Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017

Tombstone by Doug Allyn

Doug Allyn is one of the most highly regarded crime short story writers of his generation. He’s also a noted novelist. This year he tried his hand at work of a different length when he collaborated with James Patterson on his BookShots novel The Lawyer Lifeguard (June 2017). The BookShots series is Patterson’s brainchild, and its novels are of no more than 150 pages.

“Wilson! Hack Wilson! I know you’re in there, damn you. Step out or I’ll come in and drag you out!”

Flinching at the anger in Miller’s voice, I glanced quickly around the seedy saloon, looking for a friendly face. Didn’t see one. No one even met my eyes.

Drinkers looked to their whiskey, gamblers looked to their cards, the whores just looked bored. I’d be making this fight alone.

Tossing back my bourbon with a single swallow, I slid my short-barreled Colt Peacemaker out of its holster, spun the cylinder to make sure it was free, cocked the hammer and eased it off, twice. Perfect. Slick as an oiled eel.

“Wilson!”

“Gimme one for the road,” I said, pushing my shot glass toward the bar-keep. He was a scrawny galoot with a wispy moustache, thinning hair combed sideways, slicked down to cover his naked scalp. His jaw was quivering. Looked like a scared rabbit.

“Please, Mr. Wilson, take it outside. I don’t want no trouble in here—”

“You’ve already got trouble!” I roared, hurling my shot glass at the mirror behind the bar, shattering it into a million splinters. “I said gimme another!”

He pushed a full bottle across the bar towards me, then backed hastily away, getting out of the line of fire.

Didn’t blame him.

Snatching up the whiskey bottle, I yanked the cork out with my teeth, then spat it on the dirt floor. I guzzled down half the bottle in a few gulps, slopping the excess down my chin. Felt no kick from it, though.

The bartender was right. I had no friends in this room. I’d be better off taking my chances in the street.

Time to go. Time to fight. And to die.

Taking a final pull from the bottle, I tossed it aside. Sucked in a ragged breath, squared my shoulders, then pushed through the doors into the morning sun’s pitiless glare.

Miller was waiting across the dusty street in the doorway of a dry-goods store, his flat-brimmed black Stetson pulled low to shade his eyes, his full-length yellow duster flapping in the prairie wind.

He swept his coat open to reveal a fancy, two-gun concho rig, with both holsters tied down. His guns were a matched pair of ’73 Remington Navy .44s, nickel-plated. The holsters were lined with metal, cut halfway past the cylinders for speed. A serious professional’s rig. A gun hand’s rig.

Damn.

“We don’t have to do this,” I called. “You can just ride out.”

He didn’t bother to reply. Just spat, in total contempt. He wouldn’t be riding off. He was here for me, and we both knew the play now.

Stepping off the porch, I began walking slowly towards him. He hesitated a moment, then did the same. At ten yards apart, we both stopped dead in the middle of the street. Waiting. For some unspoken signal that would trigger the killing—

A tumbleweed blew between us. Miller blinked, and in the same instant went for his gun. His hand flashed down so fast it was only a blur.

I drew too, but I was already a split second late. My Colt had barely cleared leather when Miller fired. Something exploded against my chest. A gout of blood spurted outward, and then another as Miller fired again.

I staggered backwards, dropped slowly to my knees, then toppled the rest of the way, firing my Colt uselessly as I fell, dying face down in the street, with a gun in my hand.

I lay there, utterly still. Dead as a beaver hat. Miller loomed over me a few seconds, making sure I was done, then did a triumphant pinwheel, spinning both Remingtons neatly into his holsters. Then he just stood there, stone-faced, staring down at me.

For what seemed like a goddamn year.

He let his coat fall closed. And still he stared. And still I lay there. Dead as a doornail.

What the hell was the holdup? How much deader could I get?

“Cut! That’s a wrap!” Marv Kirske, the assistant director, called at last. “Nice job, Toby. Way to die.”

“I damn near died of old age waiting for you to call it, you putz,” I growled, getting to my feet. “It blows the take if your corpse sits up gasping for air.”

“Pain is temporary, movies are forever,” Marv shrugged, sauntering over to help me brush the dust off. With his stylish stubble, faded fatigue jacket, and citron scarf, Marv could pass for a gay street hustler, but he’s a brilliant second-unit film director with a rep for the best action scenes in the biz. The staffers on Big Mack McCray films are all crème de la crème.

“That really was a dynamite death scene,” Marv sighed. “Too bad we can’t use it.”

“Why can’t you? You just said it was good.”

“It was terrific, Toby,” Marv agreed, “but it wasn’t exactly revolutionary. Cameron Mitchell got shot in a hot tub, Eastwood shot three gunnies from a barber chair. All the cool shootouts have been done, pal. This is my eleventh Big Mack western, and the studio wants something edgy to generate some media buzz. Word I’m getting is, they want us to shoot a real gunfight.”

“Real? What the hell does that mean?”

“We’ll retake the street scene with you and Clete, but instead of blanks, you’ll both be shooting wax squibs filled with Technicolor blood. Afterward, we’ll tweak the script so whoever wins will advance to the final shootout with Big Mack.”

“What is this? American Idol with guns?” I asked. “It won’t work, Marv. Any pro gunman can hook and draw in three-fifths of a second. So fast the cameras can barely catch it. We’ll wind up shooting each other, and then what? Big Mack has a gunfight with himself?”

“We’ll keep doing retakes until we get a winner.” Marv shrugged. “The studio doesn’t care who wins, Toby. What matters is, the trailers can call it THE MOST REALISTIC GUN-FIGHT EVER FILMED!”

“Ah. Got it.” I nodded. “Damn. I need a drink. Buy you one?”

“Can’t,” Marv sighed, “I’ve got to meet with legal and our insurance people about our liability with the wax squibs. They’ve had issues with them in the past.”

“Whoa up! What issues?” I called after him. He just waved over his shoulder without turning.

Issues? Terrific.

Now I definitely needed a drink.

“Mr. Gates? Toby Gates?”

I almost didn’t answer. I’d spent my morning getting killed as Hack Wilson.

“Wait up, please,” the woman said breathlessly, overtaking me. She was pert and perky in a trim business suit, dark eyes, dark hair. Holding up a press credential.

“I’m Leah Bronstein, with the studio publicity department? We’re collecting background for press releases. Could you spare me a few minutes? I’ll buy the coffee.”

I would have preferred a real drink, but extras never say no to publicity and we were miles from the nearest real saloon anyway. We were filming on location, in a dusty desert ghost town a few miles outside Kanab, Utah. Over the years, more than a hundred movies have been made in the area. The Outlaw Josey Wales, Stagecoach, The Lone Ranger. Hell, even Planet of the Apes was shot a few miles south. Rural Utah has canyons, deserts, forests, mountains, plus three complete western towns, all within easy driving distance of bustling downtown Kanab.

The catering wagon was still serving and the line was short. Bronstein collected two coffees and we adjourned to a corner with an umbrella, away from the mob of extras scarfing down goodies from a smorgasbord table piled with doughnuts, rolls, yogurt cups. She was eyeing my shirt uneasily, and I realized I was still bleeding, in Technicolor, from a blood packet over my heart.

“If that was really my blood, I’d be a zombie, miss.”

“It certainly looks real,” she said warily. “Looks like it hurts.”

