Recoil Read Free Page B

drunk enough to come down to their price. Who’s the writer?”
    â€œBill Block.”
    Roger clawed at ice cubes and Mathieson grinned at him: Block had written Roger’s Oscar part. Roger said, “Could I do it?”
    â€œYou and McQueen could do it together if somebody wanted to come up with enough to pay for both of you. It’s a two-star script. But you’d have to talk to McQueen’s people.”
    â€œThey bought the script?”
    â€œThey bought it. It’s a bank caper story, set in Oregon. Outdoor pursuit. The bank robber and the state trooper. Nice characters.”
    â€œBlock always gives his actors something to do—which makes the bastard unique in this business.” Roger stirred with his index finger. “I’ll call them in the morning before they’ve had time to hire Barbra Streisand for the part instead of me. Here y’go.”
    Mathieson took the drink out of Roger’s gnarled hand. “How’s Billy doing?”
    â€œBack on his feet. Busted ankle never slowed no Gilfillan down. He’ll make the track team in September—that’s all he cares about. Kid ever grows up and gets married, his wife’ll be a decathlon widow.” Roger sat down. Amy sprawled sideways on the cushions, cheek propped on her palm; Roger tickled her foot and she kicked him absentmindedly. She was looking at the TV screen—the anchorman talking, behind him a black-and-white still photo of Sam Stedman looking grave. The sound was off; Roger said, “Turn that up, honey, let’s hear about it.”
    She reached for the control but the screen went to a commercial. Roger said, “Shit.”
    Amy sat up. “Probably a hoax anyway. Old Sam, he’d do anything to get on the front page.” She pronounced it innythang without affectation.
    Mathieson tasted the drink. “I don’t think Stedman’s that kind of a phony.”
    â€œThat pious el creepo?” Amy lifted an eyebrow.
    Roger said, “Sugar baby, look at it this way. Twenty years Sam Stedman’s stayed on top of the box office because he’s the only one of us who won’t play the bad guy. Number-one public image, your God-fearing Bible-belt hero. Can you see him risk the image by settin’ up a phony stunt to have his boy kidnapped?”
    Mathieson shook his head. “I talked to his agent yesterday. The man’s going through genuine anguish. It’s no publicity stunt.”
    After the commercial the weatherman came on. Amy switched the set off. “What about that announcement he made there last night? About hiring Diego Vasquez to find the boy?”
    Roger said, “I could’ve done all right without Sam’s pious preamble but I kind of admired the rest of it. Man, he’s right, you can’t just lay down and let these fuckin’ terrorists walk on you.”
    â€œHe’s taking too much of a risk,” Mathieson said. “I wouldn’t have done it if it were our kid. I might have hired an investigator like Vasquez but I certainly wouldn’t have called a press conference to tell the world what I was doing.”
    Roger said, “If you think about it, it makes sense. He’s threatening to spend every last penny he’s got to find those bastards. He’s siccin’ Vasquez on them in public to emphasize the message—if they don’t turn Sam Junior loose unharmed, they ain’t no way on earth for them to get away alive. That’s the message, clear enough.”
    Mathieson said, “Is Diego Vasquez all that terrifying? What makes him more of a threat than the FBI and the police?”
    â€œThe FBI and the police need courtroom evidence and they ain’t too likely just to shoot the bastards on sight.”
    â€œAnd Vasquez will?”
    â€œHe’s done it before,” Roger said. “You remember that case two years ago, that Denver millionaire that hired Vasquez to find out