The Shoot From Hell

By D.B. Dakota

The movie stuntman's fall on the set kills him, making his insurance beneficiaries—three people—wealthy.  The detective discovers the Hollywood director's previous shoots have been plagued with "accidents."  He's killing stunt men to collect their insurance? The female private eye shadows suspects who are losing their grip on reality, scared that she knows what happened and how.  So why doesn't she pounce?  Because she's merciless, unconventional and forces perpetrators to break down and incriminate themselves. She's running lab and field tests on props and equipment because the murderer used high-tech materials to rig a foolproof accident.  Inciting mistrust, she's turning the suspects against each other.  Bombarded by the PI's ambushes, the trio can't work.  So they cover up the evidence—try to, for the investigator anticipates the maneuver.  She's not surprised by who shows up as the killer—but readers will be, and relish the war of nerves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091050

Book preview

One

The upcoming movie scene to be shot, as the director saw it, would make or break his off-the-wall film. The cinematographers three saw it as a pain in the kneecaps, for they’d be crawling around on the side of a cliff in the hot sun. The writer, hopping mad, saw it as con, an abominable rewrite of history. The grip saw it as extra bucks, the gofer as sixth-sense suspect, the wardrobe—see gofer, same person.

The actor: What is that thing? He picked up and fingered a strange garment, real funny looking.

Loincloth, wardrobe replied, securing same with rawhide laces from the shoe store. We have to tie it around your waist over your trunks. Tuck them underneath so they won’t be seen.

Sure is stiff. He thumped it with his knuckles.

It’s Naugahyde. Comes from the naugabeest, which roamed the desert in your day. Pokerfaced, gofer sounded tricky, looked cowboy.

Genuine, ha, ha. I’m Yavii, lead character—didja know that? Steffen Sax beamed. I’m supposed to be fifteen. With an openhearted demeanor, his smooth, angular face beamed, a blue-eyed whitey, age 24. Am I gonna look it?

Provided Indian boys back then were big for their age, sure, Macklyn Thornburgh chuckled, smearing bronze coloring on his sinewy calves, rippling like a tough athlete.

Steffen would play a renegade youth whose tribe, the director told him, roamed the Southwest desert in ancient times. Yavii had no lines. You look Indian yourself, Mack; are you?

The Utes raped the Germans at the Meeker Massacre in Colorado in eighteen seventy-nine; that’s where I came from. High cheekbones gave her away, plus black silky hair bobbed short, under a Broncos cap. Her getup was jeans and denim, and strapped around her waist was a fanny pack for tools, camera, recorder and the like, things handy in her other-than-gofer work, Sherlock type. Nicknamed Mack, she was more than wardrobe-makeup-gofer, any of those things. What was she doing on a movie set? She was handed the assignment last-minute by the production outfit she worked for. But not the wardrobe part; Nic gave her that chore because he forgot. Claimed he did. And how did Mack view the upcoming scene? As sinister. Why? That was just her nature, her business as snoop.

Don’t armpits get Coppertoned? Steffen asked.

Just a dab, your left pit only. She didn’t want to get bawled out for squandering cosmetics.

I ask you, how about my white spaces?

The camera up there at the top will shoot your left side only. They were at the bottom of a 70-foot cliff. The camera can’t move, and you can’t move, either, I understand. Nic has it all figured out. You’re a stand-in, aren’t you?

Acrobat, sure am, he twinkled and looked around at the gallery.

Stuntman, you mean?

Isn’t this something?

Is this your maiden shoot? Thornburgh was uneasy that it was his first acting job in front of a camera.

Maiden? What do you mean?

I guess it is.

Watching Steffen’s makeover, Cameron Tlaque, the screenwriter, sat three seats from Nic, director Nicholas von Tripp. Tlaque jumped to his feet and threw his hands up. Don’t tell me Yavii wears a diaper!

Get off it, man; it’s a breechclout, okay? Tripp snapped as he studied his shot sheet. He’s my savage and wore the latest thing. One hip dude, huh?

This is so out of context! Why do you tinker with my film? Tlaque fumed, cutting the air with both hands. The scene is stupid, the boy was no savage, didn’t wear such garb, and...