“It’s supposed to. Are you new to all this?”

“I’ve never done an interview on location before. I’m mostly an in-house flack. Have we met, Mr. Gates? You look familiar.”

“You’ve probably seen me get killed a few times. In The Hired Gun, I’m the thug who spits just before Big Mack blows me off the stagecoach with a twelve gauge.”

“That’s right!” she nodded eagerly. “And in Sagebrush Stranger you take your sweet time pulling on your gloves before Mack guns you down.”

“Actually, I killed myself in that one.”

“You... sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I’m not an extra, miss, I’m a fast gun. It’s an uncommon skill these days. Critics call Big Mack the new John Wayne, but Mack can’t even fake a fast draw. In the Sagebrush shootout, the camera panned to my hands as I pulled on those black leather gloves, then it cut back to Mack. No gloves. Then they split the screen, as the gunmen drew and fired, one wearing gloves, one not. But the hands that drew and fired on the split screen were mine, on both sides.”

“So in the big shootout scene, you were shooting yourself?”

“Welcome to showbiz, miss.”

“But this morning, you faced a real gunman.”

“Clete Peterzak playing... somebody Miller.” I nodded. “Clete’s a gun hand too. The split-screen business won’t fly twice. Been there, done that.”

“I would think most western scenes have been done. How many have you been in?”

“Only three. I got out of the army after two tours in Afghanistan. My Uncle Jocko’s a horse wrangler on Big Mack films. I landed on his doorstep, he got me the job.”

“So you basically just showed up in Hollywood and said I’m your huckleberry?”

“Huckleberry?”

“The line from Tombstone. Val Kilmer says, ‘I’m your huckleberry’?”

I shook my head. “Must have missed it.”

“Doesn’t every cowboy extra know Tombstone by heart? It’s a classic.”

“I grew up on a ranch in the Yukon Territory, miss. Whitehorse. We saw movies in town maybe once a month. There was no TV, and definitely no huckleberries. When was Tombstone in theaters?”

“Early nineties?”

“I was in grade school. And by the way, I’m not an extra. I’m a stock wrangler and a gunman. Skilled trades.”

“Which were probably in high demand, back in the nineteenth century.” She smiled, sipping her coffee, watching me over the brim. “When we were kids, western movies had a big following, but nowadays they’re pretty much passe. Mack McCray flicks are the only westerns that do consistent box office and even his popularity’s been slipping. Pickings must be a bit slim for an extra with your particular skill set.”

“I’m not an extra, I—” I stopped.

She was good, but a gunman’s life can depend on reading faces. And I caught the faintest glint of amusement in her eyes.

“—but you already know that, don’t you, miss? Along with everything else I just told you. You’re not with public relations. Interviewing extras is a job for an intern, and you’re a tad too old and a lot too smart. Who are you, lady?”

Instead of answering, she slid a business card across the faded Formica table. Leah Bronstein, Massif Film Productions, Studio Security Section.

“Security?” I said “You’re some kind of studio cop?”

“I’m an attorney, actually. A troubleshooter, Mr. Gates. My job is to resolve minor problems before they become major.”

“How am I a problem?”

“Your name came up in an inquiry. One concerning Noreen McCray, Big Mack’s wife. And your involvement with her.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Felt like I’d been kicked in the belly.

“I’ll take your silence as a confirmation, Mr. Gates,” Leah nodded, watching me intently. “Ordinarily the studio brass couldn’t care less about the love lives of their employees, but Mack McCray’s audience is centered in the Bible Belt. A flurry of negative news stories could demolish his franchise overnight, and cost the studio millions. You have to end the affair, Mr. Gates, or face some very serious consequences.”

“End it?” I echoed, feeling slightly better, but getting angrier by the moment. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why? Because it’s love, true love?” she said, with a mock sigh. “Reality check, Mr. Gates. Noreen McCray was a high-priced escort before she landed Big Mack. She’s still a gold digger at heart. And while you look good in jeans and have a certain raffish charm, you’re only an extra, Toby. She’ll never leave her husband for you.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to.”

“Then I don’t understand. If you’re hoping for a payday, the studio can probably arrange for a small consideration—”

“You’re offering to buy me off? Wow, I can definitely see why they sent you, miss.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re smart as a whip, lady, and very pretty. And if you were a man, you’d be spitting out your teeth! I can’t break up with Noreen McCray, miss, because I’m not seeing Noreen McCray. There’s no affair, no nothin’. We’re not even friends. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Have we, indeed?” she said, not backing off an inch. “Then perhaps you’d care to explain this?” She slid a photo across the table. For a moment, I didn’t realize what I was seeing. And then I did. Sweet Jesus.

“Big Mack was in New York last weekend, taping the Tonight Show,” Bronstein went on, leaning in, keeping her voice down. “Mrs. McCray spent a few happy hours on location in his trailer. That’s her car parked in front of it. And unless I’m mistaken, that’s your car parked right beside it.”

She wasn’t mistaken. I drive a customized Jaguar XK-E, bought with my army separation pay.

“A Jag with a bucking-bronco hood ornament is hard to miss, Mr. Gates. Care to explain what you were doing there?”

“I, um—” I stalled out, still staring at the picture. “I guess someone must have borrowed my car.”

“Who?”

“I... don’t know.”

“So it was stolen?”

“Nothing like that. Kanab is five hundred miles from L.A., lady. Most of the crew gets here on the studio bus, and we all crash at the Red Desert Lodge. It’s tough to rent a car in this burg, so those of us who drive leave their keys at the desk as a courtesy. Everybody does it.”

“So you claim you don’t know who used your car?”

“I don’t claim anything, miss. It’s the truth.”

“Then I strongly suggest you find out.”

“Wrong skill set, lady. I’m a gunman and a stock wrangler. I’m not a freakin’ detective and I’m definitely not a snitch. Mrs. McCray’s love life is your problem, not mine.”

“I’d rethink that, if I were you, Mr. Gates. In the past two years you’ve only worked on five films, total. That number could easily drop to zero. A few years ago, a Brit named Trenton played a Confederate officer in The Bounty Soldiers. After a fling with Noreen, he never worked again. Anywhere. He was blacklisted, even back home in England. Committed suicide last year.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m just the messenger, Mr. Gates,” she said, rising, looking down at me. “Bottom line, Big Mack McCray’s westerns generate substantial cash flow for the studio. An ugly divorce could destroy his brand. Media trolls would have a field day with it. We need to snuff this out!”

“Sorry. I can’t help you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” she asked, sizing me up.

I shrugged at that.

“You’re making a huge mistake, Mr. Gates.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice, Miss Bronstein. Or is it Mrs.?”

“It’s miss. Why?”

“I’m hoping you aren’t immune to my ‘raffish charm.’ Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Forget it, Mr. Gates, and forget me. I’ve been married twice, to actors both times. Never again.”

“Then it’s lucky I’m not an actor. I’m a gunman. Maybe I’m even your... what did you call me? Strawberry?”

“The line from Tombstone is: ‘I’m your huckleberry,’ ” she said evenly, her dark eyes locked on mine. “Doc Holliday says it to Ringo just before he shoots him in the head. You have my card, Mr. Gates. Call me when you come to your senses.”

“I’d rather call you after this blows over.”

“It’s not going to blow over, Toby, it’s going to blow up. And when the dust settles, you’ll be gone. Be smart. Get out from under this thing before it buries you.”

