The Kill Riff (50 page)

    The blood squib was tucked beneath a flap of flesh-colored foam on Stannard's shoulderblade. There was a square pad against his skin that protected him from a possible burn. The little capsule, like a fat tick, was installed tantalizingly close to where he had caught a real live bullet. The anchors and foam were not fancy. The camera angle would not see the setup taped to his back, so special makeup to blend it in was not required. It was electronically detonated. When Stannard felt the paff and slight impact, he was supposed to react as though shot. That, he knew how to do from painful experience.

    The deal with the studio for
Shakedown
had gone smoothly. What Stannard craved now, more than the work, was the visibility. The film would insist that he was still a driving force in the universe of rock. His fans would see that he was okay, that he still had all of his limbs, that he was still a functioning maximal badass. If your audience thought you were a cripple, they would abandon you.

    The money was good but not necessary. His stock portfolio insured that his mansion of many televisions would endure. There was enough cash flow to purchase a whole stable of Aki Blairs, so he did not mourn her loss. He had but to snap his fingers and call, "Next."

    Sertha Valich had gone. Dumped him. To hell with her. He could no longer do his thing in concert. But if this film could be efficiently fed, then so could a new video. He still had his voice.

    Jake Morrison finished wiring in the fresh squib. Alligator-clamped leads dangled down Stannard's back. McCabe gave him the high,sign from aboard the big Panavision dolly. The stage was growing unbearably dense with the stinking fog. If they all could keep breathing, it would look terrific in dailies.

    Stannard rode the cherry picker back up to his perch on the bridge, and the picker pilot reminded him with a shout to be sure to attach his safety line snap ring to the U-bolt secured out of camera range. A twenty-foot drop to the stage could break a shitload of bones.

    From up here, the picker pilot and most of the crew were invisible, smothering in phony fog. He heard Louis, the assistant director, hollering for quiet on the set, please, then McCabe's voice, softer and leaking none of the agitation of a moment earlier, telling everyone to please settle.

    He told himself over and over that he still had his voice. He wondered just how far that talent would take him.

    Below, McCabe called for action, and the shooting started all over again.