What the camera will see is biceps and a pec or two, Tripp argued. I’ll have an ECU on his legs as he rappels the cliff; that’s why he’s in a miniskirt. Annoyed, Tripp pressed on, defending the upcoming shoot, I’ll get a tight shot of those rowdy muscles as he engraves. Did you see that bod?

I’m not into boys, Tlaque retorted, limping his wrist at Tripp in jest.

Ain’t he a hunk?

Whatever turns you on, Nic. Tlaque started pacing in the staging area. The stocky man of forty in a charcoal business suit and black-rimmed glasses had a round smooth face. Sloe eyes suggested Asian extraction. Restrained and old-Hollywood, his hat was a black snap brim. Nic, this engraving business distracts from the story, and where does this scene cut in?

Where he’s building his cliff-dwelling, Tripp sighed, stood and eyed a video screen nearby. He curled his lip at the carper. Is that all right?

You’re skipping ahead eight thousand years, Nic! Tlaque crabbed, taking off his coat as he strolled back and forth.

Screw history, Tripp barked. Future generations will gawk at the impossible petroglyphs up there and ask, How did those dumb savages do that? My drama will show how and set off the riddle and variety of this park. Swallow that, Jack."

These etchings we see here were carved only fifteen hundred years ago. The natives stood on the ground right here next to these boulders and drew.

How about taggers tied to a freeway bridge? This film is dull enough; I am not making a documentary.

Tlaque hooted, You’re not putting my name on this abomination.

You want credits? Where’s your check? mumbled an irritated Tripp, waving off the crabber.

Tlaque moseyed over close to Tripp and stood spread-eagle in front of him to plead his case: The boy wouldn’t stop to draw moons on a rock; the tribe was on a death march, looking for a place to farm; they were not concerned with art. This setting doesn’t look like where the tribe was migrating to. The rest of the movie was being shot in Arizona.

I’m putting petroglyphs in Sedona, Tripp retorted with a mock grin. Film is film. And if I get one more peep out of you... They glowered at each other. Decked out in a white jumpsuit and matching hard-hat, Tripp was a tall man, under-fed with not much hair. Just past fifty, his lean harsh face was arresting, scary. Deep-set dark eyes peered from under heavy eyebrows and he looked fresh out of the tanning salon. A gruff talker, he would tilt his head sharply back and to the side, aloof as he spoke, look down his nose. He used to be a coarse-voice character actor, playing persuader roles in godfather films. Then he turned into a special projects director-producer dba Seminal Cine, Inc. Using independent crews from around the West, Tripp gathered location footage for his own features. He also supplied Hollywood production houses with scenics, fillers, stock clips and stunts.

For this shoot, he had a crew total of thirteen. The count did not include Tlaque the writer; he hadn’t been invited. He flew in upon learning his script was about to be mangled in the desert—that’s what he told Tripp. And you’re going to Three Rivers too? Tlaque exclaimed with his arms akimbo.

When this is a wrap, you guessed it, booby Tripp replied and nodded. Three Rivers Petroglyphs Site, in the vicinity of Alamogordo, was over 200 miles south. It’s got hundreds of these graffiti raspberries. Tripp had his eyes on the upper ledge of the cliff. A reflector was being adjusted to direct oblique sunlight onto the spot where the carving would take place; Yavii’s body would block the light, otherwise. Tlaque took his hat off, waved it in the air and continued to badger. And you’re going to pan those Three Rivers...

Up your giggie, Tonto, and let me tell you something. Tripp pitched his script to the ground, stood, spun around, spread his legs and pointed a finger like a pistol. You’re costing me money. If you don’t like what I’m doing, try this: Get yourself a pair of scissors and throw your weight around at the cut. Not here, Jack, not now. As you wrote it, this film sucks. It won’t even make it to mix unless I spice it up. Now stop interrupting me, get your ass back on that airplane and let me get to work.

All right, it’s your show. My apologies, okay? Tlaque put his hat back on and walked off, carrying his coat over his shoulder. See you at the edit. After a few steps, he stopped, turned and called back, And from now on, Mr. Tripp, you’ve got an embargo on my scripts. You’re history. And why doesn’t Yavii have a safety net under him?

Over at the wardrobe-makeup station: Funny looking loafers, if you ask me, Steffen quipped, slipping them on.

