Horseblood by Ed Kurtz

Author:Ed Kurtz [Kurtz, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: western, dark fiction
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2022-09-05T00:00:00+00:00

Weird Westerns

Solo la pistola di Angel sparerà... e tu morirai amigo!

* * *

Carol was counting out loud again.

“One, two, three, four,” he said, emphasizing the odd syllable here and there. “Five, six, seven, eight, nine? Ten, eleven, twelve. Thirteen! Fourteen and fifteen!”

It was all perfectly ludicrous, of course. Only the greenhorns dared crack a smile; older hands at the game were so accustomed to it that they could almost imagine the dialogue that would be laid down in post. This was just the way they did business in Italy.

From beside the Arriflex, Nino Citti smoked a Gauloise and turned his sea-green eyes to Renato Savagnone, the actor on the other side of the bar from Carol. Like Carol, Renato used a pseudonym—it seemed practically everyone there did—and refused to acknowledge anybody on set who didn’t call him John Wilde. Conversely, Carol could not have cared less if they called him Carol, his stage name Frank Cooper, or just plain stronzo. He only wanted to get the job done and move onto his next gig.

“John Wilde,” barked Citti as he dropped the cigarette to the floor and stamped it out. He tore off the filters before he lit each one, with a separate pile of those near to the stamped out smokes.

Savagnone’s eyes seemed to come alive for the first time, like an automaton just turning on. He said, “Uno, due, tre? Quattro!”

With that, Savagnone produced a revolver from beneath the bar and set it on the wet, worn wood between the two actors. Carol grimaced and dropped a hand to his own prop gun, sagging in its leather holster at his hip.

“Okay,” Citti shouted. “Bene. Bene.”

The director clapped his hands twice and walked off the saloon set. His assistant director, a rat-faced guy no one could stand named Eugenio, stepped forward and called out, “Pranzo!”

Lunch time. The big shootout was going to have to wait until another day.

The picture was called Solo la pistola di Angel sparerà... e tu morirai amigo!—Only Angel’s Gun Will Shoot, and You Will Die, Amigo!—or at least until it got changed a few times for a few different territories. And since Carol hadn’t signed on to do his own dubbing, some other American would have the responsibility for turning Carol’s counting into “Angel’s” semi-coherent dialogue. With the babel of languages being spoken on any given production, it was typically the only way to do it. Producers wanted Americans in their films, but most of the parts went to Italians, Spaniards, and French actors, and hardly any three of them could understand one another. So they counted, just to get their mouths moving for some anonymous guys in recording booths back in Rome to fill in later.

“Uno, due, tre, quattro,” Savagnone grumbled, shaking two loose fists at the thick summer air. He left the gun on the bar and scratched at his week-old beard, grown out for the part. “This is acting, giusto?”

“Sure,” Carol said, leaning over the bar. “Sure, Renato.”

The Italian snorted and walked away,

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