Roundtree Days by Gerald Elias

Author:Gerald Elias [Gerald Elias]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level Best Books
Published: 2022-08-03T00:00:00+00:00

CONRAD MICHENER

Go ahead and envy me. I was a passenger in Inez’s blood-red Miata convertible with the top down as she sped along Route 12, her lustrous tresses blowing in the wind. Just like a dark-haired Ingrid Bergman. And I was Cary Grant. If I too had a dimpled chin, I would have shown it off, thrown my head back, and laughed, “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

We had taken her car because cast members like yours truly were required to stay in character for the whole damn weekend, even down to the vehicles we drove. Alfie tried to strong-arm me into driving a pickup. That’s where I’d drawn the line. I grudgingly compromised on a Toyota Land Cruiser, but I kept it parked in the hotel lot except for dire emergencies, like trying to find a drink after nine o’clock. So it was fine with me to be in the passenger seat of Inez’s perky roadster.

We were on our way to meet up with the camera crew, which had already trucked up to Tuttle’s ranch to get ready for the shoot of the “investigation.” Once we found Wohlmer and had him arrested, they could re-edit the chronology, and with a little lighting adjustment in post-production, they’d make it seem like I had been there in the morning. The wonders of modern technology.

So why did she suddenly pull off the road into this dumpy Indian souvenir stand? Could it be she hadn’t appreciated the radio stations I’d been scanning: NFL football and the Lord’s salvation? Sunday afternoon in rural America. Geeeeeeeee-zuz!

“What are you stopping here for?” I asked. “You can get better souvenirs in town.”

“Photo op. Look at those adorable children selling lemonade. It’s perfect. Go buy some lemonade and I’ll get their parents to sign the release forms.”

“But it’s hot as hell out here.”

“All in the name of ratings, Connie dear,” she said, and slid out the door.

I replaced the cowboy hat on my head, which I had taken off so it wouldn’t blow away in the wind, and got out of the car. I walked up to the Indian kids, who looked like they hadn’t bathed since the last time it rained and were wearing tattered T-shirts with holes in them. The smallest one wasn’t even wearing anything below his waist. Some photo op. Maybe for National Geographic. They didn’t seem to recognize who I was, which was kind of a relief, but still pissed me off a little.

I pointed at the pitcher of yellow beverage and asked the girl, really slowly so she’d understand, “Lemonade real? Is this lemonade real?” She was about six or seven and had her arm around a boy, who was younger.

She nodded. Not very talkative.

“You have change of dollar?”

Another nod.

“Okay,” I said, and gave her a dollar.

“C’mon. We’re going,” Inez said, walking quickly up to me.

“But she hasn’t given me my lemonade.”

“The parents won’t sign the release form. Let’s go.”

“Let me get my dollar back.”

“Put it on my account. Come on.”

“Wait,” I said. “I have an idea.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” Inez said.

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