concrete slab here. Was somebody, like, building a house?”
Rage flared white-hot behind Roy’s eyes. He opened the back of the van and reached for one of the rifles wrapped up on the floor.
“Roy,” Laurel said. She put her hand on his arm. “Easy, baby. He don’t know.”
Roy rested his hand on the gun for a moment as he throttled his anger back down.
He had been working stunts, taking the falls that the insurance companies weren’t willing to let the more recognizable faces take. The film’s rising young star had been chafing to do more of his own stunts; it was a martial arts movie, after all, and he wanted to show off his skills. But in the cold calculus of moviemaking it was the faceless ones who got to take the real risks.
Roy didn’t mind; he was still young and strong, and the money was great, especially for a farm boy from Duplin County. And he knew that, once he’d paid his dues and made the right connections, he’d be one of the faces on the movie posters. He’d ascend to the heights where it was Dom Perignon and blow jobs from starlets in the backs of limos every night on the way to the next premiere. And his picture in the magazines, every week. That would be the sweetest part. Everyone would know his face. He had the look. He had the talent. And when the bruises he took from being knocked into set walls left him limping and sore, he had the coke and the whiskey to put the pain someplace far away.
Then it had all come down on him. His career had sputtered and died. He had been robbed. And now someone was going to pay while there was still time to collect.
The kid came running up, out of breath. “Man,” he said. “What a great place.”
“Come on in,” Roy said. “We got some things to do before show time.”
They walked to the door of the trailer. Roy turned the key in the lock but only opened the door a couple of inches. He reached inside and loosened the noose of wire wrapped around the doorknob. He slipped it off and over the knob, then opened the door and entered.
The interior of the trailer was dark, all the windows closed, and the blinds pulled down. A straight-backed wooden chair sat across the room facing the door. Bound to the chair with a weave of gray duct tape was a double-barreled shotgun pointing at the door. Roy walked over to the chair, winding the wire around his fist as he went. He unhooked the wire from a hook set in the far wall. The wire led around the hook back in the direction of the door, then was tied to the trigger of the gun. A person who cluelessly pulled the door open without stopping to unhook the wire would yank the wire taut around the hook and trigger, firing the gun and taking the full load of buckshot in the chest.
Roy looked back at Stan standing in the door, his eyes wide as he saw Roy disarming the trap gun. “I don’t like trespassers,” Roy said.
“I guess not,” Stan replied. Roy flipped on a light as Laurel and Stan entered.
Inside, the trailer was cramped and cheaply furnished. A pair of movie posters dominated the space over the ragged sofa. Stan glanced at them. “Hey,” he said, pointing, “I think I saw that one on TV one time. And isn’t the other one the one where that guy got killed filming it?”
It took an effort of pure will for Roy not to pick up the shotgun and blow the kid’s head off to shut his stupid mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “Damn shame.”
“Roy was in them two movies,” Laurel said proudly. “And a bunch of others, too.”
“Wow,” Stan said. “No shit?”
“Yeah,” Roy said. “No shit.” He turned to Laurel. “Fix us something to eat,” he said. “I got some work to do.” She looked for a moment as if she was going to argue about it, but she saw the look in Roy’s eye and closed her mouth. “Okay,” she said.
Roy went down the narrow hall to the bedroom he’d turned into an office. The tiny space was crammed full with a bed, a dresser, and a battered rolltop desk shoved into one
Rage flared white-hot behind Roy’s eyes. He opened the back of the van and reached for one of the rifles wrapped up on the floor.
“Roy,” Laurel said. She put her hand on his arm. “Easy, baby. He don’t know.”
Roy rested his hand on the gun for a moment as he throttled his anger back down.
He had been working stunts, taking the falls that the insurance companies weren’t willing to let the more recognizable faces take. The film’s rising young star had been chafing to do more of his own stunts; it was a martial arts movie, after all, and he wanted to show off his skills. But in the cold calculus of moviemaking it was the faceless ones who got to take the real risks.
Roy didn’t mind; he was still young and strong, and the money was great, especially for a farm boy from Duplin County. And he knew that, once he’d paid his dues and made the right connections, he’d be one of the faces on the movie posters. He’d ascend to the heights where it was Dom Perignon and blow jobs from starlets in the backs of limos every night on the way to the next premiere. And his picture in the magazines, every week. That would be the sweetest part. Everyone would know his face. He had the look. He had the talent. And when the bruises he took from being knocked into set walls left him limping and sore, he had the coke and the whiskey to put the pain someplace far away.
Then it had all come down on him. His career had sputtered and died. He had been robbed. And now someone was going to pay while there was still time to collect.
The kid came running up, out of breath. “Man,” he said. “What a great place.”
“Come on in,” Roy said. “We got some things to do before show time.”
They walked to the door of the trailer. Roy turned the key in the lock but only opened the door a couple of inches. He reached inside and loosened the noose of wire wrapped around the doorknob. He slipped it off and over the knob, then opened the door and entered.
The interior of the trailer was dark, all the windows closed, and the blinds pulled down. A straight-backed wooden chair sat across the room facing the door. Bound to the chair with a weave of gray duct tape was a double-barreled shotgun pointing at the door. Roy walked over to the chair, winding the wire around his fist as he went. He unhooked the wire from a hook set in the far wall. The wire led around the hook back in the direction of the door, then was tied to the trigger of the gun. A person who cluelessly pulled the door open without stopping to unhook the wire would yank the wire taut around the hook and trigger, firing the gun and taking the full load of buckshot in the chest.
Roy looked back at Stan standing in the door, his eyes wide as he saw Roy disarming the trap gun. “I don’t like trespassers,” Roy said.
“I guess not,” Stan replied. Roy flipped on a light as Laurel and Stan entered.
Inside, the trailer was cramped and cheaply furnished. A pair of movie posters dominated the space over the ragged sofa. Stan glanced at them. “Hey,” he said, pointing, “I think I saw that one on TV one time. And isn’t the other one the one where that guy got killed filming it?”
It took an effort of pure will for Roy not to pick up the shotgun and blow the kid’s head off to shut his stupid mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “Damn shame.”
“Roy was in them two movies,” Laurel said proudly. “And a bunch of others, too.”
“Wow,” Stan said. “No shit?”
“Yeah,” Roy said. “No shit.” He turned to Laurel. “Fix us something to eat,” he said. “I got some work to do.” She looked for a moment as if she was going to argue about it, but she saw the look in Roy’s eye and closed her mouth. “Okay,” she said.
Roy went down the narrow hall to the bedroom he’d turned into an office. The tiny space was crammed full with a bed, a dresser, and a battered rolltop desk shoved into one
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