I didn’t say anything to that. She shrugged and stalked off toward the parking lot. A pert woman in a business suit, mysterious eyes, hair dark as a raven’s wing. She looked as good leaving as she had coming on.

“Be smart. Get out from under this before it buries you.”

Good advice. I should have taken it.

Instead I caught the next shuttle bus from the ghost-town location back to the Red Desert Lodge.

At the front desk, I asked a brighteyed blonde with a stud in her nose to check the sign-out log to see who’d borrowed my car the previous weekend.

“William Boyd,” she read.

“Boyd? Is he with the crew?”

Blondie frowned, doing a quick scan of her computer screen. “There’s no William Boyd registered at the Lodge, Mr. Gates. But...?”

“But?” I prompted.

“Wasn’t Hopalong Cassidy’s real name William Boyd?”

I stared at her blankly.

“You know, Hoppy?” she said eagerly. “Old-time cowboy on TV?”

“Was he in Tombstone?”

“I... don’t think so. He would have been like way too old by then.”

“Never mind,” I sighed. “I know who borrowed my car.”

I found Clete Peterzak in the lodge gym. Tall, slim, and hard as a railroad tie, Clete was shirtless, showing off his iron-pumper muscles and elaborate tats, practicing fast draws in front of a mirror. On a hardwood floor, with no safety mat. Which is one risky damn thing to do. His matched ’73 Remington pistols were originals, probably worth five grand apiece.

“Toby Gates,” Clete said without turning, “what are you doing walking around? I thought I killed you.”

“The script killed me, hotshot. Did Marvin tell you about the changes the brass wants?”

“Yeah. Says they’re tired of shooting the same old, same old, want a real gunfight, with wax bullets. We can skip being wired up with exploding blood packs and all that nonsense. It’ll be as close to real as they can make it, without us actually killing each other.”

“That’s the plan.”

“It won’t be much of a fight, pal. I’ve been timed with lasers at a sixth of a second. Faster than a bat can blink. What are your times like?”

“I honed my chops in Afghanistan, Clete. No timers there. And it won’t matter anyway. Let’s say you’re right, say you’re actually twice as fast as me. Your draw takes a sixth of a second, mine takes a third. Do the math, genius.”

“Marv said you think we’ll just shoot each other. But that won’t happen. I’ll drop you on the first take, Toby. Know why?”

“Nope, but I’m guessing I’m about to find out.”

“Math only works for machines, bud, but we’re real live gunmen, shooting real live bullets, even if they’re just wax.”

“So?”

“So down deep, you know I’m younger and faster. And when the big moment comes? You’ll try to jack up your speed. But a fast draw has to be pure reflex, Toby. If you even think about your speed, you’ve already lost. The old-time gunfighters, Wild Bill, Wyatt Earp, Ringo? Think they did any math before a gunfight?”

“Most Western shootouts never really happened. They’re myths.”

“Well, I won’t myth, Toby,” Clete grinned, cocky as a high-school quarterback on Friday night. “You should figure on dying dramatically when I kill you.”

“Same to you, pal,” I said, turning to go.

And I almost left it there. I was tempted to. But couldn’t quite do that.

“Was there something else?” Clete asked, admiring his front spin in the mirror.

“Neither one of us will ever beat Big Mack, you know. We’ll always be the bad guys.”

“I’m good with that. I grew up in East L.A. Bad guys do just fine there. Real bad guys,” he added, jerking a thumb at his gang tats. “Besides, some movie bad guys make it big. Charles Bronson, Jason Statham.”

“You won’t, Clete. A studio lawyer cornered me today. They know Noreen’s having an affair.”

“I’ve heard that,” he said smugly. “I hear they think it’s you. Did you rat me out?”

“Don’t borrow my car again, Clete.”

“Or what? You’ll call me out?” He executed a perfect border shift, his right-hand gun spinning like a pin-wheel into his left hand. “It’s almost funny, you know? Must be fifty extras in this film wearing guns, but we’re the only two who are gunfighters for real.”

“Wax bullets aren’t real.”

“Lucky for you, chump.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” I shrugged. “If you borrow my car again, I’ll report it stolen. Clear?”

“You don’t want to do that, Toby,” Clete said, his grin a little crazy. Aiming his pistol at my face, he slowly cocked the hammer. Six inches from my nose, the muzzle looked gigantic. It was so close I could count the rounds in the cylinder. They were blanks, but at this distance it wouldn’t matter. The muzzle blast could blind me or split my skull like a watermelon slammed with a sledge.

Neither of us moved, our eyes locked like laser sights.

Clete pulled back his right-hand gun, instantly replacing it with his left.

Then he went into a dazzling bit of gunplay.

“Forward spin, reverse spin, cross spin, border shift, owl-hoot shift,” he called out, executing each maneuver flawlessly as he announced it, two guns in action at the same time, both weapons whirling like pinwheels, silvery blurs, even to my practiced eye.

At the end he spun both guns into their holsters. Then slicked back an imaginary moustache. “Tombstone,” he said.

“What?”

“Ringo’s gunwork in Tombstone. The saloon scene.”

“Very flashy,” I conceded, “until you drop one and blow your nuts off.”

“I’ve never dropped a piece and never will, Toby. If anybody’s minus his nuts, it’s you.”

And I realized he actually believed that. That he’d never fumble a weapon, or come down with dysentery the day of a fight, or say the wrong damn thing to a woman he loved. It hadn’t happened to him yet, so he assumed it never would.

Christ, how old was Clete? Mid twenties, tops. Still young and dumb enough to think he’d be magic forever.

I remembered that feeling. At twenty, most guys think they’re ten feet tall and bulletproof. Some of us outgrow it.

If we live that long.

And I definitely needed a drink.

Stepping into the lounge in the Red Desert Lodge is like a time warp, a flashback to the Old West. The long, oaken bar is polished to a bright shine. A dozen coats of varnish cover carved initials and obscenities that span a century, or two. Billy Cobb home on leave, August 4, 1953. For a grate blow job call Hannah at Middlefield 2431.

The furniture is just as crude. Hand-hewn tables and cedar log chairs upholstered with buckskin, complete with burned-in brands. Wyatt Earp would feel right at home.

Not much action this early in the day. A few extras from the Big Mack movie were pounding brews after the morning shoot, tourist families with kids in the dining area, hoping to spot a celebrity.

And at the end of the bar? One honest to God old cowpoke. Faded denims, broke-down boots, wild gray hair. His left eye was covered by a black patch, lost, along with his leg below the knee, in a stampede scene in a Mack McCray movie stunt back in the day. My Uncle Jocko.

After his injury, he came home to the family ranch at Whitehorse to heal up. I was fourteen that summer, eager to soak up everything he taught me. Gun work, horse falls, rope tricks. How not to lose an eye and half a leg. When he went back to L.A., it broke my young heart.

But years later, when I showed up on his doorstep fresh back from Afghanistan, dazed and confused by things I’d seen — things I’d done? — Jocko took me in without a quibble. Found me movie work, handling horses at first, then as a gunman, killing stuntmen for the cameras, instead of sniping jihadis for real. He’s my all-time favorite uncle, and one look at my face told him something was up.

“Wow,” he said, turning back to his beer. “Who whizzed in your soup?”

