SEVENTEEN

Stace Stacey smoothed the tufts of graying hair above his ears and said with utter calm, "I'm afraid you've made a mistake."

He sat in the office of Ronald Peterson. Beside him was a fidgeting, furious Tony Sloan, who stared with particular contempt at the collection of windup toys littering Peterson's desk.

"Mistake?" Peterson asked Stace. "Oh, I don't think so… But first, I want to make perfectly clear that you are not being charged with any federal crime whatsoever. We have noticed an apparent violation of federal law but are withholding any decision taproceed. Under Missouri law possession of automatic weapons not registered by the BATF is a state violation.

Our colleagues in Maddox have decided there's probable cause for your arrest. They're the ones who've acted on that. It was not a federal agency."

"You're a prick," Sloan said.

"You understand what I'm saying to you?" Peterson cocked an eyebrow enthusiastically.

"I understand that we'll never make a movie again in this state. That's what I understand."

Peterson shrugged. "You're not under arrest so you can speak to me without a lawyer present."

"I understand already!" Sloan barked.

"Please continue, Mr. Stacey."

"I'm qualified as a class-three federal firearms dealer." Stace set a small piece of paper on the desk, next to a tiny walking football. 'That's my license. I think you know perfectly well almost all property and arms masters in Hollywood are class-three dealers."

Peterson glanced at the license momentarily. "I don't doubt you, sir. It's the weapons I'm concerned about."

"Every one of those guns is registered, tax stamps have been duly bought and I have a right to transport them over state lines. The-"

"Actually, that's not quite accurate. BATF notice is required…"

"No, sir, it is accurate." Diminutive Stace Stacey clearly dominated the conversation despite his calm, unfazed voice. "The notice is generated by the firearms rental company. I rented those weapons from Culver City Arms and Props. They're on the Motion Picture Association computer link to BATF's Washington office. I'm surprised I have to be telling this to a U.S. Attorney."

Peterson took scrupulous notes. He looked up, frowning. "Unfortunately we can find no record of the notice."

"I'm a good friend of Steve Marring in the BATF district office on the Coast. I suggest you give him a call immediately."

"It wasn't a BATF-initiated operation. Several FBI agents were on the set looking for one of your employees-

"Pellam," Sloan spat out.

Peterson hesitated and then said coquettishly, "Yes, as a matter of fact, it was Mr. Pellam. How did you know that?"

Sloan, sloe-eyed with fatigue, rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he did not respond Peterson continued, "My agents noticed the machine guns and reported their presence to me. Naturally, we're concerned about such weapons failing into irresponsible hands-"

Stace said pleasantly, "I heard not too long ago about a man in San Francisco selling fully automatic Uzis to high school students. I'd think you might be more concerned about situations like that."

"A tragedy, I'm sure. But my bailiwick is Missouri."

"I've had about enough of this," Sloan shouted. "You've cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars. I'm calling my lawyer-"

Peterson shook his head. "Mr. Sloan… Oh, by the way, I really enjoyed Helicop. I figure it cost me about two hundred bucks after buying the kids all those toys for Christmas. But I did enjoy that movie."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Are we reaching an understanding?" Peterson asked heartily.

"Understanding?"

"Have I explained to you how I learned about those weapons? I have, haven't I?"

Sloan had calmed down. There was a cryptic tone in the conversation reminiscent of what one heard in offices and restaurants throughout Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. It was very Zen-to speak while not speaking. "Pellam?"

"Why don't you talk to him, Mr. Sloan. Just talk to him. See if he can remember anything about what happened that night of the Gaudia murder." He looked at Stace. "You talk about Uzis in San Francisco. Well, Mr. Pellam can help us put away a man who's been doing a lot worse than that. But without his help that man's going to go free and a lot more people are going to get hurt."

Sloan said, "I understand Pellam claims he didn't see anything."

" 'Claims.' Well, I know he claims he didn't see anything."

"Why is he holding out?" the director wondered.

"Maybe he's afraid-although I've assured him we can protect him. My personal feeling is he's being paid off… No, don't protest too fast. You'd be surprised what people will do for money. He is, after all, an ex-convict."

"What?" Sloan whispered.

"San Quentin. Served almost a year. I assumed you knew."

Stace folded his hands in his lap. He stared directly into Petersons eyes. "John Pellam is a good man. He had some trouble. We've all had trouble at times."

"You knew about it," Sloan shouted to the arms master, "and you didn't goddamn tell me?"

Stace Stacey was not an employee of Missouri River Partnership and Tony Sloan was only one of nearly thirty directors who regularly hired him. Sloan was also, among these clients, the largest pain in the ass. He now easily won a staredown with the director and smiled sadly, as if embarrassed at the man's childishness.

"Manslaughter," Peterson said, pleased that Sloan had lost yet another round at this meeting.

Stace said, "He did his time. He got out. He was a good director then, he's a good location scout now."

"Pellam directed? Why didn't I know this?"

"You were probably, making running-shoe commercials in New York at the time," Stace offered, without a hint of discernible irony.

Peterson jotted a note. "I'll check out what you've told me about your guns, Mr. Stacey, and if you're correct you can pick them up first thing on Tuesday morning and the state charges will be dropped."

Stace said, "I am correct, sir, and I'd advise you to release them to me right now."

"Tuesday?" Sloan blurted. "I can't wait three days. We're already overbudget. We're-"

"But unfortunately," Peterson explained, "it's Saturday. There's no one in the Washington office, of course. Tomorrow's Sunday. And Monday-"

"Columbus Day." Sloan closed his eyes. "Christ. Why did you wait until this morning? You've known we had the guns for two, three days."

His eyes were on Sloan. "Do you think we're reaching an understanding? Do you?"

Sloan's anger was diminishing. "Maybe. Possibly."

Stace began to speak. "What you seem to be suggesting is-"

It was Sloan who silenced him with a wave of the hand.

Peterson said, "Then if there's nothing else, gentlemen… Oh, as a show of good faith, I'll talk to those city detectives. I'll recommend you're released on your own recognizance."

"I appreciate that. You seem like a reasonable man."

"One more thing, Mr. Sloan." Peterson slid a piece of paper toward the director, "Any chance of an autograph? You know, for the boys?'

The FBI again?

The severe rapping on the camper door sounded just like that of federal agents. But Pellam was running up a long list of potentially hostile visitors, so who could tell? When he opened the door he held the Colt Peacemaker hidden beneath his black Comme des Garcons sports jacket.

Tony Sloan nodded a greeting as he walked inside without waiting for an invitation. Pellam thought about making a wisecrack like "Waking the dead?" referring both to the pounding and to the deceased Ross and Dehlia. But Tony Sloan's expression was far too grim for jokes and all Pellam said was "Come on in" after Sloan already was.