "You not tell Brave Wolf what to do!" his companion snapped. Roughly the same age, this man was lean-bodied and moved with a lithe grace. He wore fringed buckskins, and his long raven-dark hair was bound in two braids that fell to his shoulders. His red hued skin, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes were ample evidence of his ancestry.

  "I'll tell you what to do if'n I want to, ya damn Injun!" the cowboy said roughly, stopping and thrusting out his jaw belligerently as he stared at the Indian.

  Hallam looked over his shoulder as he heard the angry words. He stopped and shook his head, unsure of what to do. The tourists were approaching quickly, all of them regarding the quarreling pair with fascination.

  That interest turned to nervousness as the Indian suddenly reached for the big knife that was sheathed on his hip. "Still your tongue, white man," he threatened in a low but carrying voice, "or Brave Wolf will cut it out!"

  The cowboy grabbed for the butt of his Colt. "I'll shoot your eyes out first, ya blamed heathen!" he howled.

  One of the women in the tour group—the same one who had mistaken Hallam for William S. Hart, he noticed— screamed as the gun and the knife came out of their sheaths. Several of the men hurriedly grasped their wives and children to protect them from the potential violence. Some of the youngsters began to sob.

  The cowboy's gun boomed deafeningly, belching smoke and fire, but the Indian had twisted aside, catlike. He launched an attack of his own, lunging forward and slashing at his enemy. The cowboy tried desperately to evade the thrust, throwing up his pistol to block the blow. Gun and knife came together with a clash of metal. Spitting curses, the two men began to wrestle, grappling desperately for the upper hand.

  "Here now!" Darby called as the tour group broke ranks and ran for cover to escape any stray bullets. "Stop that, you men!"

  The two fighters ignored him, even as Darby ran forward with Peter and Eliot Tremaine following closely behind him. The cowboy and the Indian were in what seemed to be a life-and-death struggle now, and suddenly the cowboy had the advantage as he shoved his buckskin clad opponent away from him. He brought the barrel of his gun to bear and jerked the trigger again. The Colt blasted, and the Indian staggered back a step, lifting a hand to his chest and clutching at the bright red stain that suddenly appeared there.

  "Aaaagh!" he exclaimed. "You have killed me, white man, but I will not go to the happy hunting ground alone!" He snatched out a tomahawk that was tucked behind his belt and flung it toward the man who had just shot him.

  The primitive weapon cracked into the cowboy's pistol, sending it spinning away. The Indian followed with a savage lunge, knocking him to the ground. Grasping his enemy's hair, the red man lifted his knife and said exultantly, "Now, white man, before I die, I take your scalp!"

  "No!" Darby shouted as he started to rush past Hallam. On the other side of the battle, one of the female tourists gasped, eyes rolling up, as she fell to the ground in a dead faint.

  Hallam muttered, "Oh, hell," and reached out with one long arm to grab the frantic production chief and jerk him to a stop. "Hold on, Mr. Darby," he said. "It ain't what it looks like."

  The knife swooped down.

  A second later, the Indian was standing over his victim, holding aloft a bloody patch of hair. The cowboy sprawled on the concrete of the path, arms and legs spread. His head lay in a pool of crimson. His booted feet gave a couple of feeble kicks, and then he lay still.

  The mortally wounded Indian abruptly collapsed on top of him, the gory trophy slipping from limp fingers.

  Some of the tourists had already turned and started running toward their buses. Now, after witnessing the scene of death and mutilation before them, the rest of the group scurried for safety, including the terrified guide. The only one left behind was the woman who had passed out.

  Peter Tremaine came pounding up to Hallam and Darby. The director surveyed the carnage, then turned to Hallam and said calmly enough, "Hello, Lucas. I take it Pecos and Teddy are at it again."

  "I reckon," Hallam said. He released Darby, who was quivering with rage, and strode over to the two bloody corpses. "Will you two idiots get up and start actin' like grown-ups, 'stead of a couple of little kids?"

  The two dead men started to shake with laughter.

  Eliot Tremaine came hurrying up and stared at the bloody forms of the cowboy and the Indian. The cowboy's scalp lay on the concrete a few feet away. Eliot frowned in puzzlement as Hallam prodded the Indian with a boot and went on, "I said get up, damn it."

  The Indian rolled over onto his back and lay next to the cowboy. Both of them were whooping with laughter now, tears running down their faces. Hallam bent over, grasped their collars, and hauled them roughly to their feet. Not even that stopped their hilarity.