I quickly recounted my meet with the studio lawyer, Bronstein. What she said, what I said. Jocko said nothing. Taking it all in, absently massaging his cheekbone just below his eyepatch.

Which he only does when he’s troubled.

“Does she know about you and Noreen McCray?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, Unc. That was just a weekend fling a couple of years ago. Back when I was too green to know better. Bronstein didn’t mention that at all. Only that my car was at Big Mack’s trailer.”

“I’ve heard of this Bronstein,” Jocko mused. “People say she’s really sharp. With luck, she’ll figure out it’s Clete doin’ the deed with Mrs. Mack and you’ll be off the hook. If not, I’ll drop a dime on this punk myself. The last place you want to be is on the wrong side of Big Mack McCray, not if you ever want to work in a Western again. Ask Bones.”

“Who?”

“Bones Benedict. He was the prop master on Mack’s films until a few years ago. He handed Gene Hackman a loaded shotgun by mistake. Gene fired a round into the air and blew out ten grand worth of spotlights. Glass and sparks raining down like a hailstorm. Bones hasn’t worked a movie since, until this one.”

“This film? Since when?”

“Since the brass decided to punch up the gunfight scene. They needed somebody who’d worked with wax bullets before. Bones is a rummy, but he’s the only guy Stony could think of who had experience with them wax slugs. They ain’t been used in years.”

“Marvin said he was meeting with studio insurance people, that they’d had issues with them.”

Jocko shrugged. “They sting some, but it’s nothin’ a country boy can’t handle. But a wino handling weapons on a set? That’s bad mojo, Toby. Maybe you should pull out.”

“Quit? Are you serious?”

“Tell ’em your mama’s sick, or your cat. Tell ’em any damn thing. I’m gettin’ a bad feeling about this.”

“More likely a bad hangover. What’s the problem?”

He mulled on that a moment, then swiveled on his stool to face me.

“Bottom line, son? You can’t beat Clete Peterzak. You’re quick, but Clete’s won fast-draw competitions all over the country. And them wax bullets aren’t a hundred percent safe. They can take out an eye, flatten your nose—”

“That can happen on any stunt, any day of the week, Unc. I need the work. And I damn sure won’t run from Clete.”

“It’s your funeral.” Jocko sighed, turning back to his liquor. “Big Mack wants to see you.”

“Me? About what?”

“What do you think? Your car, most likely. You think studio security told you and not him?”

“Jesus. Do you think Mack knows about the thing two years ago?”

“It’s hard to tell what Mack thinks. I still think you should blow this pop stand. Hell, I’ll even go with you, if you want. We’ll say it’s a family emergency.”

I chewed on that a moment. “No,” I said slowly. “I’m only jammed up if Big Mack knows. Running will make me look guilty.”

“You are guilty, numb nuts.”

“Of being green as grass two years ago, maybe. And if I’m in trouble for that, I’d rather meet it head on.”

“You had better sense when you were fourteen.”

“You’re the one who’d know. You taught me everything, back then.”

“Then you’ll remember how Wild Bill Hickok got kilt, right?”

“He was shot in a poker game, holding aces and eights. Why?”

“If Big Mack asks you to play poker? Don’t.”

Big Mack McCray’s trailer was twice the size of a city bus, parked off the lot in a reserved area with a half-dozen others. It was hard to miss, metallic green with a gigantic white Stetson painted on the side. Its square footage would match most homes I’ve been in. For Big Mack, it was just a handy place to play cards with a few buds between takes.

I rapped once. Somebody yelled something, so I stepped in. The decor was even wilder West than the Desert Lodge. Mexican saddles, a gun rack stacked with collectible weapons, an oversized Oscar in a cowboy hat, made of solid gold. It was probably the only Oscar Big Mack would ever get. Critics hate his films, but his fans love ’em. And him. And they pay up. At a glance, I guessed I was looking at five million bucks’ worth of stuff in this room alone.

“In here.”

I followed the voice into a combination kitchen/dining area every bit as posh as the front room. Big Mack McCray and a few cronies were at the kitchen table, playing poker, middle of the day. Drinks all around, cigars too. The air purple with stogie smoke. All five were dressed Western, jeans and boots, faded flannel shirts. Big Mack was the only one wearing a hat, his signature Stetson. Stony Greco, the hard-eyed prop master, his head shaved hairless as a cue ball, was doing the shuffling.

“Young Toby Gates,” Mack called. “Heard you died a righteous death today. Marvin was over the moon about it.”

“Ain’t hard to get Marvin to flash you a moon,” Greco cracked, earning chortles around the table.

This card game was legendary, floating from one Big Mack picture to the next. Same faces, all instantly recognizable from old films. Serious money on the table. Ten, fifteen grand in a single pot. They could all afford it. Mack had been a star for decades and he was famous for taking care of old pals.

“Uncle Jocko said you wanted to see me, Mr. McCray.”

“Mister McCray?” Mack snorted. “Jesus, this is our third picture together, son. I’ve killed you twice. I’m Mack, you’re Toby, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t call me sir, either. Makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” Greco said.

“Up yours, you Greek prick,” Mack shot back. “Did Marvin brief you on the new gunfight, Toby?”

“He said Clete and I will be shooting it out for real, with wax bullets.”

“Ever work with wax squibs, kid?” Greco asked, frowning at his cards. “No sir, never have.”

“I used ’em once, years back, in a spaghetti western, shot in Spain. Most of them Italians had never seen a six-gun, let alone fired one. Couldn’t hit a barn from the inside. Had to use marksmen firing from off camera to make sure the right guys got popped. It was like the wildest paintball game you ever played.”

“I’ve never played paintball.”

“You’ll be playing it tomorrow, kid, more or less. Wax bullets with Technicolor blood instead of paint. Wear your hat low to protect your eyes. Those wax squibs sting like killer bees.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Greco, thanks. Was there anything else?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were up to speed on the scene,” Mack said. “I’ll see you out,” he added, levering himself up from his chair. It took some doing. He’s a big man. Six five, pushing two sixty. New York critics call him the new John Wayne. They mean it as a slur, but to folks in the heartland, John Wayne is still an icon. So is Big Mack McCray.

At the door, he seized my upper arm, jerking me around to face him.

“Did you drive your Jag here today, Toby?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But it’s been here before, right? Studio security showed me pictures of it.”

“They showed me the same ones. My car was here, Mack, but I wasn’t. I’ve never been here before. I give you my word.”

“Your word?” he snorted. “You give me your freakin’ word? This ain’t the movies, kid. If you weren’t here with my wife, who the hell was?”

I met his eyes dead on. It was one long and damned uncomfortable moment.

“So you know who it was, but you won’t tell me? That’s a big mistake, son. You don’t want me for an enemy.”

“No sir, I don’t. I’m sure studio security will find out anything you want to know. But not from me.”

His face was darkening as it suffused with blood. He was only a heartbeat away from putting me on the deck...

He looked away instead, shaking his head slowly. “That incredible bitch,” he sighed. “I swear that slut would bang a baseball team for an autographed hat. But I can’t give her up. Have you ever cared for anyone like that?”

“No, sir.”

“Count your blessings, kid. Love can be the best thing that happens to you, or the very, very worst.” He punched me in the arm, then turned and shambled back to his card game. Seriously drunk, I guessed. As they all were.

Releasing a ragged breath, I quietly let myself out.

