Unbound Page 3

  “Why so many houses?”

  “That’s an odd question, coming from a Realtor.”

  “I suppose it is, but I’m curious.”

  “They just kept popping up, and they were each irresistible. I did sell a house last year, in Washington, Connecticut, and, of course, the place in Tesuque, so I’m not completely crazy.”

  “Ted Turner has—or maybe, had—ten houses,” she said.

  “I feel his pain.”

  “One of his places is said to have something like two hundred thousand acres of grassland.”

  “That’s a lot of lawn to mow,” Stone said. “Only two of my houses have lawns, and one of those is quite small, so I don’t have to spend much time on a tractor.”

  “Who is this Billy Barnett fellow that you and Ed Eagle seem so fond of? I couldn’t get a handle on him.”

  “Billy is a film producer who works with my son, Peter, at Centurion Studios. Billy recently lost his wife in an accident, and Ed and I are commiserating.”

  “Hang on, you have a son? With whom?”

  “Arrington.”

  “I thought . . .”

  “We knew each other before she met Vance Calder. Neither of us knew she was pregnant when they were married, nor did Vance, for that matter.”

  “You must be a very complicated man.”

  “No, I’m a simple man with a complicated life. I spend my days wrestling it into submission.”

  “I don’t suppose Billy is house-hunting?”

  Stone sighed. “Not in his present frame of mind.”

  “What’s he doing in Santa Fe?”

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  “I understand.”

  “Ana, do you know anything about a man named Dax Baxter?”

  “Ach!” she spat. “I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”

  “I’ve never met the man, but it sounds as though you have.”

  “I spent half a day with him a few weeks ago, showing him grandiose houses, but I couldn’t find one bad enough for him. Instead, I excused myself from duty and gave him the names of a couple of other real estate ladies whom I despise. He bought a house that I look upon as the ugliest and most overbearing in Santa Fe County.”

  “That sounds like a pretty good description of the Baxter I’ve heard about,” Stone said. “Ugly and overbearing.”

  “And arrogant. I think the villains in his movies are all autobiographical.”

  “How many have you seen?”

  “About a third of one—that was enough. I’ve had enough of Dax Baxter, too. What made you bring up his name?”

  “Someone I know hates him,” Stone said. “Now I think I know why.”

  6

  TEDDY SAT AT the dressing table in the bedroom of the little house he had rented, regarded himself in the mirror, and made some decisions about who he should become. He had always had a distinctly anonymous look about him, a face that lent itself to change, one that people had trouble remembering.

  He had to keep it simple, since he would spend considerable time in this character, and he began with a thick, gray mustache with little handlebars. That one thing would establish him in the minds of others as Ted Shirley, the name he had chosen for himself, one easy to remember. He had already spent a couple of hours online, creating a structure for this identity—New York driver’s license, Social Security number, union memberships, credit report, everything an employer would need to hire him.

  He stared at the face in the mirror: it was already tan from his years in California, so no makeup was required. It needed one other distinguishing feature, though, one more thing. He fished around in his makeup box and found a pair of round, steel-rimmed eyeglasses; he wiped the lenses clean and put them on, securing them over his ears with the flexible stems. There: sort of a more youthful Wilford Brimley type.

  He opened his Ted Shirley file and ran through his particulars again. He had to be this character completely, and he couldn’t allow himself to stumble over facts, like the year he was born or the last four digits of his Social.

  He got into some faded but clean jeans, a Western-flavored shirt, a pair of well-worn suede boots, and a belt with a silver buckle, then he put on a Western hat that he had bought in a custom hat shop on the Plaza and had decorated with some sweat stains made of mineral oil, then he consulted the image in the mirror once more. “How do you do, Ted Shirley?” The answer was, pretty damned satisfactory.

  The Porsche Cayenne was in the garage, locked away for the duration. He had met a man in a bar the day before who owned a nicely restored old pickup truck and had rented it from him for a month for $1,000, which the fellow was glad to have.

  He slipped into an old suede jacket and tucked an envelope into an inside pocket, which contained a copy of the carefully constructed employment application he had filed at the movie employment office in a downtown hotel. He tucked his Ted Shirley wallet into a hip pocket, got his truck keys, and headed south of Santa Fe, to the J. W. Eaves Movie Ranch, a few miles off I-25.

  Once there, he parked in the public lot and walked into the nicely designed and constructed Western town, entering the saloon. A woman sat at a table on the front porch, and he tipped his hat to her. “Good morning,” he said. “My name is Ted Shirley. I have an appointment just about now.”

  She gave him a dry smile and found his name on a list. “You’re not an actor?”

  “I can do just about anything.”

  “You’re supposed to see Dan Waters, inside at table number three. Dan is our production manager.”

  He thanked her and went inside. There were four poker tables, each with a number. He walked up to number three. “Dan Waters?”

  “That’s me.”

  Teddy held out a hand. “I’m Ted Shirley.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Waters replied, shuffling among some applications on the table. “Siddown. You’ve got an interesting sheet.”

  Teddy sat down. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s see, theater, documentary films, a few TV shows. You’ve done a little of everything, haven’t you?”

