Shallow Graves

mean?”
    “It’s not a Western.”
    “What do you mean it’s not a Western?” There was a pause, while Pellam pretended to examine the script. “What do you call Arizona in 1876?”
    “You’reinArizona?” The voice was a tenor car alarm. “Theysentyouthewrongscript?”
    Pellam said, “Uh. . . .”
    He tried. But he couldn’t keep it in a second longer. Marty, who’d heard the assistant producer’s cry, had lowered his head to the counter and was shaking uncontrollably. Pellam joined him.
    “You goddamn son of a bitch, Pellam,” the A.P. muttered. Pellam rocked against the side of the phone stall, immobilized with laughter, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry,” he gasped.
    “That . . . is . . . not . . . funny.”
    Though there was considerable evidence to the contrary. Pellam finally caught his breath then looked at Marty. He lost it again, quivering with laughter. After he’d calmed, Pellam managed to say, “We’re in a place called Cleary. Upstate New York. It looks good. I think it’ll be perfect. We’ve got 27 out of 51 setups but we did the principal-shoot locations first so it’s mostly just background and establishing shots we’ve got left. We’ll finish the snaps and get you the report in a couple days.” He paused for a moment then said, “I’ve been looking at the script. Can I talk you into a few changes?”
    “No way. It’s carved in stone.” Now the A.P. was laughing too, an indulgent chuckle, just to show he was a good sport and now it was time to put the joshing aside and give straight answers. “You mean it, John? It looks good?”
    “It’s—”
    “We can’t wait any longer. The big man’s gonna have my balls for breakfast if we don’t move fast. What were you going to say?”
    “When?”
    “Just now. I interrupted you.”
    “Just, it’s a good town. It’ll work.” He recited slowly, “Chill out, man.”
    “Haw, haw.”
    Pellam said, “I’m gonna be serious for a minute.”
    “We’re listening, dear.”
    “The script. You’re not going to like this but I’ve been doing some doctoring, and—”
    “I don’t like, I don’t dislike. I ignore.”
    “The story needs a little help.”
    “Forget about it. Lefty’ll cut your balls off too, you even mention it.”
    Pellam remembered another Hollywoodism. “The thing is, it’s a good property; it’s not a great property.”
    “But it’s Lefkowitz’s property.”
    “Your loss,” Pellam said.
    “No, my ass.”
    “Okay. I tried. . . . Oh, before I go I should mention . . .”
    “What? Problem?”
    “Not really a problem, I don’t think. It’s just finding the airfield’s been tougher than we thought.”
    “The—”
    “Marty and I are flying to London tomorrow. We’ll be in Dover by five.”
    “Dover?”
    “That’s London time.”
    “What airfield?”
    “You know, the paratrooper scene. . . .”
    “John, you’re a prick. Anybody ever tell you that?” He hung up.
    He joined Marty and said, “No sense of humor.”
    Marty began working on the cake again.
    A HALF HOUR later the rain had slowed to a fine mist and the thunderstorm had passed. The granny-dress woman, after a couple soulful glances at Pellam, was back at the salt mine—the way she phrased it to the waitress, who was herself hard at work adoring Marty.
    “Let’s roll,” Pellam said. The men stood.
    “Bye-ee,” she called.
    “See you later,” Marty said. “Thanks for the fine service.”
    “Anytime,” she said.
    When the door closed behind them Pellam whispered, “Anytime, anyplace, any way you want it, lover doll.”
    “Pellam, it’s not my fault I’m a stud.”
    “She wants you, boy. She wants you to be the father of her children. All twelve of them. Look at you, rosy cheeked, cute as a button. Oh, she’ll be dreaming about you tonight.”
    “Hang it up, Pellam.”
    “Maybe,” Pellam said seriously, “you should think about settling down here. Get yourself a NAPA franchise, wear a CAT hat to cover up that thinning hairline of yours, join the Elks. . . .”
    “You should talk, old man. That other lady checking you out in there reminded me a lot of my mother.”
    “They’re the most experienced.”
    “They—”
    Both Marty and Pellam stopped short, twenty feet in front of the camper.
    “Jesus,” Marty asked. “Wait. What is that?”
    Pellam was surprised the boy couldn’t figure it out but then he guessed it was like those optical illusions in science books, the