Stealing Fire Read online

  “Hell, Marvin, you’re on retainer,” Ford said. “Get your ass out here.”

  “I have cases.”

  “The world of Hollywood can probably get by with one of your legal stooges for a few days.”

  “John, this is too much and not covered in our contract.”

  “Tear up the contract. I won’t have trouble finding a new lawyer on a hefty retainer in the glittery legal offices on Sunset Boulevard.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll be there.”

  “I am in the middle of a shoot. I will not be there. The woman’s husband will be.”

  “You’re too busy to get to Flagstaff and I’m not?”

  “How much money did you make last year? Multiply it by a hundred and that’s me,” Ford said. “Get your ass moving.”

  Apparently, he fussed and he fumed, but he did not want to lose Ford as a client. And so it came to pass that a high-priced attorney, provided and paid for by Mr. Ford, would get out of his pajamas, leaving his drowsy wife, and get a flight to Flag.

  Once the attorney agreed to come, Ford added, as if it was an afterthought, that a gangster might be involved. Then he hung up the phone.

  “Hit the road, Yazzie. I’ll have security double up, but not in a conspicuous way, on Wright.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I do. I don’t want to be involved with any antics that take my mind off filming. You are welcome on my sets any time, and so is Iris. But you are never allowed to be a problem again.”

  “I understand.”

  “Unless you want to piss in Ward Bond’s flask. Wayne owes him a prank, and I get a kick out of their shenanigans.”

  Ford was quiet, he rubbed his chin, and he looked at the ceiling. He called his attorney again and told him to climb back into bed.

  “I thought of someone even better than Marvin,” he said to me, “and it’s absolute genius.”

  Thirty-two

  We each could have used an extra foot or two of leg room. John Wayne had trouble getting into the cab of my truck. I got out and we started all over again. In between, we looked like a couple of contortionists from Barnum and Bailey. I chalked it up to the fact that it was dark. I couldn’t even see where my legs were, nor where the stick shift was, and could only see his vague outline. A big outline. We finally made it, and were on our way.

  “Locking a nice married lady up. I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “Seeing your wife in handcuffs stings, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Pretty woman, too. She a Mexican?”

  “No, Jewish,” I said.

  “Well, Mexican or Jewish or Irish—we’re talking about tough ladies. I’ll wager on her to keep them in check until we get there.”

  “Ford said he was dragging a half-rate lawyer out of bed in Flagstaff. He’ll be there when we arrive.”

  “If he’s half-rate in Flagstaff, he’s probably the best guy within three hundred miles.”

  “Ford wanted his lawyer in L.A. to come out, but he decided you’d be a better bet.”

  “He’s right. A smooth-talking Hollywood hotshot would just tick these country folks off, and they’d make life harder on her.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “I’m gonna stand in the corner of the room, arms crossed across my chest, and be John Wayne.”

  “That’ll throw them for a loop.”

  “I figure so.”

  John Wayne to the rescue of the damsel in distress, a movie cliché and, yes, a doozy of an idea. When he walked in, they’d see the hero they knew, up on the screen, the person you want on your side. The white hat.

  I had a sudden thought. “You must not have a shot tomorrow.”

  “If I did, John Ford would hold up the second coming of Christ until we got to cut and print.”

  We got into Flagstaff just before dawn. The jail, sheriff’s office, and sheriff’s house were all in one building. Iris was in the sheriff’s kitchen, still cuffed. They might have broken the rules even more and put her in a cell without cause, but they only had two cells in the building, and both were taken by guys arrested for being drunk and disorderly.

  The half-rate lawyer came in. One glance and he said, “Is she under arrest?”

  “Not yet,” said the sheriff.

  “Then take those cuffs off.”

  Slowly, with a frown, the sheriff did.

