“I’m awake, Mr. Greenblatt.”
“Now look, Jason, I want you to make some arrangements. Are there any decent hotels in that town? I don’t mean the Holiday Inn.”
“Yes, there are decent hotels,” I said, rubbing my eyes.
“I want two suites for tonight,” Greenblatt said. His voice was very serious. “You got that? Two suites.”
“Two suites. In what names?”
“Greenblatt and Robinson. And that’s a secret, so keep it quiet. We’ll be coming out on the six o’clock plane. Meet us.”
“All right, Mr. Greenblatt.”
“I’d rather you didn’t tell Charles,” Greenblatt said, and chuckled.
“Of course, Mr. Greenblatt.”
“Goodbye, Jason.”
Click.
I hung up the phone. So Robinson was coming too. Robinson was the president of the company. He was usually based in New York, but if he was coming to Tucson with Greenblatt on the six o’clock plane, then Robinson must now be in LA. Which meant he must have flown out from New York last night.
I knew Robinson only by reputation, and that reputation was unpleasant. He was known as Robber Roger because of his ruthlessness as a dealmaker. He had also been arraigned on assault charges several times in New York and had beaten the rap at the last minute each time.
Of course, I had no idea why Robinson was coming out to location. It seemed like a very stupid idea. When the president of a corporation arrives on a set, it either means a social call, or it means the shit has hit the fan. One day after a mysterious death, it had to mean shit-slash-fan. It had to make all the publicity problems much worse, and now I wondered if Greenblatt had thought of that. I wondered if he cared. I also wondered if he even had a choice about whether Robinson came out or not—if Robinson chose to say he was coming, then he was coming. Nobody argues with the boss.
Anyway, I made a mental note to call Appelbaum later and discuss the situation with him. I swung my feet over the side of the bed, yawned once more, and headed for the shower.
The phone rang again.
It was Mann. “You didn’t report last night,” he said.
“We finished pretty late,” I said. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
“Jason, when I ask for a report, I expect to get it.”
“Well, I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t be sorry, Jason. Be in my room in fifteen minutes and give me your report.”
“Yes, Mr. Mann.”
I hurried to take my shower.
* * *
“And then what happened?” Mann said, grunting as he pressed ninety pounds over his head. His face was red, and the veins stood out on his forehead. He was stark naked. From the bathroom, Sally was softly singing “Back in the Saddle Again,” the old Gene Autry song. Or was it Roy Rogers? Anyway.
I stood there, feeling like a fool, and said, “We went up to see Tom Franklin.”
“And?”
“He talked about today’s shoot.”
“Uugh!” Mann said as he dropped the weights with a slam, shaking the floor.
I glanced at my watch. It was not yet six a.m. Whoever was in the room below was getting a nasty surprise.
