Sixkill

53

Jumbo’s movie was shooting on a sunny day in the Rose Kennedy Greenway, where, not so long ago, the Central Artery had cast its shadow. The producer’s name was Matthew Morrison. Z and I had coffee with him on the set, sitting in bluebacked director’s chairs near the craft-services truck. There was a platter of turnovers on the counter.

“What kind of turnovers do you suppose those are?” I said.

“Usually some raspberry and some apple,” Morrison said.

“Two of my faves,” I said.

“What are the others?” Morrison said.

“Blueberry, strawberry, cherry, pineapple, peach, apricot, mince, blackberry, boysenberry...”

“Okay, okay,” Morrison said. “I get it.”

“Worst turnover I ever had was excellent,” I said.

“Like sex,” Morrison said.

“There’s no such thing,” I said, “as a bad turnover.”

Morrison nodded. He looked at Z.

“Jumbo sees you on the set, Z,” Morrison said, “he’ll throw a shit fit.”

“Eek!” Z said.

Morrison nodded.

“Seemed like I ought to mention it,” he said.

“You know a man named Tom Lopata?” I said.

“It was his daughter... wasn’t it?”

I nodded. A big guy wearing a cutoff Red Sox T-shirt and a tool belt bellied up to the craft-services counter and acquired some coffee and a turnover.

“You know him other than that?” I said.

“As a matter of fact,” Morrison said, “I do. He was trying to sell us insurance.”

“You personally, or the production?” I said.

“Insurance on Jumbo,” Morrison said.

“Life insurance?” I said.

“Sort of,” Morrison said. “With the production company as beneficiaries, in case Jumbo died or became disabled before he finished the film.”

“Don’t most movies have some kind of completion insurance?” I said.

“Of course,” Morrison said. “But the poor dope didn’t know squat about the business. He was just trying to sell insurance.”

“What did you tell him?” I said.

“I explained to him that we had all that sort of thing in place,” Morrison said.

“But let me guess,” I said. “He didn’t want to take no for an answer.”

“He wanted to talk with Jumbo,” Morrison said. “I told him that wasn’t possible, that Jumbo didn’t talk to people. He was pretty aggressive about it.”

“Did he get to talk with Jumbo?”

“Oh, God, no,” Morrison said.

“Maybe behind your back?”

Morrison shook his head. I noticed that there were still half a dozen turnovers on the craft-services counter.

“Jumbo’s the franchise,” Morrison said. “We keep a close eye on him. Ask Z.”

Z nodded.

“I worked for Jumbo, but his manager paid me.”

“Alice?” I said. “His agent?”

“Agent, manager, keeper,” Z said. “All of the above. She paid the bill, and I was supposed to report anything out of the ordinary to the company and to her.”

“But Jumbo could fire you,” I said.

“Sure,” Z said. “Jumbo got everything he wanted, as long as it didn’t damage the franchise.”

“Same deal with your, ah, successor?” I said.

Z shrugged and looked at Morrison.

“Same deal,” Morrison said. “Jumbo can be self-destructive, and we like to keep close tabs. Hell, I even followed up with Don, the new bodyguard. Lopata never got to Jumbo.”

I looked at Z.

“Maybe Tom sent a messenger,” I said.

Z nodded.

I shook hands with Morrison and thanked him for his time. Then I stood and went to the truck and took two turnovers.

As we walked away, Z said, “None for me, thanks.”

“I didn’t get any for you,” I said.

And took my first bite.