  His wife almost swooned when she saw Wayne, but she was able to pour us coffee. The lawyer offered Wayne his chair. He said, “No thanks.” The sheriff wasn’t big on movies, he said, but he did know of Mr. Wayne and said he was a fan. “Thanks” was all Wayne said. Then he did just like he said he would. He stood back in the corner of the kitchen, crossed one leg over the other at the ankle, and folded his arms across his chest.

  The sheriff read Iris her rights and got on with the questioning. Iris, and this was a miracle, had not said one word since she’d been hauled off.

  Wayne tipped his hat at her, and she smiled at him, kind of a cool, haughty smile. I had to hand it to Iris. She had class.

  “When,” the sheriff said, “did you last see Payton Wood?”

  “You don’t have to answer that.” That was her lawyer.

  She didn’t.

  Her attorney said, “Tell me why you think my client should have known anyone by that name or at the scene.”

  “Because we have a witness that places her there around the time of the murder.”

  “The murder of … whose murder, Sheriff?”

  “Payton Wood.”

  “And who placed her at the scene?”

  “The desk clerk.”

  Iris whispered in the lawyer’s ear. “Everybody knows that the desk clerk at the Red Stone Motel is a drunk and sleeps at his desk most of the time.”

  “Sure, we know Chuck. If he didn’t own the place, he would have gotten canned a long time ago. It was the morning clerk. She says she remembers an Iris Goldman checking in.”

  “Any record of that?”

  “No, sir. Hard name to forget around this part of the country, though. And not that many women who check into a motel alone, unless, you know … they’re looking to do business.”

  “But you have no record that she was there.”

  “No.”

  “Have anything else?”

  “Yes. We have the testimony of one Helen Fine that Iris Goldman was present at Mr. Wood’s death.”

  Iris whispered to her lawyer again. He said, “Is this the Helen Fine reported as dead in a fire?”

  “We don’t know anything about that.”

  “Check the files at your newspaper. If you don’t have the story, we do.”

  “One other thing,” the sheriff said. “We have it on good authority that—”

  “What good authority?”

  “No names. We could be compromising a witness.”

  “Your witness says what?”

  “She says that Payton Wood and Iris Goldman were having an affair. That Mrs. Goldman was jealous of Miss Fine and killed Payton Wood.”

  I was about to leap over the table and throttle the sheriff. Wayne put his hand across my chest.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Wayne, “but I’m missing something here.”

  “You’re not allowed to speak,” the sheriff said.

  His wife eyed daggers at him. Tell John Wayne not to speak? In her house?

  “Well,” he said, “I can do that thing of whispering to Mrs. Goldman’s lawyer, and he can pass it along, but it seems like we could just cut straight to the chase.”

  The sheriff’s wife talked with him, and he agreed to let Wayne speak.

  “You’ve got a woman’s husband in here,” he said, “and you accuse her of infidelity. That’s pretty raw. Plus, as far as I know infidelity is not a crime. I would have been in jail a few times if it were.”

  Mrs. Sheriff tittered.

  “Obviously, you’re looking to get Mr. Goldman worked up so you can throw him in jail.”

 
“Most important is this, Sheriff,” said the lawyer, “and tell me so I understand real clear. Why would a woman kill a guy she was having a fling with instead of killing the other woman?”

  “We can’t get into this here. That’s information the judge would go over.”

  “What I am asking is if it makes any kind of sense to you.”

  The sheriff’s wife shot her husband Look Number Two.

  He said, “I have to admit, it doesn’t.”

  “You’d want to clear the path to love, not burn it down,” the lawyer said, “if you know what I mean.”

  I calmed down. Almost. I wanted to take care of my wife, but I couldn’t hear much more of this without losing my cool. I breathed deep and tried to figure out what they’d said. Tried to focus. To put the pieces together. Okay, I believed that the morning clerk could remember Iris’s name. It had been a good idea to erase it from the register, but the sheriff was right. Her name was memorable and so was she. So is any single woman checking into a motel.

  Then a lightbulb went on over my head.

  I wrote it out and handed it to the lawyer. Wayne leaned back against the wall again, just being himself, which was plenty.

