Life Blood --IV---Page 14

creaky descent. "I can get bonked every night of the week, but I can't get a serious boyfriend. New York's clubs aren't exactly brimming with the vine-covered-cottage-and-picket-fence type. And as for the pickings at work, given the kind of pictures David makes, forget it. Last thing I need is some twenty-year-old
pothead who thinks with his wang."

"I'm afraid I'm not helping you much with this one." I'd cast
Baby Love mostly with Off-Broadway unknowns. The actress
Mary Gregg was a veteran of Joseph Papp's original Public
Theater, the experimental enterprise downtown. The few male
parts all went to guys who were either gay or married.

"Oy, what can you do, right? If it happens, it happens." Arlene watched the door begin to stutter open as we bumped onto the lobby level. Then she zeroed in on me. "You really want a kid too, don't you? I mean, that's why you did this script, right? Which, by the way, is great. I mean the script."

"I think most women do, down deep."

She smiled. "Well, if I ever have one, it's going to be the old-
fashioned way. It's a heck of a lot cheaper than adopting." She
was heading out, into the front foyer. "Not to mention more fun
getting there."

On that I definitely had to agree.

The lobby's prewar look was gray and dismal, and as we
emerged onto the street, the rain had turned into a steady
downpour. Lou was off again today, down at the hospital with
Sarah, so I'd engaged a doorman from a new co-op across the
street to keep an eye on our vans. A crisp twenty had extracted
his solemn promise to do just that. At the moment, however, he
was nowhere to be seen. Proving, I suppose, David's theory that
we needed our own security guy at all location shoots.
        Lou, I thought, I hope you're finally getting through to her.
        "No limo, but at least we get first call on the vans," Arlene
 observed, her voice not hiding the sarcasm. "Just once I'd
like to work for somebody who had serious VIP transportation."
        "David would walk before he'd get a limo."

We were headed down the street, me digging out my keys, when I noticed the man standing in the rain. He was just behind our lead van, a three-year-old gray Ford, waiting for us.

My first thought was he must be connected to Nicky Russo,

David's wiseguy banker, here to bust my chops over the Teamster
issue. Screw him. Just my luck he'd send somebody the very day
Lou was not on hand. But then I realized I'd guessed wrong. The

man was more Hispanic than Italian. He also was short, solidly
built, late fifties maybe, with intense eyes and gray hair that
circled his balding pate like the dirty snow around a volcano's rim.
As he moved toward us, I thought I detected something military in
his bearing, not so much the crispness of a soldier but rather the
authoritative swagger of an officer. Well, maybe a retired officer.
        "The paper on your windshield says you are filming a movie,"
came a voice with a definite Spanish accent. No greetings, no
hiya, how're you doin'? Just the blunt statement. Then, having
established what was already clear to all at hand, he continued. "It
says the title is Baby Love. Why are you making this movie here?"
        That was it. I glanced at Arlene, who'd turned white as a
sheet. You get a lot of onlookers around a location shoot, but not
too many who challenge your right to exist, which was exactly
what was coming through in his menacing tone.
        I handed Arlene the keys. "Here, go ahead and open up. I'll
handle this."

Then I turned back to him. "What you saw in the windshield of the vans is a New York City Film Board permit. That's all the
information we are required to provide. If you read it, you know everything I'm obliged to tell you." I returned his stare. "However, if people ask nicely, I'm happy to answer their questions."
        "Are you making this movie about a person in this building?
Your other films have been documentaries."

God help me, I thought. Is this what my fans are like?

Then it hit me. I don't know how I'd missed the connection, but now it just leapt out. First the phone call, then this hood.
Somebody was tracking me.

"I'm scouting locations," I lied, feeling a chill go through me.
"We're second unit for an action film, shooting some prep footage
for the producers. Does the name Arnold Schwarzenegger mean
anything to you?"

"Then why is the film about babies?"

"That's meant to be a joke. Remember the movie Twins? It's a joke title. Do you understand?"

At that moment, Paul Nulty came barging out the door with a
huge klieg light, followed by several other members of the crew
carrying sound gear. Our cordial tete-a-tete was about to be
disrupted.

My new Hispanic friend saw them and abruptly drew up. That was when I noticed the shoulder holster under his jacket,
containing some sort of snub-nosed pistol.

Jesus, I thought, this must be what some kind of hired killer looks like. That gun's not a prop.

"I think you are lying." He closed his jacket and, ignoring my crew, bored in relentlessly on me, his eyes dead and merciless. "That is a big mistake."

It was the first time in my life I'd ever stood next to a man who had a gun and was deeply ticked at me. He'd wanted me to see his piece, just to make sure I took him seriously. He wasn't
threatening me, per se. Rather he was letting me know how
strongly he cared about what I was doing.

Well, damn him, but I still was scared. I might have managed
to bluff Nicky Russo, but he was a guy who operated by an age-
old set of Sicilian rules. This thug didn't strike me as the rule-book
type.

Hand shaking, I pulled out my cell phone, flicked it open, and punched in 911.

"Listen, if you're threatening me with a gun, I'm calling the cops. Whatever problem you have with the New York film industry, you can explain it to them."

New York's police emergency number was still ringing as he abruptly turned and strode away.

I clicked the phone shut and moved to get out of the way as a
trolley loaded with more gear was rolled past me down the
sidewalk. Unfortunately, I also took my eyes off him for a second,
and when I looked up again, he seemed to have disappeared into
the rain, though I did notice somebody who could have been him
get into a long black car well down the block and speed off toward
Broadway.

"What did that creep want?" Arlene asked, coming back with the keys.

I was only slowly returning to reality, and it took me a few

moments to form a coherent answer through all the adrenaline surging into my brain.

"I . . . I don't know. But I think I'd better warn everybody to

keep an eye out for strangers. He's . . . he's wound a little tight, to put it mildly." I was still shaking, which she fortunately failed to notice. At that point, there seemed no great reason to spook her with mention of the gun.

"Boy, he wasn't just some homeless junkie," she said. "He looked like a heavy in one of David's old action pictures. All he needed was a Mack-10."