  “I guess I have.”

  “I’d hire you as an actor if I didn’t need technical people more. We’ve brought a skeleton crew from L.A., and our tax deal with the state film commission calls for us to hire locally, when we can. What would you like to do on this picture, Ted?”

  “I think I’d like to work for you,” Teddy replied.

  Waters leaned back in his chair. “How long you been in Santa Fe?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “Why’d you leave New York?”

  “Twenty years in the big city was enough. I was looking for a change of scenery.” He paused. “And maybe another wife. The last one didn’t work out too well.”

  Waters smiled. “We’ve all been there. You got a place here?”

  “I rent. I don’t know the town well enough yet to buy.”

  “You ever done any casting?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’re gonna need about thirty actors with SAG cards, and maybe sixty extras. We’ve already nailed down the SAG people. Why don’t we put you in charge of casting extras?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Waters handed him a heavy cardboard box. “Here are head shots and CVs and a list of what we need. Most of these applicants have shown up in Western dress, and we’ll favor them to save money on costumes, but if you run across good ones who need dressing, we can handle that. Oh, no weapons—we’ll issue those.”

  Teddy stood and picked up the box. “Where do I work?”

  “There’s a number eight in the box. Pick a poker table, start interviewing, and bring me a list of your preferences, plus a dozen alternates, by the end of the day. Then maybe we’ll find something else for you to do.”

  Teddy picked up the box, chose a table in a c
orner, and stuck the number on it. In short order, a line had formed before him, and he looked it over for a moment. Some of them looked ridiculous, but others, pretty good. He started to interview the first in line, a wiry fifty-year-old who looked at home in cowboy boots and hat. He was also wearing a six-shooter in a worn holster. Teddy took about three minutes to put him on the list to hire. “One thing,” he said.

  “Yessir?”

  “Lose the weapon. Lock it in your car, or something. If a gun is called for, the armory will issue it to you.”

  “I’m kind of fond of my own,” the man said.

  “You can’t work this picture with it. It’s a liability thing.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  They broke for an hour for lunch, which was served from two actual chuck wagons: hamburgers and beans.

  Teddy went back to work, and at three-thirty, he walked over to Dan Waters and handed him his preferred list and their photographs. “Here you go. I think this is a pretty good bunch.”

  Waters looked through the photos. “I think you’re right. Now go send them over to Personnel, across the street in the general store, and they’ll get formally hired, then come back and we’ll see what else we can find for you to do.”

  Teddy felt someone approach from behind, and he turned to find a tall, heavily muscled man with a thick head of gray hair under a large, cocked-back Stetson.

  “Ted, this is the boss,” Waters said, “Dax Baxter.”

  Baxter regarded him coolly for a moment, then gave him a quick nod and turned to Waters to start a different conversation. He was followed by two equally tall, equally muscled men.

  “Those are Dax’s body men,” Dan said, “Hank and Joe. We call ’em Hinky and Dinky when they’re not listening.”

  Teddy nodded. He wanted to hurt Baxter, but he thought better of it.

  7

  TEDDY SPENT THE REST of the day with Dan Waters, evaluating costumes for the supporting cast. They quit at six o’clock.

  “Ted,” Waters said, “can I buy you a drink? Those bottles behind that bar over there contain the real thing, and this saloon is the crew and cast canteen after six.”

  “Sure,” Teddy replied. “Bourbon and rocks, if they’ve got ’em.”

  Dan waved at a man dressed as a waiter. “Two bourbons, rocks,” he said. The man left and Dan chuckled. “That guy’s an actor, but he’s a waiter in the evenings. There’s an ice machine concealed behind the bar.”

  “Pretty neat, Dan,” Teddy said. “Where are you from?”

  “L.A., born and bred. You?”

  “Born in Florida, then everywhere. Marine brat.”

  “When you left New York, why didn’t you go to L.A.?” Dan asked. “Plenty of work for a guy like you.”

  “I didn’t want to work all the time, and I like this town. I’ve had it with big cities. Tell me, who are Hinky and Dinky protecting Dax Baxter from?”

  “Whatever rises in that paranoid brain of his,” Dan said. “He doesn’t like to be touched, so don’t ever slap him on the back or you’ll find Hink and Dink sitting on you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Sounds like you don’t like him very much.”

  “Nobody likes him very much. Oh, he’s got plenty of charm, if you’re a studio exec or a movie star he wants for a picture or somebody he wants something else for. He does okay with the ladies, too.”

  “I thought he was married to Willa Mather, the actress,” Ted said.

  “Sort of an actress,” Dan replied, with an eye roll. “He doesn’t like her to work, and on top of that, she’s got a drinking problem, so she doesn’t get offers anymore. A few weeks ago she was driving through Beverly Hills, drunk, and ran down a pedestrian, killed her, but Dax got it hushed up. She’s still in rehab, so she’s not on our shoot.”

  “You sure make Dax sound like a sweet guy.”

  “Oh, you’ll form your own opinions before we’re done here. This is a twenty-six-day shoot. By the way, I need an assistant. The pay is five hundred a day. You want the job?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Do it well, and I’ll get you a screen credit.”