  “Does the morning clerk remember if the woman, Helen Fine, checked in alone? And was a Payton Wood registered?”

  “We didn’t ask her that.”

  “It’s morning. She’s on duty. Why not get her on the phone and ask?”

  The sheriff called the operator, and he was connected to the clerk at the motel.

  “Uh-huh, yes, I see, oh! Thank you, hold on, please.” He put his hand on the receiver.

  “Miss Fine checked in yesterday with Mr. Fine. No Payton Wood on the register.”

  The sheriff turned to Iris. “The truth. Were you having an affair with a married man?”

  The lawyer let Iris answer. “I haven’t had an affair with anyone but my husband, and yes, he is married—to me. Mr. Fine could be a husband or father or brother or lover or some other relation. This Mr. Wood, whoever he is, could have used the Fine name. I wouldn’t know.”

  The sheriff spoke with the motel’s desk clerk again. “Are you able to describe Mr. Fine?” He listened to her.

  “Okay, yeah,” he said, “I’ll call you or come by if I need anything else.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “She said she never really got a good look at Mr. Fine. He was nice-looking, and that was all she can swear to.”

  “Have you got anything to hold my client on?”

  “There is the fact that she was present at the death of Mr. Wood.”

  “According to Mrs. Fine, also present at the death. Any physical evidence other than the word of a possible suspect?”

  “Physical evidence?… Not really.” The sheriff looked stumped.

  “It’s time you arrest Mrs. Goldman or release her,” the attorney said. “All this malarkey getting bandied around, especially this early in the morning, is making me pretty aggravated.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m trying to help you make up your mind to do the right thing. And,” the lawyer said, “I’m starting to wonder if you’re on the take—this is all so far-fetched.”

  The sheriff blanched. “Mr. Goldman here. He might have motive.”

  “He was in Monument Valley with Mr. Wayne.”

  Wayne said, “Yep. That’s an alibi, although none needed, and airtight.”

  The lawyer said, “No one needs an alibi. We’re missing the most important thing of all. Bodies. A body. Mr. and Mrs. Fine in person, alive. The body of a Mr. Wood, dead. We’ve got blood in the motel room, and that doesn’t mean a damned thing,” he said. “Sheriff, I don’t know exactly how this mess started, but the county will hear about this proceeding.”

  “I got something to say.” Mr. Wayne stepped forward and was visible again. “Goldman has been the model of decorum. If someone accused my wife of being unfaithful, right in front of God and everyone, I would have busted everything I could get my hands on. It makes me mad just to think about it,” he said. “And handcuffs! Count on it … Iris is a good guy, and she’s out of here, one way or another.”

  I stood up. My 6′6″ and Wayne’s 6′4″ were a statement.

  Iris ran into my arms.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?”

  He turned. It was the sheriff’s wife. “Would you mind giving me your autograph?” She had a lined piece of paper torn from the back of the phone book.

  Wayne picked her up and spun her around. “I am a sucker for redheads.” She laughed with the voice of a fifteen-year-old. He signed the yellow, lined paper and gave her a smooch right on the cheek.

  Her husband was amazed.

  “What?” Wayne said. He had his hands on his hips. “You gonna arrest me for flirting with a married woman?”

  “No, sir. Glad to see her so happy.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Iris, Wayne, and I walked down the stairs and into the sun. Nothing was cleared up, but the mud was settling. Mostly, my wife was at my side. Wayne said he wanted to sit in the bed of the truck until we hit the rocky part of the road.

  “Give you kids some time to be alone.”

  When the road said it was time to pull over, and he climbed in, six legs made a real tangle in the cab.

  I congratulated him on how terrific he’d been.

  “Anything I said that you wouldn’t have said?”

  “If I’d been allowed to? Not a thing. You helped me keep my cool, though. Thank you.”

  “Kid, sometimes new actors ask me for advice. I think it applies to situations in normal life, too. Here goes. Talk slow. Don’t use a lot of words. Use a low voice—screeching makes you seem weak.”