But as I walked to my car, it occurred to me that I’d heard that “very worst” line somewhere before. In one of Mack’s movies? I couldn’t recall.

But somewhere. And I couldn’t help wondering if I’d really dodged a bullet? Or played a scene with a big star, without seeing the script.

I didn’t drive back into Kanab, afterwards. I took a narrow, two lane dirt road out to the South Coyote Buttes instead, one of the eeriest, most desolate landscapes on the planet. Its surreal rock formations, red sand, and wind-sculpted bluffs have played Mars, Venus, and a dozen other alien worlds in sci-fi flicks.

My Jag rides too low to risk leaving the road, so I parked in a turnout and walked out into the barrens a hundred yards or so, until I found a sand dune as tall as a man.

Then I strapped on my Colt and went to work. Placing a dime on the back of my gun hand, I practiced dropping the coin, then drawing and dry firing my Peacemaker before the dime hit the sand. A full thirty minutes of steady practice, and I was beating the dime every time. No thought involved, all reflex. Hook, draw, and fire as soon as the gun cleared leather.

I could feel my speed picking up as I practiced, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. Clete was definitely a hair quicker, no question. He’d competed all over the country, beating the fastest guns alive, and had the trophies to prove it.

But tomorrow wouldn’t be a fast-draw contest. It would be very close to a real gunfight, so maybe, just maybe, accuracy might matter more than speed.

I couldn’t beat Clete to the draw, but I might be able to outshoot him. If his first shot missed, or wasn’t fatal, I’d have a fighting chance.

I drew a Clete-sized silhouette in the sand, loaded my Colt with live rounds, and began firing for effect. Six rounds, as fast as I could pull, then twelve, then two dozen more.

At the end, I was shooting on pure instinct, and nailing center mass every time. I simply looked at the target, and my reflexes did the rest.

And that was it. As much prep as I could do.

Driving back to the lodge, I stopped at a party store to buy a DVD.

Tombstone. Starring Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer.

I watched it alone in my room.

It was a fun movie. Russell made a boss Wyatt Earp. Val Kilmer played a quirky Doc Holliday, and he actually said that “I’m your huckleberry” line a couple of times, when he was ready to fight. Good line. I enjoyed the flick.

Maybe a little too much. Because after I turned in, the movie kept replaying in my head all night, jumbled and out of sync.

And in the gray light, just before dawn, I snapped wide awake, jolted out of a vivid and terrible dream.

In the final shootout between Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo, Kilmer shoots Ringo in the head, then hauls the mindless, dying gunman around, urging him on, until he falls.

It’s a powerful scene. But in my dream, it wasn’t Kilmer doing the shooting, it was Clete. And the dying man was me.

I took a long shower, then went back to bed. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. The dream kept replaying in my head, over and over, as I died, then died again.

Uncle Jocko said he had a bad feeling about this fight, and now I had it. And for the first time, I seriously considered taking his advice and pulling out.

But I couldn’t. Backing out would look like cowardice and in a business that markets appearances, the obvious explanation would be the right one. I’d showed yellow, and screwed up a shoot. My career didn’t amount to much anyway, and a rep as a troublemaker could be the end of it.

Clete was sure of himself, and eager for this fight. It would be winner take all, and the winner might take a lot. Internet buzz, studio public relations building up your name. And I was at a place in my life where I needed a break.

A few more films as an extra, and I’d be Jocko. Hanging on in L.A., hoping to get work with Big Mack’s next movie, or a part in some indie flick that would pay the rent for a few weeks. I love my uncle, but I don’t want to be him.

My father was a ranch hand who did hard manual labor his whole life.

He died digging a drainage ditch, buried alive when the walls caved in. He never had the chance to better his life with a wax bullet, fired in the blink of an eye. But I didn’t have to wonder what he’d say.

He’d say go for it. Take the shot I never got.

And I decided to take his advice. Because bottom line? I had no other choice.

At ten A.M. the cast and crew gathered in the saloon set before the shoot. Marvin stood on a chair to brief us. He’d blocked out enough time for five takes. Hopefully we’d have a clear victor in one or two, but we’d take all day to get it right if we had to. We needed this shot, no matter what.

“I understand these wax bullets can sting, guys,” Marvin went on. “If you’re struck by a squib, try to react as if it were real.”

“Take our deads, you mean?” Clete cracked.

“Basically, yes,” Marvin nodded. “Fall if it’s fatal, otherwise roll with what happens, and play it for realism. Let’s nail this sucker, guys. Take one in ten minutes.”

“One take’s all we’ll need,” Clete chuckled, serenely confident. Which actually brightened my morning a bit.

Yesterday, he’d been practicing in front of a mirror, working on his speed. But he was already faster, and we both knew it.

My best hope would be Clete’s cocky overconfidence. In his rush to outdraw me, if he missed his first shot, or inflicted a wound that wasn’t fatal, I could keep fighting, and make damn sure my return fire was on target. With luck, the scene would be dramatic as hell, Marv would print the first take, and I’d come out on top.

And if not, at least I’d know I gave it my best shot.

Literally.

Clete and I collected our weapons from Stony Greco’s prop van, parked off the set behind a livery stable. It was the first time I’d seen Bones Benedict, the wax-slug expert, up close. Jocko called him a rummy and he definitely looked it. Bones’s eyes were bloodshot, cheeks windburned from years of boozing. Looked like he’d slept in an alley last night.

Stony Greco, the bullet-headed prop master, looked hung over as well, and even surlier than usual. I wondered what time Big Mack’s poker game broke up.

Bones had our guns laid out and waiting on the weapons table beside the van. I checked my prop Colt closely. The cylinder chambers were sealed with red wax and the loading gate was locked shut properly, to prevent tampering. The cylinder spun freely and the hammer cocked and released, slick as a whistle.

“Everything okay, Gates?” Stony asked.

“I’m good, Mr. Greco.”

Clete turned away to check the actions on both of his pistols, making sure they were functioning smoothly. He saw me watching and did a fancy twirl, both guns a blur as he spun them into his holsters. Then he gave me a mock salute, touching his hat brim, utterly confident he’d win.

He was probably right.

“Places, please!” Marvin called from his director’s chair. Clete trotted across the street to the dry-goods store, eager to get started.

“Anything I should know about these wax slugs?” I asked Bones as I tied down my holster.

“The squibs pull a tad to the right,” Bones said—

“But not enough that you should compensate,” Stony put in. “Aim for center mass, Toby, you’ll do fine. Good luck.”

“I’ll need it,” I said as I turned away, my mind already on the scene.

In the saloon, I took my place at the bar, facing the skinny, nervous bartender again. He filled a shot glass and slid it to me, as an air horn beeped in the street.

“Final call, people! Places, please! And... we’re rolling!”

“Wilson! Hack Wilson! I know you’re in there, damn you. Step out or I’ll come in and drag you out!”

Flinching at the anger in Clete’s voice, I glanced quickly around the crowded saloon. Surprise, surprise, no friendly faces today either.

Tossing back my fake bourbon, I slid my Colt out of its holster, spun the cylinder, then spun it into my holster for effect.

“Wilson!”

But I was definitely in no rush today. Let Clete sweat in the sun a little longer.

“Gimme one for the road,” I said, pushing my shot glass toward the barkeep, who did his best scared-rabbit bit.