  J. Frederick Darby regarded them with a furious stare. "I should have known it was you two!" he snapped. "How dare you pull something like this! I… I…" His voice trailed off in a sputter as he searched for words to express his anger.

  Hallam looked at the two young men and shook his head. "What's the matter with you fellers? You gone plumb crazy? You spooked that lady so bad she up and swooned."

  He pointed at the tourist who had fainted, who was now being attended to by the tour guide. The other members of the group, all of whom had fled, were slowly emerging from their hiding places behind the buses, and from the looks on their faces, they were beginning to realize that they had just had a practical joke played on them.

  The scalped cowboy looked over his shoulder at the victims of the farce, then reached up and peeled the bloody skin cap off his head. Underneath was a thatch of sandy hair almost identical to the fake scalp. He grinned sheepishly and said, "Aw, hell, Lucas, it was just a joke. Me and Teddy got tired of them gawkers comin' in and starin' at us while we were tryin' to work. It was all in fun."

  "That's right," the Indian added. "We were just trying to put on a good show for the tourists." His exaggerated "redskin" accent was gone now.

  "A good show?" Darby echoed, his high-pitched voice shaking. "A good show? Don't you realize that you've left the studio wide open for a lawsuit? A good show? Why, I ought to— No, I will! You're fired, both of you! You'll never work in this town again—"

  Eliot Tremaine's befuddled look had turned into a broad grin at the revelation that the violent confrontation had been nothing but a joke. Now he put a hand on Darby's shoulder, cutting off the production chief's excited tirade. "Look, Darby, it was just a joke," he said. "No need to get so upset." He glanced over at his father. "Is there, Dad?"

  Tremaine shrugged his heavy shoulders. "You don't know these two clowns like the rest of us, Eliot. They've fouled up more than one day's shooting with their little pranks. But I suppose it was all in fun. Why don't you take it easy on them, Fred?"

  "Not this time," Darby said coldly. "They've gone too far. I want them off the lot—"

  "Fine," Eliot interrupted again. "They seem like amusing chaps. If you're determined to banish me to Texas, I want these two men to accompany us."

  The victim of the mock scalping looked at Hallam and asked, "What's he talkin' about, Lucas?"

  By now the other cowboys had come up and were taking in the exchange with amused expressions on their faces. Hallam inclined his head toward them and said, "Me and these ol' boys are goin' to Texas with Mr. Eliot Tremaine here. Goin' to spend some time on a real live ranch, 'stead of a movie set."

  The two young men who had staged the joke glanced at each other and grinned. "Sounds like fun," the Indian said.

  "How about it, Mr. Darby?" his compan
ion in crime asked. "Can we go along with Lucas and these other fellers?"

  Darby looked around at the men surrounding him and sighed in exasperation. Eliot Tremaine's face showed the first signs of interest he had displayed since the subject of the trip to Texas had come up. Peter Tremaine was keeping his features impassive, leaving the decision up to Darby. Hallam had a dubious look on his face. He knew that adding the two jokers to the group might make his job even harder. It was up to Darby, though; he and the studio were paying the freight.

  Finally, Darby sighed again and said, "All right. The two of you can go—if you can be ready to leave in less than an hour. The train pulls out of Union Station at noon."

  "We'll be there," the young cowboy replied. He grabbed his friend's arm. "Come on, Teddy, let's get out of these getups!"

  They hurried away toward the wardrobe department, laughing about their escapade again now that it was obvious they were not going to lose their jobs over it. Hallam watched them go and had to smile a little himself. The way those tourists had scattered when the fracas broke out had been pretty funny.

  Darby went over to apologize to the tour group, using his most sincere tone on the woman who had fainted. Hallam paid little attention to his peacemaking efforts, turning instead to the Tremaines and the small band of cowboys.

  The men were all old friends, and they greeted Hallam warmly. "Hear you're goin' with us, Lucas," Tall Cotton Jones drawled.

  "That's right," Hallam confirmed.

  Eliot Tremaine stepped up to him. "Didn't I see you outside Darby's office yesterday?"

  "Reckon you did." Hallam extended his hand. "I'm Lucas Hallam."

  Eliot shook hands with him but still looked slightly suspicious. "I've been told that these other… gentlemen will be instructing me in the so-called cowboy arts. What's your specialty, Mr. Hallam?"