Those are moccasins, Mack Thornburgh responded. You’re Indian, remember?"

How’s my wig look?

Here’s a mirror. She let him see. Let me straighten up the feather. There. You look like a juvenile Standing Bull."

Aw, you’re teasing me. Where’s the whatchacallit? Steffen looked around for the metal spike.

Piton? Anchor, I think they call it. It’s laying on top of the props case on the upper set. Prior to the shoot, Steffen and Tripp had agreed on the design of the piton. Not for rock, it had to be plenty long enough with a tapered point for easy hammering into soil and would have a flange on top to prevent the cable looped around it from riding up and slipping off. The item Nic and Steffen came up with was a hefty spike cast in a foundry, a work of art, a two-foot long rod. Round and smooth, it was the diameter of a D-cell battery on the large end, and welded onto it was a three-inch disk. Steffen approved the implement before arriving on location, and Nic brought it to the shoot.

Okay, Steffen, there’s your rope. Thornburgh pointed to a trash bag containing his cable. And be careful, hear?

Yes, ma’am. You think I’ll do good?

No question. She nodded once and left her head bowed. Oh. Forgot something. She dug out a felt-tip marker and pulled the cap off. I’ve got to tattoo an O on your forehead; sit down and lean back.

What for?

You’re Yavii No Moon, right? The no-moon circle is your curse mark tattoo.

Curse? he giggled. Can’t wait to see how it ties in.

Beats me; I haven’t read the script. Hold still and don’t frown. She leaned forward and, practicing with a finger, traced a two-inch circle; with the purple ink, drew a heavy O on Yavii’s brow. There. She let him glance at the mirror.

Can we quit now? He grinned, nodded, stood up and shouldered the bag full of cable, a coil of handmade rope. Of large diameter, it was made of dry grasses woven around an unnoticeable nylon fishing line strong enough to support his 160 pounds ten times over. Steffen pumped the air. Wow, me in the movies, who woulda thought it? He bounced up from the table, grabbed the bag of cable and shook the lady’s hand. Thanks, Mack. You do good work; put me down as a reference.

TLAQUE SLID INTO THORNBURGH’S sedan to head back to Burbank and asked, Are you, uh, dubious about anything?

That’s a funny question, she thought. Regarding—you want to tell me what?

Our boy. He tossed his palms out and, though she couldn’t see, rolled his eyes

Oh. Our skinflint director. She didn’t know Tlaque, having just met him, but wondered why he had picked a fight with Tripp and got thrown off the set. Is that something I’m supposed to make something out of, just me? Dubious?

I take it you haven’t been in touch with Prima.

"My partner? You know Jorge Prima?

Well, maybe we should wait till you’ve talked to him. For right now, let me tell you about Tripp. An independent contractor, he answers only to himself; he’s a broker who...

Scrooge in a time warp? suggested Thornburgh.

Hard to pin a label on Herr Tripp. For competing studios, he assembles scenes into packages, guarantees bids and hits the road. Far away from Hollywood, he hires non-union crews and talent.

Like this aggregation here.

This shoot is an exception for some reason—it’s a big-city shoot with tons of media. Tlaque studied the downtown skyline. Tripp is new-breed, a flat-rate low-baller out for steady income, not fame. Pays no residuals, has no profit-sharing.

What about unions and agencies? she asked, trying to change lanes.

Unions look the other way. To them, his work is piddling stuff. Agencies are busy hustling billboard talent and don’t care about minor stunt men. Think of this job as a road map, Tlaque snorted, watching the airport terminal signs. How to get to Hollywood—experience coupons. But don’t hold your breath till you get paid.

THE AGGREGATION WAS on location in the western outskirts of Albuquerque and the set was a slab of rock, nothing but stone and not level, but straight up and down, practically a tall cliff with a flat face. To get on-stage, from topside, slide down on a rope. The shoot called for the actor to ooze over the top edge, drop down a way, halt, dangle like a window washer, and with a chisel engrave images into a vertical wall of stone. Liken him to a graffiti artist.

