Thal, as a stunt coordinator, did many of his own gags—as movie folk called stunts and on-set “practical” special effects. About forty, he’d made a splash in the early seventies as Richard Roundtree’s stunt double. He was expert at non-stunt effects, too, such as horror make-up and prosthetic masks like the one he’d worn today. But his specialty was stunt driver.

“Mike, my man,” he said. “I only have a few minutes. Big scene coming up. But you can hang till after, if you like.”

Thal nodded toward the set, where much of the warehouse was now bathed in moody lighting. A young woman in torn clothing and carefully mussed hair, center stage, was tied into a chair with a shaft of light singling her out. A make-up woman was applying smudges to the face of the actress, who was frowning in concentration. She’d been in a couple of movies lately, good roles.

Thal said, “I have to help Burt rescue that little Satan’s spawn.”

Velda asked, “That’s what she’s playing? Is this an Exorcist movie or something?”

“No. She’s just an awful person. What can I do for you two?”

I said, “Did you ever work with a guy named Roger Kraft?”

Thal’s eyes tightened and he grunted, then nodded. “I saw in the News that somebody murdered that crumb bum. Sorry to speak ill of the dead.”

“Feel free,” I said.

He shifted in the canvas-and-wood chair. “Yeah, I did work with the S.O.B. a few times. He was good—very little he couldn’t do as a driver, and he had mechanical know-how, too. But he was baaaaad news.”

“How so?”

“He took too many risks, always cowboying up. Sometimes that’s what the job calls for, and the combat pay justifies. But you learn pretty quick this trade is about safety, not thrills. About helping tell an exciting story, y’know? Also, he was a fuckin’ liar… pardon the language, Velda.”

She smiled. “An f-bomb drops around the office occasionally.”

I asked, “A liar how, Thal?”

“Well, I was stunt coordinator on those Shaft TV movies, a while back. First time in my career I was more than just a guy doing gags. A series is an ongoing gig and you have would-be hires fill out applications like on any job. He lied on his. He’d been in the joint for armed robbery, turns out.”

“You wouldn’t have hired him, if you’d known?”

That made a face. “That’s not it—I would have given him a break. Stunt men are a mixed bag—they’re all a little crazy. Ex-bouncers, circus acrobats, wing-walkers, cowboys…I mean, real cowboys…all types, and that includes ex-cons. Anybody who’s done his time, I’m fine with givin’ a second chance. But I do not like to be, excuse me, fucking lied to.”