up.
He pulled on whatever was closest — red sweat pants, maroon loafers, Hawaiian shirt.
“ Por los bandidos ,” he said, slipping a .38 revolver into his belt.
In the hotel lobby Wesley came across a few more actors and some of the crew and told them to hire taxis out to the set and the studio would pick up the tab. He said that if they wanted to bring anyone else out that would be okay too. Then he called the production manager and told him he was going to shoot a scene and to round up the usual suspects. The production manager said that Wesley was going too far, that he couldn’t cover for him in any way if he pulled a stunt like that. Chalmers had flown down from the studio three hours before and was already kicking everyone’s ass and he wanted a meeting with Wesley at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow to discuss the very real possibility that Wesley might not be in sufficient command of himself to go on and that they were fully prepared to send another director down and even had one picked out. Wesley said that he was open to discussing everything, that he felt in firm control, and that he was even considering the production manager as a possible coproducer for his next film which was going to take place in India and in view of the difficulties involved would really be more of a producer’s picture than a director’s.
In the El Presidente bar, Wesley and Evelyn had three quick shots of tequila with the prop man, who was sitting with an aspiring actress from Mexico City making ends meet, so to speak, as a paid weekend companion. He asked the prop man, an old-timer and a millionaire from all he had stolen from Wesley’s films, to meet him on the set with a case of booze and anything else that would encourage altered states of behavior. The prop man said with tears in his eyes that he would pull out all the props as this might be the last scene the “old man” would ever be allowed to shoot. Just to prove or to underline his gratitude and loyalty he pressed a silver bullet full of pharmaceutical cocaine into Wesley’s palm and kissed him on the lips.
On the street Wesley interrupted a four-man mariachi band serenading a Greyhound bus full of German tourists, offering them each one hundred dollars American to come out to the set and play.
“Say no more, jefe ,” said the trumpet player. “We are yours forever.”
Then Wesley and Evelyn and the two actors who had been in his suite for a wardrobe check drove north twenty miles to the set, a collection of nineteenth-century houses and false fronts lining both sides of a dusty main street complete with saloon, hotel, and jail. A few Mexican families lived in and maintained the town, moving from house to house as each movie company came through and tore apart and rebuilt everything according to the dictates of their script or the inclinations of the director.
A single streetlight was on when they drove up in front of the saloon, the guard waving a tired salute toward Wesley as he stepped out of the car.
“ Por la revolución ,” Wesley said, handing the guard a bottle of tequila and striding past him.
The saloon was half complete, being in the middle of a transformation from the lobby of a Mexico City whorehouse to a border town cantina with crude wooden tables, low smoke-blackened ceiling, and a bar where several jars held live tarantulas and the curled form of a diamondback rattlesnake. Wesley took a table at the far end, facing the swinging doors. Pouring half the pharmaceutical coke on the table, he fashioned six rough lines, snorting them up with a rolled peso note and handing the note to Evelyn.
“You are my life,” he whispered, kissing her on the ear.
“Is that why you are trying to end it?”
“Not end, precisely, to come to terms with, to slowly dissolve, perhaps.”
“Why not just cut to black,” she said, inhaling the rest of the coke.
“Why not, indeed.”
He peered at the two mountain men who had taken up positions at the end of the bar.
He pulled on whatever was closest — red sweat pants, maroon loafers, Hawaiian shirt.
“ Por los bandidos ,” he said, slipping a .38 revolver into his belt.
In the hotel lobby Wesley came across a few more actors and some of the crew and told them to hire taxis out to the set and the studio would pick up the tab. He said that if they wanted to bring anyone else out that would be okay too. Then he called the production manager and told him he was going to shoot a scene and to round up the usual suspects. The production manager said that Wesley was going too far, that he couldn’t cover for him in any way if he pulled a stunt like that. Chalmers had flown down from the studio three hours before and was already kicking everyone’s ass and he wanted a meeting with Wesley at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow to discuss the very real possibility that Wesley might not be in sufficient command of himself to go on and that they were fully prepared to send another director down and even had one picked out. Wesley said that he was open to discussing everything, that he felt in firm control, and that he was even considering the production manager as a possible coproducer for his next film which was going to take place in India and in view of the difficulties involved would really be more of a producer’s picture than a director’s.
In the El Presidente bar, Wesley and Evelyn had three quick shots of tequila with the prop man, who was sitting with an aspiring actress from Mexico City making ends meet, so to speak, as a paid weekend companion. He asked the prop man, an old-timer and a millionaire from all he had stolen from Wesley’s films, to meet him on the set with a case of booze and anything else that would encourage altered states of behavior. The prop man said with tears in his eyes that he would pull out all the props as this might be the last scene the “old man” would ever be allowed to shoot. Just to prove or to underline his gratitude and loyalty he pressed a silver bullet full of pharmaceutical cocaine into Wesley’s palm and kissed him on the lips.
On the street Wesley interrupted a four-man mariachi band serenading a Greyhound bus full of German tourists, offering them each one hundred dollars American to come out to the set and play.
“Say no more, jefe ,” said the trumpet player. “We are yours forever.”
Then Wesley and Evelyn and the two actors who had been in his suite for a wardrobe check drove north twenty miles to the set, a collection of nineteenth-century houses and false fronts lining both sides of a dusty main street complete with saloon, hotel, and jail. A few Mexican families lived in and maintained the town, moving from house to house as each movie company came through and tore apart and rebuilt everything according to the dictates of their script or the inclinations of the director.
A single streetlight was on when they drove up in front of the saloon, the guard waving a tired salute toward Wesley as he stepped out of the car.
“ Por la revolución ,” Wesley said, handing the guard a bottle of tequila and striding past him.
The saloon was half complete, being in the middle of a transformation from the lobby of a Mexico City whorehouse to a border town cantina with crude wooden tables, low smoke-blackened ceiling, and a bar where several jars held live tarantulas and the curled form of a diamondback rattlesnake. Wesley took a table at the far end, facing the swinging doors. Pouring half the pharmaceutical coke on the table, he fashioned six rough lines, snorting them up with a rolled peso note and handing the note to Evelyn.
“You are my life,” he whispered, kissing her on the ear.
“Is that why you are trying to end it?”
“Not end, precisely, to come to terms with, to slowly dissolve, perhaps.”
“Why not just cut to black,” she said, inhaling the rest of the coke.
“Why not, indeed.”
He peered at the two mountain men who had taken up positions at the end of the bar.
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