The set, the lofty mesa to be etched, jutted up from a field of cliffs and boulders known as Petroglyph State Park. Visitors would wander, litter and take snapshots of rocks that had been carved by natives centuries earlier. Comprising a multitude of ground-level outcroppings, the park was an outdoor gallery of stick figures and primitive designs. Art, decreed a committee, we must register this site with the government so they can declare it a national monument and oversee it, like employ guards to patrol the place.

For the fake-carvings exploit, the site selection committee approved Tripp’s cliff choice, a site back out of view of the original primitive petroglyphs. Camera positions and editing would make Yavii’s engraving look like work in progress millennia ago. Media visited the spot, published photos and edifying columns about the crude pictures; fashion photographers used the carvings backdrop to depict an artistic ambiance. A cottage industry was built around the works of the indigenous engravers of yesteryear. Except for some base-level drawings, none were to be seen on the high-rise bluff.

The actor would fix that: rappel down the face about a car-length, stop and carve new petroglyphs. The state welcomed publicity and location fees, but soon Washington political control would criminalize such defacing. The Hollywood director-producer was in a pinch to get the carving done and filmed for a feature he was working on before the feds slapped a restraining order on him.

Two film units, two independent production companies, about sixty feet apart, each with a camera, were waiting at the base of the cliff, ready to shoot upward. Yavii would rappel, halt and brace himself and chisel as the ancients would have done it if they’d had cabling techniques and a preoccupation with renown. Prior to his descent, prep work of securing the cable would be covered by another camera topside—a third production unit.

After the descent that third cameraman would leave his camera, jump up and dash over to the top of the cliff and a fourth camera that would shoot downward to the carving site. The shot would be a close-up of actor’s carving handiwork.

There were two movie sets, then, upper and lower. The lower area was a madhouse with dignitaries, too many cars, and police turning away tourists.

Sheriff Wrather was there, grousing at the craftiness of stunts. Tourists, he snorted, fanning with his hat, would never notice a few doodles above eye level chiseled by a stuntman. They’d sure have to be hard up for something to look at.

Steffen headed out of the parking lot toward the rock bluff. On all fours, he scrambled around boulders, up through projecting rocks, aiming for the top of the cliff. At a crevice, offering a view of the onlookers below, he waved to his wife leaning against a car; she blew him a kiss. He craned to study the stage where he would perform, drop down and etch pictures with a chisel. One take only.

The anchor, wrapped in clear plastic, was lying on top of the metal props case. Having been exposed to the blistering sun, the anchor was hot to the touch. Yavii picked it up by its disk-head and laid it on the ground. From the case, he lifted out a heavy-headed single-bit axe, and the case was lugged out of camera range by the grip. Carrying anchor and axe, Yavii strode to a bush.

Kneeling, he tapped the anchor into the ground within the rope’s loop. With the axe he started hammering: one whack, two. Being a spike, it plunged in without difficulty. Three licks, four; it was in nearly all the way. He stood, swung hard and struck no rocks; one blow sank it. The three-inch disk-head was at ground level almost, and the rope loop under the head rested atop the dirt. He tossed the axe aside.

With the side of a foot, he pushed and kicked the anchor rod; it didn’t budge. Leaning over, bracing his elbows on his knees, with a deep breath he tried to pull it out of the ground; he couldn’t. He was comfortable with the lash-up, satisfied the anchor was reliable and in the ground solid. The rope, looped and hard-tied to the anchor, would not slip off. The coil of rope, secure around Yavii’s hips, would not come loose. Camera number One would record any action to follow.

The crew’s grip handed Yavii two stones. One was a zucchini-size, pointed flint rock to use as a carving chisel. The chisel was a carbide-tipped drill bit encased in painted Styrofoam. The other tool was his maul, the shape and size of half a cantaloupe, a plastic-covered sadiron minus the handle. He laid his lifeline down in the dirt and stretched it out to make sure it had no kinks.

Nic had prepared a job contract that described the stunt to be performed and the equipment to be used. The contract stated Steffen had inspected everything and passed on it. He signed a notarized waiver, releasing Tripp and all others from liability.

Ready to go over the cliff, Yavii signaled, ready to start carving spurious intaglio figures. Okay, tell him to hold everything, Tripp called into his intercom. I’ll be right up. He switched off the jerry-rigged video monitor propped up on the chair. The upper camera, number One, repositioned.

