Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) by Craig McDonald
Authors: Craig McDonald
Tags: Novel
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Drinking. Certainly there's been too much drinking. And not enough writing. Just trying to keep myself interested. You know me --- you embrace whatever keeps you in the game."
"You sound like Papa. 'First one must endure.'" Her mentioning Hem like that...I knew it was a set-up for the resumption of a twenty-year refrain: Patch it up with Hem, please .
I remembered a line Hemingway wrote Marlene in a letter. She told me she'd adopted Hemingway's casual aside as a personal philosophy. I repeated it to her: "The trick is not to 'confuse movement for action.' That said, Hem's going to have to call me, darling. He owes me the apology, you know."
Marlene reached into her pocket. She pulled out this little dark thin cigar. I fired her up with my Zippo. "My God," she said, "you two are like warring brothers. And about equally star-crossed. And maybe equally doomed. You should call Papa, Hector. Fix it, please, before it's too late for both of you."
"My God, darling, when did you become a fatalist?" Welles' script rewrite made it clear: Dietrich's madam was also a fortune-teller. I Bogied my cigarette and extended my right palm. "Wanna read my fortune, Kraut?"
Marlene searched my failing blue eyes. Her eyes glistened. She blew two perfect smoke rings and smiled sadly. "I'm not sure how much future you have left, Hector. I think maybe you've already spent your future, my love."
I heard something on the other side of the trailer. I put my finger to my lips and then ducked down. I searched the darkness on the other side of her trailer. Two legs and some kind of a stick were silhouetted over there. I crouched down and rolled all the way under Marlene's trailer.
I tucked my arms around the back of the spy's knees and heard this rumbling, "Shit!"
Then this mountain fell on me.
The mountain was followed by a pen and a notepad that smacked me in the face.
It was fucking Welles, spying on us --- actually taking notes. I couldn't get my big hands around his bigger neck, but I was sure trying too. Orson's nails scratched the backs of my hands, drawing blood. Marlene had her arms around me, pulling at me. "Stop it, Hector. Stop it you two!"
Welles had his hands up in surrender, smiling crookedly and laughing at me.
My fucking ribs hurt . It felt like the enormous bastard might have cracked a couple falling on me. I struggled up with Marlene's help, one arm wrapped around my ribs. "You cocksucker!" I kicked Orson once ... and couldn't tell if I hit fat or special-effect's padding. So I kicked him again. But to no discernible effect.
"You and me," I said to Welles, "we're through." I walked as Marlene stooped to help Orson to his feet. The Kraut and a forklift might get the job done.
I heard Orson's resonant grumble at my back: "That bastard. Who does Lassiter think he is? That fucking degenerate drunk and wife killer! You hear me Lassiter? Who do you think you are? I'm Orson Welles!"
He screamed this last at my back.
I heard Marlene say to Welles, "Stop it you fool. What does it matter what you say about him? He's a man ... that's all."
12
I was limping down the thirsty canals of Venice when this arm slipped through mine. The Mexican girl who favored near-naked moonlight swims smiled, then sighed as she saw the bloodied backs of my hands. "Come with me," she said. "I'll clean and bandage those for you."
I obediently let myself be led along. I muttered, "Guess you saw all that."
"I saw the fat pig spying. And what happened after, yes."
I smiled and shook my head. "Because you were spying, too. Yes?"
She smiled back ... and I was a goner. She said, "Just so."
She led me to her modest room located a couple of blocks from the movie set. I asked, "You live here?"
"Just for now ... while we film. I'm an extra. And assistant to Miss Dietrich." The Mexican girl smiled and arched a black eyebrow. "And that title --- 'assistant,' I mean --- is all that I am to her," she said.
Well, well . "I'm so glad," I said. I lowered myself
"You sound like Papa. 'First one must endure.'" Her mentioning Hem like that...I knew it was a set-up for the resumption of a twenty-year refrain: Patch it up with Hem, please .
I remembered a line Hemingway wrote Marlene in a letter. She told me she'd adopted Hemingway's casual aside as a personal philosophy. I repeated it to her: "The trick is not to 'confuse movement for action.' That said, Hem's going to have to call me, darling. He owes me the apology, you know."
Marlene reached into her pocket. She pulled out this little dark thin cigar. I fired her up with my Zippo. "My God," she said, "you two are like warring brothers. And about equally star-crossed. And maybe equally doomed. You should call Papa, Hector. Fix it, please, before it's too late for both of you."
"My God, darling, when did you become a fatalist?" Welles' script rewrite made it clear: Dietrich's madam was also a fortune-teller. I Bogied my cigarette and extended my right palm. "Wanna read my fortune, Kraut?"
Marlene searched my failing blue eyes. Her eyes glistened. She blew two perfect smoke rings and smiled sadly. "I'm not sure how much future you have left, Hector. I think maybe you've already spent your future, my love."
I heard something on the other side of the trailer. I put my finger to my lips and then ducked down. I searched the darkness on the other side of her trailer. Two legs and some kind of a stick were silhouetted over there. I crouched down and rolled all the way under Marlene's trailer.
I tucked my arms around the back of the spy's knees and heard this rumbling, "Shit!"
Then this mountain fell on me.
The mountain was followed by a pen and a notepad that smacked me in the face.
It was fucking Welles, spying on us --- actually taking notes. I couldn't get my big hands around his bigger neck, but I was sure trying too. Orson's nails scratched the backs of my hands, drawing blood. Marlene had her arms around me, pulling at me. "Stop it, Hector. Stop it you two!"
Welles had his hands up in surrender, smiling crookedly and laughing at me.
My fucking ribs hurt . It felt like the enormous bastard might have cracked a couple falling on me. I struggled up with Marlene's help, one arm wrapped around my ribs. "You cocksucker!" I kicked Orson once ... and couldn't tell if I hit fat or special-effect's padding. So I kicked him again. But to no discernible effect.
"You and me," I said to Welles, "we're through." I walked as Marlene stooped to help Orson to his feet. The Kraut and a forklift might get the job done.
I heard Orson's resonant grumble at my back: "That bastard. Who does Lassiter think he is? That fucking degenerate drunk and wife killer! You hear me Lassiter? Who do you think you are? I'm Orson Welles!"
He screamed this last at my back.
I heard Marlene say to Welles, "Stop it you fool. What does it matter what you say about him? He's a man ... that's all."
12
I was limping down the thirsty canals of Venice when this arm slipped through mine. The Mexican girl who favored near-naked moonlight swims smiled, then sighed as she saw the bloodied backs of my hands. "Come with me," she said. "I'll clean and bandage those for you."
I obediently let myself be led along. I muttered, "Guess you saw all that."
"I saw the fat pig spying. And what happened after, yes."
I smiled and shook my head. "Because you were spying, too. Yes?"
She smiled back ... and I was a goner. She said, "Just so."
She led me to her modest room located a couple of blocks from the movie set. I asked, "You live here?"
"Just for now ... while we film. I'm an extra. And assistant to Miss Dietrich." The Mexican girl smiled and arched a black eyebrow. "And that title --- 'assistant,' I mean --- is all that I am to her," she said.
Well, well . "I'm so glad," I said. I lowered myself
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