  “That would look nice on my résumé.”

  “About Dax—he’s not lovable, but he’s a hell of a producer. He has an eye for what the public wants to see, and for a good script, and he knows how to deal with the studio.”

  “Does he have a production deal somewhere?” Teddy asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yeah, at SAC, Standard American Cinema, in Burbank. He’s made them a lot of money, so he gets what he wants.”

  “I expect he does.”

  Their drinks arrived, along with some cheese and charcuterie.

  “This is an example of what Dax gets from the studios,” Dan said, picking up a slice of prosciutto from the plate. “The cast gets very nice trailers, and Dax has a double-wide that gets split up, towed, then put back together again on location. He likes Santa Fe, too. He’s bought a big house here, and our production designer is decorating it for him, right out of the studio’s warehouses. There’ll be a wrap party when we’re done. Save Dax some money here and there, and you’ll get an engraved invitation.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Teddy said.

  “Where’s your place?”

  “Out in Tesuque, on the north side of town. It’s smaller than Dax’s double-wide, but it’ll do.”

  “Hey, Sally!” Dan yelled at a woman in tight jeans and a decorated cowgirl hat. “Join us.” She sat down, and Dan introduced them. “Ted, this is Sally Ryder. Sally, Ted Shirley.”

  “We’ve met,” Sally said. She had been working the table on the porch when Teddy had presented himself that morning.

  They shook hands. “I’m glad you’ve joined us,” she said to Teddy. “You have an interesting résumé.”

  “Thanks, I’m glad, too. Nice not to be a tourist here all the time. I’m glad for the work.”

  “Ted’s going to be my assistant on the shoot,” Dan said.

  “That’s good. He’ll work you hard, Ted, but you’ll have fun, if you can steer clear of Dax.”

  “That’s not a problem, Ted,” Dan said. “Just let me do the talking when he has questions.”

  “I’m happy to be mute,” Teddy said. “Are you from L.A., Sally?”

  “Used to be, but now I live in Santa Fe. I work on just about every film that gets shot here, and it’s enough to keep me in beans and bourbon.”

  “Who could want more?” Dan asked. “She could produce at any studio in L.A.,” he said to Teddy, “but she likes it here, too, like you.”

  “Tell me about you, Ted,” she said.

  Teddy told her what he’d told Dan.

  “I was an army brat,” she said, “so you’ll never have to tell me about your childhood.”

  “I’m thankful for that,” Teddy replied.

  “My dad did three tours in Germany.”

  “So you’ve got the language?”

  “I know how to order a beer,” she said.

  Teddy liked her; she was trim and fit, pretty, and had blond hair, with some gray in it. He liked that she wasn’t dyeing it.

  “Did you get overseas?” she asked.

  “No, we were mostly stateside. When my father built some rank we were in the D.C. area. I can order a beer in Georgetown.”

  She laughed, a very nice sound.

  Then Dax Baxter was standing at their table. “A word, Dan?”

  Dan started to rise, but Baxter sat down. “Have you had a look at the horses?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I told the wrangler to replace eight of them with something better.”

  “Good, we don’t want livestock dying on us.”

  “Dax, you met Ted Shirley, here, this morning. He’s going to be my assistant on the shoot.”


  Baxter glanced at Teddy. “Is he qualified, or are you just queer for him?”

  Waters managed a smile. “He’s overqualified, and I got him cheap,” he replied.

  “That’s a combination I like to hear,” Baxter said, then he got up and left.

  “He knows I’m not gay,” Dan said to Teddy. “He just likes to put the needle in.”

  “With Dax, it’s what passes for a sense of humor,” Sally said. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Teddy said, “but I can ignore it.”

  8

  AS SALLY AND TEDDY were walking back to the parking lot, it occurred to him that he was going to be looking at four walls all evening. “Would you like to have dinner?” he asked her. “There’s a good restaurant in Tesuque, called El Nido.”

  “Sure,” Sally replied. “Shall I follow you?”

  “I’m in the old red pickup,” Teddy said, pointing.

  “Nice. Where’d you come by that?”

  “I got it from a guy I met in a bar. It’s in real good shape.”

  They got into their vehicles, and Teddy led her to Tesuque, which was a quick drive, fast highway all the way.

  There were no tables available, so they sat at the bar, ordered margaritas, and were given menus.

  “Do you live near here, Ted?” she asked.

  “Just up the hill behind the restaurant,” Teddy said. “El Nido and the Tesuque Market, next door, are the only restaurants I know here.”

  They ordered dinner and another margarita. When their food came Sally got quiet for a couple of minutes.

  “What are you thinking about?” Teddy asked.

  “Listen,” Sally said, “I don’t want you to think of this as hostile, but I know your name isn’t Ted Shirley, it’s Billy Barnett. I had a small part in a Peter Barrington film at Centurion a couple of years ago, and you were the line producer. How come that wasn’t on your résumé, and how come the name change?”

  Teddy took a deep breath and let it out. “Nailed,” he said. “The story is complicated.”