A lower camera, number Two, for Nic’s convenience had a minicam lashed on top; a video cable, and control wires snaked through the rock crevices to the upper set. The cable’s terminus was a monitor in front of a chair reserved for the director.

Tripp broke free of the notables, clambered to the top of the cliff and inspected the setup, the anchor, harness, rappelling rope and Yavii’s knots. Go easy, Tripp advised Yavii. He picked up the rope and tugged at the anchor, testing it. This is not about speed, so take your time. If you’re uncomfortable at any time, climb back up. There’ll be a stage manager on the ledge close to you out of the shot; talk to him. He’s got a headset for messages. I’ll watch you on two monitors. To Yavii he asked, Are you sure you want to do this? You can back out. Tripp picked up a headset.

Naw, no big deal. We’ve come this far; let’s get cracking, Yavii insisted, getting a deep breath. But my wife down there—make her sit in a car and not watch.

Oh? Nic scowled at his actor and called into his intercom, Hear that down there?

Yeah, Mr. Tripp, gotcha, Megan Orr, running camera Two, responded. She turned aside to talk to a helper and called, Nic? Thornburgh’s back from the airport; she’ll take care of the wife.

Okay, fine. Listen, everybody, the sun’s not quite right, Nic spoke into his mouthpiece. Another fifteen minutes; take a break. He removed his intercom.

Said Lars Larsen, camera One topside on the intercom, See that wife, you guys?

The redhead? asked Megan.

Yeah, the model.

Black folks have a juicy old proverb, Mitch on camera Three chuckled. It goes: All married women are not wives.

Said Lars, Steffen’s worried about that, you think?

Thornburgh and the Sax wife hurried to the gofer’s car and sat on the edges of the front and back seats with the doors open. They could see the lower cameras, but not the focal point, the carving spot way up high. Are you going with us to Three Rivers if we go? Thornburgh asked Steffen’s wife, Shana Sax—Mrs. Yavii.

Taller than Steffen, in her upper twenties, Shana was stuffed into tight jeans and full tee, a distraction with her green eyes, flowing carmine hair and lips that invited. I can’t go, answered Shana, holding a hand against her wholesome face. I’ve got to go back to Minturn, well, Vail, and get to work.

I’ll bet that’s where Nic Tripp picked up Steffen, Thornburgh said, flaring her eyes. Nic skis there?

A lot; he’s got friends in Vail.

And Steffen met Mr. Tripp there?

Steffen waits at the Lion where Hollywood types hang, and gave Mr. Tripp his head sheet resumé. It listed a rock climbing workshop; Steffen teaches mountaineering.

Steffen is a sculptor too? Thornburgh asked with awe. Rock carvings?

Lordy, no; the director took him off up in a canyon yesterday and showed him a picture of those scrawly things there. With a nervous chuckle, Shana pointed to the ancient designs on a park boulder. Steffen practiced some on a rock and they left.

Steffen’s a good look; would you have him mail me one of his head sheets? Here’s my address. Thornburgh handed Shana a business card.

You’re a talent agent?

I’m always on the lookout for good bods and voices, for film and so on. I ski Vail once in a while when I’ve got a shoot up there in season."

Bet you get free lift tickets, said Shana, gazing off toward the cliff.

Special passes, yeah. Give me your phone number. The next time I’m up, maybe I can get an extra pass and we’ll hit the lifts together.

Great. What did you mean, if we go?

To Three Rivers? Thornburgh asked, watching the upper set for signs of activity. Tripp hasn’t asked me yet to make motel reservations. In that part of the country, it won’t be easy to get fourteen rooms. I guess he wants to see how this shoot goes first.

With a fingernail in her mouth, Shana studied Thornburgh’s card, puzzled by its captions. Orchestrator? You’re into music too?

For the bad guys to dance to, yeah.

Sounds like a—and what’s Skunk Trapper?

Booby traps. Smoke ’em out. Who wants skunks?

Shana didn’t know what to make of the Jack of all trades, amiable, saucy. Funny place for a... a whatever.

The film business hides a good number of flouters of legal behavior, Thornburgh shrugged.

Thinking she should distance herself from such grave folderol, Shana hung her head, shook it, looked