That’s what Fin was thinking, but what he said was, “What a great idea! And given my law enforcement experience, I’d be ideal for that role!”
“Orson sent me a list of your credits, Fin,” she said. “You haven’t done much TV. And I didn’t see anything in features.”
“I did some extra work in two features,” he said. “Did you see …”
She interrupted him to say, “Do you have formal training?”
“Well, not formal formal,” he said. “I’ve done a lotta stage work …”
“Locally?”
“Locally,” he said. “I mean, I’m not the type to move to Hollywood and join one of those actors’ studios where you learn to imitate a ripe cantaloupe. I’m more of a natural actor.”
“Right,” she said. “Well, would you read this for me, please?”
She handed him a page of a script. One page. There was dialogue on the page involving three characters: Renfro, Skaggs and Gonzales.
“Which character?”
“Skaggs,” she said. “I think, Skaggs.”
He read the dialogue. “He’s toast?” Fin looked from the dialogue to the co-executive producer.
“It’s not a question,” she said. “You read it like a question.”
“Is this it?” he asked. “The dialogue? One line? Two words?”
She said, “Try it again. Remember, you’re a … let’s say a CIA man gone bad. You’re referring to our hero who you’ve been contracted to kill. You’re responding to Renfro who said, ‘Can you finish him?’ And you say …”
“He’s toast?” Fin asked.
“You did it again,” she said patiently. “You delivered your line as a question. It’s not a question, Skaggs. I mean, Fin. It’s a very definitive statement.”
Fin gathered himself, studied his dialogue, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them they were slits. “He’s toast,” Fin said.
“Try it again.”
“He’s toast,” Fin said.
“Once more.”
“He’s … toast,” Fin said.
“That’s close.”
“I can throw it away,” Fin offered. Then he threw it away, mumbling, “He’s toast.”
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“I could play him as an Aussie,” Fin suggested. “I do Aussies.”
“No Aussies, no.”
“He’s toast, mate!”
“I said no Aussies.”
“A Canadian, then! He’s toast, eh?”
“That’s enough. Thanks.”
“I can Bogart the line for you!” Fin said desperately. “I can put so goddamn much menace in it you’ll hear background music from Alfred Hitchcock!”
“No, that’s fine,” she said. “That was very good. Thank you, Fin. We’ll be in touch.”
He stood when she did and took her dry hand in his clammy one. Then he asked, “Will the character be coming back? I mean, I was led to believe he’ll get killed or seem to get killed but he’ll come back?”
“We hope he’ll come back,” she said. “We hope we’re all coming back. We’ll be in touch.”
As he was about to open the door, she said, “Fin, do you have a moment to advise me about something?”
“Sure,” he said.
She went to a desk that still had the rental-company sticker on one leg, and took out a clipped stack of parking citations.
“There’s no place to park,” she explained. “And our production van’s been collecting these. Would you know someone downtown who could … show us consideration and perhaps take care of these? After all, San Diego wants movie and TV companies to shoot down here. Would you be able to help us?”
Fin shook his head and said, “I could pay them for you, but I think I’d need to have a thirteen-show contract from the looks of that stack. Sorry, we can’t fix tickets in this town.”
“Of course,” she said, and her smile melted like a snow cone on Ocean Beach.
“Does this mean I’m toast?” Fin asked bleakly.
“We’ll be in touch,” she said with a papal gesture, closing the door behind him.
The snotty little receptionist couldn’t have looked happier if she’d been masturbating to music. She knew he was toast.
Fin glanced at the eight-by-ten glossies on her desk, local male actors in their twenties. Each had at least a three-day stubble on his unlined boyish face. Each probably read his lines in a whispery voice, both wise and sensual. Toast. Toast!
“Guess you can’t expect a job if you shave every day,” he muttered.
“Are you a cop?” the receptionist asked before he exited. “Are you a real cop?”
Fin felt used, defeated, humiliated, old. He said, “I ain’t sure anymore, kid, but I got handcuffs older’n you.”
It had been a tough day for Bobbie Ann Doggett too. In the first place, it was hard getting Captain Fontaine, the deputy director of security, to give her permission to use investigative time for a theft that Naval Investigative Service was too busy to bother about.
“A dozen trucking companies and waste haulers?” the marine officer said doubtfully. “And no leads of any kind?”
“But I don’t have much going on, sir,” she told him. “And this is a pretty big felony. We now think there might be as many as fifteen hundred pairs stolen. Maybe a lot more.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly, “but just work on it when you can spare the time. Make it your hobby for a week or two. And don’t tie up the Chevy all day. The boss might need the car.”
“Okay, Captain, thanks,” she said, noticing that her civilian counterparts rolled their eyes at each other.
She knew what they were thinking: a dozen trucking crews to check out? And every trucker a thief. Good luck, Bad Dog.
The hauling companies that were located outside San Diego County would have to be contacted by telephone; not that they were any less likely to be the perpetrators, but there was only so much she could do with a clueless case. Seven of the contractors whose rigs had been at or near the warehouse during the period in question were in San Diego County. Just to see how it would go, she decided to do the first one as a cold interview, without a preliminary phone call.
Zimmer Transport was owned by Roger (call me Speed) Zimmer, who was highly amused and delighted to be questioned by a detective from the navy, particularly by a female detective. In the past he’d always been contacted by San Diego P.D. detectives who were never cute little blondes. Speed Zimmer loved how she filled out that white cotton blouse, and he asked right away if she’d like to take off her jacket on such a warm day.
It was a teal-colored, wool-blend melton blazer with deep lapels. She’d shopped for three days until she found one on sale for $39. Bobbie was wearing stone-washed jeans, but she never wore jeans without dressing them up with a blazer, and with a no-nonsense cotton shirt, and mid-heel pumps.
Speed Zimmer thought she was adorable. Bobbie Ann Doggett thought the fat old creep was gross, especially when, after she asked to interview the truckers who’d been to the quayside warehouse, he said, “Sure, sure, but lemme ask, do you dig Paula Abdul? I’m tryin to get tickets to a concert in L.A. and I’d hate to go alone.”
“Sorry, sir,” Bobbie said. “I think I’ll be too busy for the rest of the year helping N.I.S. investigate people who sexually harass women.”
That caused Speed to call his truckers into the office. Bobbie figured he only knew about Paula Abdul from that Diet Coke commercial. Speed Zimmer reeked of Polo cologne, which always smelled to her like chocolate gone rancid.
When she finally got to talk to each trucker, Bobbie found one surly and one confused. They were both capable of stealing anything, but they were so stupid she felt sure they’d be wearing the stolen shoes, since their own looked like something a dock worker in Guam wouldn’t be caught dead in.