“Please, Mr. Wilson, take it outside—”

“You already got trouble!” I roared, jumping his line as I hurled my shot glass at the replacement mirror behind the bar, shattering it to splinters all over again. “I said gimme another!”

He pushed a full bottle across the bar towards me, then backed away. Snatching up the bottle, I pulled the cork out with my teeth, spat it on the dirt floor, then guzzled down the dark tea, spilling half of it down my shirt.

But that was as much as I could stretch it. I’d stalled as long as I could.

Time to fight.

Faking a final pull from the bottle, I tossed it aside, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, then shouldered through the doors into the sun’s glare.

Clete was waiting in the doorway of the dry-goods store, looking a bit edgy, I thought. No yellow duster today. Dressed all in black. For my funeral, no doubt.

“We don’t have to do this,” I called. “You can just ride out.”

He didn’t reply. He spat, but couldn’t conceal a narrow grin as he did it. He was totally confident, and had every right to be.

Stepping off the boardwalk, I began stalking towards him. No hesitation from Clete today. He came on immediately, matching me stride for stride.

We both stopped in the middle of the street, facing each other ten yards apart. Waiting. For an unspoken signal—

Clete winked at me. And I recognized it for what it was. I’d seen it the night before, in Tombstone. Holliday winks to trigger the gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

And in that distracted instant Clete went for his gun! Moving so fast his hand was only a blur!

I drew too, but I was much too late. My Colt was still clearing leather when Clete fired!

Something slammed into my left shoulder, spinning me halfway around. Bee sting my ass! Felt like I’d been clubbed with a baseball bat. My left arm was instantly numb, but somehow I was still on my feet.

Clete’s eyes widened, staring at me in surprise, but only for an instant. With a mad grin, he drew his second pistol, then cut loose with both guns! One round blew my hat off, another burned across my thigh.

I could hear the squibs whacking into the saloon wall behind me. The sunlight seemed to be dimming as my knees turned to rubber. On sheer reflex I returned fire, shooting from the hip without even aiming, as I had in the desert. Instinctively zeroing in on center mass.

My first slug slammed into Clete like a body punch, nearly lifting him off his feet. Stunned, he stumbled backward, onto the porch of the drygoods store. But he didn’t fall. He just stared at me, dumbfounded. Then looked down in utter amazement at the red bloom widening just over his heart. And then he did the right thing.

He took his “deads.”

Lurching sideways off the porch, Clete reeled back into the street, firing a final, dramatic round as he fell. He landed hard, making no move to break his fall. Facedown in the dirt. And didn’t move. Looked realistic as hell, I thought. A perfect take.

If I didn’t wreck it.

I was having real trouble staying on my feet. My legs had lost all feeling, and I was woozy. I tried to stay upright but couldn’t quite manage that, so I sank slowly to my knees instead. And it took every ounce of concentration I had to keep from toppling all the way. Knowing that if I fell too, it would ruin the shot—

“Cut and print,” Marvin yelled. “Wow! Great job, guys. That was freakin’ brilliant! Nice fall, Clete!”

Marvin hurried over to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, but I was still watching Clete. He hadn’t moved. And my mental camera seemed to be zeroing in on him for a close-up, losing focus around the edges.

Sweet Jesus. Clete wasn’t breathing. And the numbness in my shoulder was spreading across my chest... Suddenly a great black sinkhole seemed to open beneath my feet and I was falling...

I felt Marvin’s arms around my shoulders, easing me down as he yelled something about calling 911.

Then...

I was back home in Whitehorse, on the ranch where I grew up, playing cowboys and Indians with my older brother and some neighbor kids. I knew it wasn’t real. My brother died at nineteen in the Korengal, killed by a haji sniper.

Yet he was here, playing cowboy with us in his bloody army fatigues. And we were shooting at the other kids, but they were cheating, wouldn’t take their deads. My cap gun was in fine working order. The cylinder spun freely, hammer cocked. I kept pulling the trigger and pop, pop! But nobody would fall. “Hey, no fair, you guys!” I yelled.

“Fall, goddamn you!”

I shouted that last so loud that it snapped me wide awake.

Tried to sit up. Couldn’t quite manage that. So I leaned back on my pillow, licking my lips, trying to focus.

I was in a white room. White ceiling, white walls, in a bed with white sheets. White machines standing beside it, some of them with tubes plugged into my arms.

Leah Bronstein was sitting in a white plastic chair beside my bed. Black business suit today, same black horn-rims. They made her look studious, and serious. In a good way.

“Are you all right, Mr. Gates?” she asked. “You shouted. Do you want the nurse?”

“No, I was just... I was dreaming. What’s going on?”

“You’ve been injured, Toby. Shot.”

“No, it hurt too much for wax. They—”

“The bullets weren’t wax. They were one-hundred-and-twenty-grain lead slugs. Mr. Benedict deliberately loaded your guns with live rounds. He wanted a bloodbath, revenge for being fired and forgotten all those years ago.”

“Sweet Jesus. Clete—?”

“Mr. Peterzak fired first, wounding you in the left shoulder, but somehow you managed to keep your feet and... well. You fired back.”

“But what about Clete? Is he okay—?”

Then I remembered seeing Clete fall. Facedown in the street. And Leah gently shook her head. Which was all the answer I needed.

I sank back on my pillow.

“My God,” someone said. Me, I guess.

“I know this is a terrible time for you, Mr. Gates,” Leah said, leaning in close, enunciating every word to be sure I understood. She wasn’t certain I was playing with a full deck. Neither was I.

“We need you to clarify your thoughts, Toby. The police are waiting outside to question you, and after them, the press.”

I nodded slowly, getting it. “And you’re with studio security. Which is why you’re here. Okay. What’s my storyline, Bronstein? What do you people want me to say?”

“It’s not like that, Toby,” she said, avoiding my eyes.

“It’s exactly like that, lady,” I snapped. “It’s okay. I want them to go away as much as you do. Just feed me my lines.”

So she did.

I couldn’t remember the fight clearly. (True.)

I wasn’t aware of Bones Benedict’s previous problems with alcohol. (A lie, but a little one.)

“And above all,” she stressed, leaning in, “there’s to be no mention of Noreen McCray’s involvement with... anyone.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I said.

“In return, the studio will—”

“Damn it, they don’t have to pay me to do the right thing, Leah, I’d do it anyway. I’m sorry you thought you had to ask. Is there anything else?”

“No,” she said, leaning back, “that’s it.”

“Then go away, please. I was dreaming and — never mind. I’d like a few minutes to clear my head.”

She paused in the doorway, looking back at me. “You know, when we met? I thought you were — some kind of a throwback, Toby. An honest to God cowboy, the kind Big Mack plays in movies.”

“Mack’s an actor, Leah. I’m a gunman. A real one. There’s a huge freakin’ difference. Ask Clete. And I really need to rest now.”

“Of course.” She nodded. And left. And I went back to Whitehorse, to play cowboys with my dead brother, in troubled dreams.

But this time Clete was playing too. And he wouldn’t take his “deads” either, damn it! The dream kept replaying in an endless loop, over and over, until I finally slipped into a deeper darkness for a while.

I woke in a very different world.

No Leah Bronstein this time. A heavyset guy with white muttonchop sideburns was in the chair at my bedside. He was watching a television mounted above my bed, with the sound off.

