Boris Tirov was seething, but he didn’t know who to be angry at. The sonofabitch had entered his home, drugged him, and threatened him. Then there was the call after he was shot: Had the guy followed him to Santa Fe from L.A.? Whoever he was, he was working for Barrington; he knew that much.

Tirov went to the set and found them nearly ready to shoot. The director approached. “Boris, I can’t work like this.”

“Like what?”

“You getting shot, the police tearing up my trailer and my sets.”

“You think I have anything to say about that?” Boris demanded.

“I guess not.”

“Then get your ass in gear and fulfill your contract.”

The man went back to work.

A man approached him, an extra in costume. “Mr. Tirov?”

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Tom Baxter. I—”

“Are you the guy who called in sick?”

“Yessir. I figured you wouldn’t want me infecting anybody else.”

“You have any idea who pretended to be you?”

“No, sir, I don’t. Wouldn’t nobody I know do something like that.”

“Then go back to work and leave me alone.”

“Yessir.”

Tirov turned away. “I’m going to have to end this once and for all,” he said aloud.

“Sir?”

Tirov turned to find the extra still standing there. “I said, go back to work!”

“Yessir!” The extra fled.

Tirov sat down in his chair and began to contemplate the end of Stone Barrington. It made him feel better.

53

During a break, while the first scene in two days was being shot, the film’s publicist approached Tirov.

“Boris,” she said, “I have a request from the Santa Fe New Mexican to interview you. I recommend you give the interview, as it will be good local publicity.”

Tirov sighed. “When?”

“She’s outside. What about now?”

“Where outside?”

“On the front porch. I got her some lemonade.”

“All right,” Boris said, heaving himself to his feet. He had discarded the sling as his wound improved, and he checked himself out in the mirror behind the bar before going outside. He walked out to the front porch and found a very attractive young woman sitting in one of the chairs, sipping from a glass of lemonade. “Good morning,” he said to her. “I’m Boris Tirov.”

“Good morning, Mr. Tirov, I’m Christy Mayson, Santa Fe New Mexican. Would you like some lemonade?”

Boris sat down. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.

She filled another glass from the pitcher on the table and handed it to him.

“What would you like to know?” he asked. His eyes wandered down to her body and up again.

“Tell me what attracted you to this story,” she said.

“Well, I read the novel.” This was a lie; Tirov never read anything longer than a single-page synopsis. “And I liked the story.”

“How would you describe the story?”