Desmond popped him again. The crew and the other actors stared at the ground. “Either hit me or say your lines like you’re supposed to,” he said. “You’ve got booze on your breath, Zeb. Don’t show up wired again.”
There were tears in the actor’s eyes. Alafair laid her clipboard on her chair and walked past me, away from the set.
They recommenced the scene. It was powerful and real and visceral and painful to watch. Zeb virtually spat in the captain’s face, then the other gunbulls beat him senseless and carried him on his
knees to the sweatbox and flung him inside and slammed the iron door as though they had just hung a hog in a smokehouse.
Desmond yelled, “Cut,” and everyone applauded. My stomach felt sick. I walked up behind Des and tapped him on the shoulder. He was grinning when he turned around.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
“I’m a little busy right now,” he replied.
“Yeah, I saw you in action.”
“You think I’m too rough?”
“That was chickenshit.”
“I don’t see Zeb complaining.”
I looked away, as you do when you can’t hide your disgust for someone’s behavior. “I’d appreciate your walking over here with me.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” he said.
We went into the shade of a tarp stretched on four poles. The canvas was popping in the wind, the fall weather both cool and warm at the same time. The cast and crew were drinking coffee and eating beignets at the commissary window.
“We’ve got another homicide on our hands,” I said.
“I heard.”
“Her name was Hilary Bienville. She hung out in the same blues joint Butterworth does.”
“So talk to him.”
“Waste of time. He’s a pathological liar and a wiseass on top. I understand you have a Maltese cross on your ankle.”
“Would you like to see it?”
“I wondered if you were in the Knights Templar. Or the Nazi Party.”
“Maybe I rode with a biker group.”
“The Hells Angels?”
“I said maybe. Get off my back, Dave.”
“You’re lying, Des.”
“I don’t let people talk to me like that.”
“How about the way you just talked to that kid?”
“Titty babies don’t make it in the movie industry.”
“And bullies thrive?”
“Fuck you, Dave.”