Black business suit, black tie. Rimless glasses. Looked like an undertaker. Maybe he was. He sensed my eyes on him, and turned to face me.

“Good, you’re awake. My name is Chester Maleski, Mr. Gates. I’m an attorney, senior staff in the studio security section.”

“What happened to Leah?”

“Ms. Bronstein was — called away. We need to talk. The situation’s changed. In the last hour, the video of Clete Peterzak’s death has gone viral on the Web. It’s essentially a snuff film, shot in living color by a gifted director. It’s taken ‘reality TV' to a whole new level.”

“My God,” I said.

“The police are waiting to question you, and they’re getting impatient. I understand Ms. Bronstein — briefed you?”

I nodded. “I’m good, Mr. ...?”

“Maleski. Chester.”

“All right, lunger, let’s do this.” It’s another line from Tombstone, but Maleski didn’t get it. Looked at me like I’d flipped out. Maybe I had.

Chester moved to the door to let the police in. Two detectives, in polo shirts and sport coats. Salt and pepper, young white guy, older African American. They questioned me at length. I wasn’t much help. It was just another shoot. I played the scene the same as the day before, same as the times before that, in other films.

Did I check my weapon before the scene?

Only the action. You can’t check the rounds. The loading gate’s always sealed to prevent tampering.

If the weapon was tamper proof, how did Clete Peterzak end up dead?

At this point Maleski stepped in. studio security had determined that Bones Benedict deliberately loaded our weapons with live rounds, then plugged the cylinder with wax to camouflage it. There was no way we could have known. The whole crime was on video in high def, and they had Benedict’s written confession, left behind when he fled.

Where was Benedict now? I had no idea, only met the man once.

And that was that. The detectives asked a few more questions, but they didn’t lean hard on me. Didn’t have to. It was an open-and-shut case, or would be when they caught up with Bones. He’d vanished after the shoot. They had an APB out for him, but he’d apparently planned this carefully.

Gone without a trace.

Maleski ushered the lawmen out, and let an unruly mob of reporters in. A dozen of them crowded into the room, elbowing each other for position, surrounding my bed like a pack of jackals, shouting questions as they came.

“How does it feel to kill your best friend? What were Peterzak’s last words? Did you know the bullets were real when you killed him? How does it feel to be famous for—”

And I lost it. Swinging my legs over the edge of my bed, I struggled to my feet, and it took every ounce of my self-control to keep from clocking one of ’em.

Reading my mood, Maleski shooed them out, then called for a doctor, who checked me over, then ordered me back to bed. I told Chester and the doc to screw off. After they left, I rescued my clothes out of the closet.

I was washing the blood out of my shirt when Big Mack McCray showed up, with Stony Greco and my Uncle Jocko in tow.

Big Mack brought me a big bouquet of flowers, but only to conceal a pint of Old Crow. He uncapped it and we passed the bottle around like old friends.

“Jesus, you’re really a piece of work,” Mack said. “Up and around already?”

“Tougher than a rented saddle,” Uncle Jocko said.

“I’m okay,” I said, lying in my teeth. “What’s happening with Bones? Have they found him yet?”

“Nah, that sumbitch did a righteous job on me for firin’ him all them years ago,” Big Mack said. “You should have left him in the gutter, Jocko.”

“Hell, you said get him, Mack. I got him. I thought he was okay.”

“So did I,” Greco put in. “He snowed us all, Mack. It ain’t on Jocko.”

On the TV, the silent newscast suddenly switched to a video of the shooting, as Clete and I faced each other in the dusty Utah street.

Stony started to turn it off.

“No,” I said. “Let it play.”

On the screen, Clete and I faced off in the street, then slapped leather. Clete beat me by half a sec, firing his right-hand Remington as it cleared leather. His eyes widened as the slug swung me around. It was only an instant, but for a gunman, impossible to miss.

“Goddamn,” Stony Greco said quietly, moving up beside me. “That bastard knew, didn’t he? When that slug spun you, he knew damn well he was firing live rounds. Could’ve yelled cut, and stopped it. Instead he pulled his second gun and cut loose, trying to finish you off.”

“He rushed his shots,” Jocko added. “Toby didn’t. But that definitely makes it self-defense no matter how you figure it.”

On the screen, Clete took a single round to the chest, stumbled backward, and toppled, firing as he fell.

Facedown in the street. Dead as a coal bucket.

I turned away, swallowing bile, trying not to throw up. Feeling... I had no idea what I was feeling.

“Why don’t you boys wait for me outside,” Mack said. “I’d like a private word with our young friend here.”

He waited till Jocko and Stony cleared the room, then turned to me.

“Maleski said you did good, talking to the police. Kept my wife’s name out of it. I appreciate that. The way things stand, nobody can blame you for Peterson’s death—”

“Peterzak,” I said automatically. “His name was Peterzak.”

“Whatever.” Mack shrugged. “Still, you bein’ blameless? That could change in a hurry, if it came out that the two of you were really fighting over Noreen.”

I stared at him.

“Hell, you thought you slipped one by, boy? That I didn’t know? I knew the day after it happened. Always figured to get even with you, just took awhile for things to fall into place.”

“Sweet Jesus, you knew? And you set this up?”

“Nah, Bones set it up. He took all the credit in his goodbye note. And about now, I expect he’s steppin’ off a plane in sunny Santo Domingo. That’s in the Dominican Republic, son. No extradition from there. He’ll probably drink himself to death in a month, and this whole thing will go away. Until my next movie opens. Then all this free publicity will put my numbers through the roof.”

“You miserable son of a bitch—!”

“Easy, young Toby,” he said, clamping onto my wounded arm. “Mix it up with me, you might suffer a bad relapse. And if you even think about talking to the law about this, just remember you’re the one who shot Clete, not me. Out of jealousy. Because he took your place with my wife.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

“Good, I can see it sinking in now. So here’s the rest of it. You’ve been hurt on the job, kid. You should go home to heal up. You’ll find a check waiting when you get there. Severance pay. Cash it or burn it, it’s all the same to me. But don’t come back. Ever. You’re done in this business, son, you’ll never make another movie. Cross me, and I’ll make you sorry we ever met.”

“I’m already sorry.”

“You’ve had some bad luck, Toby,” he said, gesturing at the room, the bed. “But things could be worse. For you, and for people you care about. Are we clear, son?”

“Crystal,” I managed.

“Good. Get well soon, now, you hear?” And he gave me a love tap on my wounded shoulder that nearly dropped me to the floor.

Big Mack sauntered out, and was immediately surrounded by a swirl of reporters and fans in the corridor. And in the blink of an eye, he was as gracious as a department-store Santa, joking with strangers, signing autographs, giving a young girl a horsey ride on his shoulders, both of them smiling for the smartphones.

Big Mack McCray. The new John Wayne. I couldn’t help thinking the critics were totally wrong about him. Now that I’d seen him up close and personal? He was a much better actor than anyone realized.

As for me? I needed a stiff whiskey and a friend to drink it with.

I found both in the Desert Lodge bar. Early afternoon, the place was nearly deserted. A young couple in the corner murmuring sweet nothings, a few extras dressed Western, sitting at the bar, watching Spanish soccer on the overhead TV.

And all the way down at the far end, away from the other customers, a one-eyed cowpoke with a wooden leg.