  “Sound advice.”

  He sat back and thought a little more. “And don’t wear suede cowboy boots. Someone splashes on them by mistake at the urinal, and they look like hell.”

  * * *

  There was a lot of work to do before I left Flagstaff.

  First things first. Finally the little bitch from Santa Fe left the motel room. I couldn’t believe I’d been so chatty with her. She had been so easy to talk to, but then she showed up in Flagstaff at exactly the wrong moment! Very strange. I’d make a few calls and take care of her.

  I got out of that damned closet with the cheap paneling and started pulling Helen together. I held her. I was loving. I was kind. I wished we could have a normal relationship—whatever that was—but it didn’t seem like that could happen in this lifetime. She would have made a better wife than anything else. A real partner. I pushed that thought away. I did understand why Payton had loved her.

  I calmed her down and told her to get back to Taliesin. She promised that she was able to drive. She was not going to say anything about this to anyone. Not about any of it. She was going back to the studio and do what she did best—work.

  I’d take care of Payton’s body and spare her the grief. Then I got out of there before the cops came and got interested in me.

  Thirty-three

  By the time we all got back to Goulding’s, we were completely beat. Mike had made a special meal for Wayne, and she took it to him in the stone cottage, his private quarters during shooting. I saw one, then another, of his boots flying out the window.

  “You need some airing out, fellas,” he said.

  While Iris and I ate at the picnic table outside, we could hear him snoring. It took a lot of energy to be John Wayne, I figured—mellow, but ready to spring in a minute. Grandpa had talked to me about Wayne’s politics. I thought he was a great guy, and that was all I had to know. Too many squabbles people get into over things that aren’t real. Wayne had said some goofy stuff about Indian people. On the other hand, he didn’t treat me any different than white folks. As a matter of fact, he treated me a whole lot better than he had treated the sheriff. It’s how people act, and how they know what’s right or wrong in the way they treat people, that counts … even when you can’t believe some of the st
uff that comes out of their mouths.

  First thing, after eating and washing up, I asked Iris to hit the hay. I wanted to check on my grandfather and Wright. They’d probably been on edge all day, and I wanted to know what was going on with them, too. Mr. Wright, he had better be okay, or security was going to have to answer to me for it. Soon as I thought that, I figured it was from spending the day with John Wayne, and I’d better get back to being myself. He’d taught me some important lessons, and I’d keep them, but I know how to play me best.

  I was getting paid to do one job—protect the Wrights and the documents. Also, it was okay to leave them safe for most of a day and get my wife out of the hoosegow. Otherwise, a lot of stuff was not my business. Especially the question of who killed Payton was not my business. If I lost focus, I endangered my clients.

  I walked down to the mess tent. There were a few predawn lanterns glowing. There was the sound of tableware clinking, workers getting ready for breakfast. I peeked inside the tent to see if anyone I knew was stirring. There were Grandfather, Mr. Wright, and from the ID tag on his shirt, a security guy. Grandfather and the security kid were playing cards, betting pennies, and knocking back shots of whiskey. Mr. Wright was writing notes and drawing on the tablecloth with a mechanical pencil. Even at the age of eighty, right then, I would have picked Wright as a guard over Mose and the security man.

  Gads, they’d obviously been worried sick about me, and themselves, all day and night. I had to get over worrying about people who might be worried about me. No cheese down that tunnel.

  Mr. Wright heard me first. The other two were higher than a kite and laughing over who knows what. I am half sure they didn’t know themselves. Wright sort of looked like a priss sitting there, haughty, his too-long cardboard tube in his lap, feeling like he was a better human for not drinking to excess. He had to depend on other people for his safety, so I guess he had a right to be put out.

  I came up behind my grandfather and the guard. I said, “Who’s winning?” They both almost fell off the picnic benches, and Grandfather knocked over the guard’s shot of whiskey.

  “For God’s sakes! You trying to give me a coronary?” That was Grandpa.