Free Closer by Morning by Thom Collins Page A

station.
    â€œHow was he?”
    â€œThe same.” Matt sighed. “Serious. Businesslike. Until the end of the interview when he took me to one side to tell me he misses me.”
    â€œFor a smart cop, he can be very slow to get the message.”
    Conrad was the best kind of friend—loyal, supportive, funny. He worked in the sales office of the art house cinema and theater in town. Working tirelessly for low pay in a job he loved. He was currently raising funds for a small theater group that supported actors with disabilities. The group wanted to stage a new, specially written play later in the year, but with the government cutting funds, it was going to be a struggle.
    â€œI hope to have some charity nights at the theater throughout March and April. I also need prizes for the raffle we’re having a week on Saturday. Do you think your bosses might make a donation?”
    â€œFree legal advice?” Matt asked. “It’s not the most exciting of prizes.”
    â€œMaybe not.” Conrad chuckled. “What about your Hollywood friend? Do you think the lovely Mr. Zachary might consider donating a prize?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWill you ask him?”
    â€œShouldn’t you approach him through the TV company?”
    Conrad pulled a face. “It takes too long. Especially now that they’ll have sack loads of hate mail to open.”
    â€œPoor Dale. I hadn’t thought of that.” The protest outside the studio had been all over the news when Matt came home. The shit had really hit the fan. Though the program itself was taking the hit, rather than the actors. For now, at least. Moral outrage had a habit of getting personal fast.
    â€œSo, you’ll ask him?” Conrad persisted.
    Got to love him. When it came to a cause, Conrad didn’t quit. “Maybe.”
    â€œNot maybe. Do it.”
    â€œOkay,” Matt relented, laughing. “He’s got my number. If he calls me, I’ll ask him.”
    If he calls me.
    It was hardly likely to happen.
    Was it?

Chapter Five
    â€œThe next cunt to blow a fucking horn will regret the day they were torn from their mother’s womb.” Hung-over and pissed off, Elton Weaver was an explosive ball of anger. His face was puce as he ranted.
    â€œHe’s going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t calm down,” whispered Aaron Oxford. He was standing with Dale at the side of the set. Filming always involved a lot of standing around but today they had done little else.
    Rather than looking better in the morning, an evening of news coverage and social chatter meant the crowd outside the studio had trebled in size. With the identity of the real killer unknown, the frightened community had come out in force to attack the one target they were able to—the TV company responsible for a fictional murder.
    Adding to the tension on set, leading lady Roxanne Maxwell had called in sick. “Migraine,” her assistant had informed the director. “Roxanne’s migraines usually last at least two days.”
    â€œTell Roxanne to put some fucking painkillers down her scrawny neck and make sure she’s back on set tomorrow morning.” The assistant blanched under Elton’s venom. “We’re only two weeks in. It’s not too late to replace her and begin reshoots with a new actress on Monday. I hear that my first choice actress for the role has become available and she loves the script. See how Roxanne’s migraine feels after that.”
    Roxanne’s absence put extra pressure on Dale. Without her, they had to concentrate on his scenes. With the bleating car horns and whistles reaching new levels of intensity, Elton wisely decided to focus on non-dialogue scenes that could easily be re-sounded later. Dale spent the morning climbing in and out of windows, skulking in dark alleys doing creepy, stalkerish stuff. Finding the right mood for the scene wasn’t easy.