I eased down on the stool next to Jocko. He turned enough to give me the once-over with his good eye.

And as usual, even with one eye gone, he could read me like a billboard.

“You and Mack had it out, didn’t you?” he said. “You know what he did.”

“Some of it. Maybe most of it. But I don’t understand why.”

“A cop buddy told me once that ninety percent of all crimes involve money, love, or drugs. With Big Mack, it’s just the two. Money and love.”

“What money?”

“Big Mack can’t afford a divorce. Neither can the studio. Noreen would get half of everything, and Internet trolls would ruin his reputation overnight. The gunfight fixed all that. Noreen’s lovers took each other out, scared her back to bein’ a good little wifey, and the free publicity makes Mack’s movies big box office again.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Unc. And you knew about this?”

“Not all of it. Not until it was too late. Mack had me track down Bones Benedict. Stony Greco explained his part of the deal and got him on board. It wasn’t hard. Bones has been living hand to mouth since he got fired. They needed a fall guy, and Bones jumped at the chance for a major payday, plus a house on the beach in the Dominican Republic. He can live like a king down there the rest of his life. All he had to do was take the blame for somethin’ he was already guilty of.”

“Why the hell didn’t you stop it? Go to the law?”

“With what? I had no evidence. Mack and Stony could say it was all talk, a movie plot. And I’d end up in the same gutter I hauled Bones out of. I only work a few months a year on Mack’s movies, Toby. I don’t want to die on welfare.”

“So you went along with a murder?”

“I went along with a gunfight! Clete knew he was firing live rounds the moment he saw you get hit. And you damn well knew it too!”

“It happened too fast to do anything but fight,” I admitted. “I’ll have to live with the way it turned out. But so will you.”

“I warned you to pull out, kid! Hell, I even offered to go with you.”

“You told me to run, Jocko. You didn’t say why.”

“I couldn’t. Even now, the law can’t do a damn thing. All we got is a wild story. The cops got an open-and-shut case, complete with a signed confession. Mack’s got the studio behind him and an army of lawyers. Kick up a fuss, and they’ll trample you like a midnight stampede. You know it’s true.”

I chewed on that a moment, then swallowed it down, hard. Jocko might be a rat bastard, but that didn’t make him wrong.

“So what happens now?” I asked.

“You do the smart thing, kid. Take Mack’s money and go home. You don’t really have much choice.”

I chewed over that one too. And he was right again. But it was no easier to swallow.

“Maybe I’ll do that, Unc. Eat dirt, and run like a scalded dog. But that won’t change things between us. You sold me out.”

“Damnit, Toby, I tried to warn you—”

“You should’ve tried harder! You’ve been a friend to me my whole life, Unc, so I won’t burn you. Probably couldn’t if I tried. But we’re done, you and me, Jocko. You’re out of my life. Find a friend to drink with someplace else.”

“Toby—”

“Get out, old man! Before I change my mind!”

Jocko rose stiffly, looking down at me, searching for some scrap of what we’d been to each other. Couldn’t find it. It wasn’t there. Not anymore.

He turned and gimped out of the saloon. Sad exit, stage left.

I turned back to my whiskey. And some very dark thoughts.

We pay a high price for living. We lose people along the way. Friends, family, lovers are taken from us by time and circumstance, and all you can do is suck it up and push on. Live with it. Because... Well. It’s all we can do.

But the deepest cuts? The ones that hurt most? Are the ones we make ourselves. The tough choices we make, choices we can’t change or call back.

And watching that old man limp out of my life?

It was the hardest damn thing I’ve ever done.

Didn’t have much time to brood on it, though.

Leah Bronstein found me before I’d finished my second whiskey. She took Jocko’s stool, then pushed my glass out of reach.

“I stopped by the hospital,” she said. “They told me you checked yourself out against medical advice. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not, Toby. You’re in serious trouble. What happened between you and Big Mack McCray?”

“Nothing I care to share. It’s personal.”

“Not anymore. Big Mack’s gotten you fired, Toby, and blacklisted. He’s doing his damnedest to make sure you never work in movies again. And he swings a lot of weight.”

I nodded at that. Didn’t comment.

“Chet Maleski, my ex-boss, even stopped payment on your severance check. You can sue the studio for it, but it won’t be cost effective.”

“Probably not,” I conceded, “but I really don’t— Wait. Your ex-boss?”

“I blew up and quit. On the spot.”

“Over me?”

“No! Because what they’re doing to you is wrong—”

“So you did quit over me?”

“I... okay, maybe to some extent it was about you. But mostly, I left to pursue a promising business opportunity.”

“What opportunity?”

She drew a deep breath, then turned to face me. “I’m looking at it.”

I just stared back. “What are you talking about?”

“You, Mr. Gates. Big Mack and the studio think they’ve buried you, that you’re all washed up. I think they’ve got things exactly backwards. As tragic as it was, that shootout has made you a very hot property.”

I stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. On the TV, a newscaster had broken in, and Clete and I were facing each other again—

“Turn that off!” we yelled at the bartender together. He did.

“Listen to me, Toby,” Leah said, leaning in. “In the original Ben-Hur, with Charlton Heston, during the great chariot race, there was a terrible accident. A driver was thrown out of his chariot and almost killed. That driver was the action director’s son. And yet they used the footage in the movie. It’s considered one of the greatest action sequences ever filmed.”

“Pain is temporary, movies are forever. I get that. What’s your point?”

“You’re that driver, Toby. You’ve been thrown, but you survived. And that footage is pure gold.”

“Maybe for Big Mack. It’s his movie.”

“But he can’t use the scene. Standards and Practices won’t allow a death to be shown. The studio’s already shutting down this production, putting it on hiatus. But they can’t keep the video off the Web. It’s viral. You’re viral! So when they resume filming the next Mack McCray movie, or any other Western, all the buzz will be about you and Clete, and what happened in that scene. Unless—”

She hesitated, leaning back, reading my face. “Unless the buzz is about the new Toby Gates movie.”

“What?” I blinked, then shook my head, as though I’d taken a punch. “Sorry, but I don’t follow.”

“Like it or not, that viral video has made you the most famous gun-fighter on the planet. I’ve already pitched you to a friend in production. They’re ready to sign you to a two-picture deal. Big-budget westerns. The kind they used to make.”

“You — wrangled a movie deal out of this — godawful cock-up?” I managed. “Don’t you realize how ghoulish that is?”

“Every important story, from The Iliad to Titanic, is about somebody’s tragedy,” Leah said flatly. “It’s a sad, hard truth, but there it is. The only question left is, cui bono? Who wins, Toby? Big Mack and the studio? Or us?”

I met her stare dead-on. I’ve spent my life around hard men, wranglers, roughnecks, soldiers. And this five-foot package of smarts and ambition was as tough as any of them.

“Look, I’m sorry to push you on this, but here’s another hard truth, Toby. Celebrity has an expiration date. Next week, or the one after, someone else’s tragedy will be viral on the Web. To make this happen, we need to strike quickly. So I need to know. Right now, this minute. Are you in? Or not?”

I had caught a flash of my father, who died in a ditch.

And Clete Peterzak, dead for bedding the wrong wife.

And me? My only options were to run home or to gamble everything with this fierce, dark-eyed woman.

It wasn’t a tough choice.

“I’m your huckleberry,” I said.

© 2017 by Doug Allyn