“Looking forward to it,” I said.
After she was gone, I could feel my heart racing, but I didn’t know why.
• • •
WE MET BUTTERWORTH with a box of fried chicken and crawfish at one of the picnic shelters in the park. He parked his Subaru under an oak and got out. He wore white slacks and a lavender long-sleeve silk shirt that twisted with light on his spare frame; his tan was even deeper than when I had seen him last. He put a Nicorette on his tongue.
“Sit down,” I said. “Have some of Louisiana’s best fried food. It has enough cholesterol to clog a sewer drain.”
“Very good of you. Thank you.”
“What did you want to tell us, Mr. Butterworth?” Bailey said.
“Of a concern or two I have. Our enterprise—or rather, the film culture—is a diverse one. Our common denominator is a desire for money and power and celebrity. I suspect you have determined that by now.”
“The same could apply to many groups of people,” Bailey said.
“Our production company is independent of the studios, which stay alive only through the computerized adaptation of comic books. In other words, we find production money in unlikely sources.”
His faux accent and manner were already starting to wear. “We’re conscious of that, Mr. Butterworth,” I said. “What’s the point, sir?”
“We take money from Hong Kong, Russians, Saudis, and some people in New Jersey.”
“And you launder money for some of them?” Bailey said.
I tried to give her a cautionary look.
“Use any term for it you wish,” Butterworth said. He fished in his shirt pocket as though looking for a cigarette. “I want you to understand my position. I don’t kill people. I saw enough of that in Africa.”
“You make and sell war games for teenagers,” Bailey said.
&nbs
p; “I can’t deny that,” he said. “I also buy Treasury bonds, and if you haven’t noticed, the United States government is the biggest weapons manufacturer in the world.”
“Come on, Mr. Butterworth,” I said. “Let’s get to it.”
“A number of people from the Mafia have shown up in our lives. Why is that? They want an immediate return on their money. Second, a nasty little worm of a man with a ridiculous name evidently roasted a couple of their lads.”
“Smiley Wimple?” I said.
“Yes, that naughty boy.”
“You called him a worm of a man,” I said. “You’ve seen him?”
“He was on the bloody set, eating an Eskimo Pie.”
“How’d you know the guy was Wimple?” I said.
“I’ve seen him before. He was killing people here three years ago. He seems to have a fondness for the area.”
I didn’t know if I believed him or not, and frankly, I didn’t care. Butterworth had a circuitous way of spreading confusion without offering any information of value.
“Here’s what I think, Mr. Butterworth,” I said. “You plan to give us nothing. In the meantime you’re strapping on a parachute so you can bail out of the plane before it crashes.”
“Desmond’s film will be one of the greatest ever put on the American screen,” he said. “I’ve led a rather worthless life, but I take great satisfaction in the knowledge that I had something to do with a creation of that magnitude. Des has only a short run ahead of him. I hope he can finish his film.”
“Say again?” I replied.