Read Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) for Free Online Page B

character's name. Hank was conceived as a badly widowed, Borderland "bad cop" who got the job done and usually fingered --- or more often framed --- the right culprits. In the still-in-progress script, Hank was depicted as addicted to booze and candy bars --- layering on more lard. He and Marlene/Tanya went back. Hank had a Jones for the madam, her and her "chili" ... a Hayes Office-fostered euphemism for her pussy.
    Orson was doing a salutary job of keeping everyone in a Mexican mood: the dirt-strewn streets were littered with blowing, rolling scraps of paper. Mariachi music, marimbas --- couldn't escape 'em. The crew was half Mexican and drunk on Tecate beer Orson had had trucked in. Orson had always been the undisputed master of atmosphere and it all was working. Christ, I felt like I was on the back streets of TJ. I felt as if I should put the arm on that best boy yonder with his ducktails and untucked shirt draped over chinos and ask him for directions to the donkey show. It felt like there should be street peddlers not just present but prevalent --- pushing contraband Spanish fly, hop and little hand-carved Don Quixote statues.
    Bud was just wandering around in a daze, taking it all in. For my part, I watched Welles at work.
    Orson was charging through this shoot. He was under intense pressure to bring it in on-time and under-budget; to try and erase his mostly undeserved reputation for cost overruns and spiraling-out-of-control production schedules.
    But Mr. War-of-the-Worlds-Panic-of-1938 was not happy with three key scenes he was to film in the next couple of days. Two of those were new scenes; the other was a reshoot. All of them featured Marlene/Tanya --- "Hank's" ex-lover --- who doesn't recognize too - fat Hank the fateful night he first returns to her place.
    Welles couldn't get the words right in the scene. It wasn't cooking between him and the Kraut. Orson had been friends with Marlene for years. But he's never got her in bed ... same as Hemingway.
    But Orson had somehow learned that I had bedded the Kraut. He wagered I could bring some resonant dialogue to the table.
    His proposition offended me.
    But I owed him a favor. Ten years on, and he'd finally called in his marker. So I felt I owed him at least a face-to-face "no" --- even if his request did cross too many lines. If Marlene ever found out what he was asking of me --- what he was trying to exploit --- well, Orson would likely shed some weight at Marlene's hands I'd wager, and muy pronto .
    Some stooge guided Bud and me to Welles.
    That Voice --- like thunder in a cave. Orson intoned, "Hector, my old friend. You made astonishing time." I eyed Fiske --- sucker was instantly star-struck.
    Orson patted my cheek. "You must have driven like a bat out of hell, Hec."
    I slapped my poet/interviewer/sidekick on the back. "My batman. Drives like a dream. And writes the same. He's the fella you should be hitting up for script doctoring."
    Orson glowered. One didn't rewrite Welles. No, His Eminence would grudgingly brook feedback . Some of that input He maybe deigned to entertain ... and some of that He even might implement . But sans credit --- Christ, go ask Herman J. Mankiewicz or Graham Greene if you doubt me.
    The coastal night wind kicked up some strategically scattered newspaper pages. One smacked Orson on his big rubber cheek. He said, "Let's go inside and talk, old friend." Orson had fucked up his leg somehow; he was leaning hard on a cane. Ever resourceful, he was exploiting it for the role, and it worked. And my God, did he ever look huge --- like a blue whale with a seven o'clock shadow. He was stuffed into a rumpled, tan suit that a family of five could live in and never cross paths.
    We moved inside. Welles doffed his boxy Stetson and lit up a cigar nearly as thick as Bud Fiske's neck. "Can you believe Bogart is dead?" He said this over his shoulder.
    "No," I said, "I can't. Across the river from my place, all the Mexican women are tearing their hair