Thal nodded toward the set, where much of the warehouse was now bathed in moody lighting. A young woman in torn clothing and carefully mussed hair, center stage, was tied into a chair with a shaft of light singling her out. A make-up woman was applying smudges to the face of the actress, who was frowning in concentration. She’d been in a couple of movies lately, good roles.
Thal said, “I have to help Burt rescue that little Satan’s spawn.”
Velda asked, “That’s what she’s playing? Is this an Exorcist movie or something?”
“No. She’s just an awful person. What can I do for you two?”
I said, “Did you ever work with a guy named Roger Kraft?”
Thal’s eyes tightened and he grunted, then nodded. “I saw in the News that somebody murdered that crumb bum. Sorry to speak ill of the dead.”
“Feel free,” I said.
He shifted in the canvas-and-wood chair. “Yeah, I did work with the S.O.B. a few times. He was good — very little he couldn’t do as a driver, and he had mechanical know-how, too. But he was baaaaad news.”
“How so?”
“He took too many risks, always cowboying up. Sometimes that’s what the job calls for, and the combat pay justifies. But you learn pretty quick this trade is about safety, not thrills. About helping tell an exciting story, y’know? Also, he was a fuckin’ liar... pardon the language, Velda.”
She smiled. “An f-bomb drops around the office occasionally.”
I asked, “A liar how, Thal?”
“Well, I was stunt coordinator on those Shaft TV movies, a while back. First time in my career I was more than just a guy doing gags. A series is an ongoing gig and you have would-be hires fill out applications like on any job. He lied on his. He’d been in the joint for armed robbery, turns out.”
“You wouldn’t have hired him, if you’d known?”
That made a face. “That’s not it — I would have given him a break. Stunt men are a mixed bag — they’re all a little crazy. Ex-bouncers, circus acrobats, wing-walkers, cowboys... I mean, real cowboys... all types, and that includes ex-cons. Anybody who’s done his time, I’m fine with givin’ a second chance. But I do not like to be, excuse me, fucking lied to.”
“Thal,” I said, “let me tell you about a hit-and-run I witnessed recently.”
And I went into what happened outside Pete’s Chophouse, including the sense I’d had about it that something just didn’t feel right.
As I wrapped it up, I said, “Could that have been faked?”
His frown was thoughtful. “You mean, could Kraft have hit that guy just right and not hurt him? Not unless they were both in on it.”
Velda gave me a sharp look.
I said, “What if they were? For example... is that a stunt you could stage for a flick?”
His laugh was big. “Oh, hell yes. Easy peasy. But you’d have to be a pro... both of ya, not just the driver.”
“A talented amateur couldn’t pull off the victim role? Somebody with martial arts training and an athletic background? Former college athlete, maybe?”
He shook his head. “Probably not without some special training. Some real practice. Likely some padding under the clothes too. In that case... doable.”
Velda and I exchanged glances.
I said, “Can you think of anybody locally who might be up for that? A trainer who thought he was getting somebody ready for a movie stunt... or just didn’t give a shit how his training got used?”
This laugh wasn’t so big. “I know exactly the guy.”
I blinked. “You’re kidding. How can you be so sure? Zero in right away like that?”
“Because you’ve been asking me about that Kraft dude, Michael my man, and this is a guy who knew Kraft, who worked with him, both hand-to-hand stuff and stunt driving. I fired both their asses off that Shaft shoot.”
Velda got out her notebook and took down the name — Harry Strutt.
“No idea,” he told her, “what address. And whether he’s even still around town. But if he is? He’d be the natural one to work with Kraft on somethin’ shady.” He winked at her. “Maybe you can find a detective who can track him down.”
“Maybe,” Velda said.
A pretty young woman in a baseball hat, NYU t-shirt, and jeans with a clipboard in her hands came up to Thal and said, “You’re needed, Mr. Lockhart.”
“Thank you, Sal.”
She went off, providing sweet rear view.
Thal asked me, “You know what she’s paid?”
“Not enough,” I said.
Velda elbowed me.
“Not a red cent,” Thal said. “She’s what you call a production assistant. An intern, college kid. Does more work than any salaried man on the picture.”
Velda said, “I know the feeling.”
Thal stood and so did we.
The stuntman stuck out his paw and I shook it.
“Listen, Mike,” he said, settling a hand on my shoulder, “you ever need anything, you know where to come. Just say the word and I’m there. That was one hell of a jam you got me out of.”
Couple years back, he’d been in a bar fight in which a guy had died. I had found the other two guys involved and proved one of them had delivered the killing blows. Thal had nixed the heavy drinking after I cleared him. Win — win.
We stayed around to watch the little Satan’s spawn gal get rescued a couple of times. Thal fought the six bad guys holding her; shot two of them, went martial arts on the asses of the other four. One knocked Thal behind a crate, but it was Burt who came out from behind it to untie the distressed damsel.
She was grateful, till the director called, “Cut.”
Chapter Twelve
Years ago, when Velda went missing and I was on the hunt, I had headed out to find an upstate farmhouse where she might be held. The only difference this time was the daylight I was driving in, though the grayness overhead all but cancelled that out, the rain coming right at me at a discouraging slant, my wipers working overtime.
At the office, Velda had gathered some info for me from a policewoman contact. A mugshot of Harold D. Strutt, 38, was faxed over to us and gave us what’s what on our man. Strutt had done two terms at Sing Sing, one for armed robbery, another for breaking and entering; several arrests on various charges had not been brought to trial. He was twice divorced with three kids and had been flagged as a deadbeat dad.
I turned off Palisades Drive and caught the Throughway, my Ford heap plowing through rain for over an hour before I swung off again, taking 17K into Newburgh. I went on to Marlboro before stopping outside the city limits at a filling station to ask the way to Harry Strutt’s farmhouse.
The attendant was young and had no idea, but he yelled at an older guy who might know, who came over to give me directions.
He had a deeply grooved face and white hair with a burr haircut, and I just knew he was ex-military, the right age for my war. I wondered what hell he’d gone through only to wind up pumping gas and checking oil. Or maybe he owned the place, and the American dream had worked out for him.
He was looking at me funny, a warrior’s nasty grin in that wrinkled puss. “What do you want with Strutt?”
“It’s your business?”
“No. No. It’s just... he’s awful popular today, for somebody that nobody around here cares for much.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a drinker and a bragger and he gets into fights just for the hell of it.”
“You don’t say.”
His nod was slow. “He’s no farmer. Just been rentin’ out that way, last year or so. If you’re his friend, I mean no offense. If you’re lookin’ for him for your own reasons... I just figured you might like the skinny.”