Reel Stuff by Don Bruns Read Free Book Online Page B

to California. I told her we were just formulating our plan, and she thanked me for everything. I made no promises, but told her we had a couple of leads already.
    Howell Video and Sound was open when I called. “Till eight,” the clerk announced. The building was on Northeast 4th Court, a couple blocks off Biscayne Boulevard. The area was industrial, with railroad tracks running behind the studio/equipment rental building. Scraggly live oaks and scrub brush grew on the sides of the road and pushed themselves onto a cracked, concrete sidewalk running along the far side of the street. We drove by long, low warehouses with front loaders and cargo haulers in neat rows out front. Miller’s Commercial Dry Cleaning, Eagle Logistics, and Marve’s Auto Body Repair Shop rounded out the block.
    Em drove her new Mercedes SL500 with retractable hardtop. Probably not the car to navigate this neighborhood, but Em had no fear. She never has had. As long as I’ve known her.
    We pulled into the parking lot next to a Chevy pickup towing an enclosed trailer.
    Howell Video and Sound

Grip Trailer
    was stenciled on the side.
    Pushing open the glass door, I was immediately surrounded by small cranes, dollies, dedolights, hanging klieg lights, follow spots, and more. Two weeks ago I would have had no idea what they were. Less than a week on the set, I had a passing knowledge.
    Standing behind a counter on the far side of the spacious room was a young man on his cell phone. As we approached, he hung up and smiled at us.
    â€œIf you don’t see it here,” he waved his hand at the inventory, “we’ve got a pretty big warehouse out back. What can I do for you?”
    â€œWe’re looking for Scott Howell.”
    â€œYou guys in the business?”
    Actually, I was. In the movie business. Just as I was in the security business when Clint Anders asked me what I was doing on his scaffolding. A chameleon. Blending in wherever I could.
    â€œThat’s us.”
    â€œI’ll see if Scott is free. You’re lucky he’s in. Guy is always flying somewhere. Japan, Austria, London, New York.” He picked up a landline and dialed an extension. Speaking softly into the receiver, he listened to the answer. Turning to us, he said, “He’ll be right out.”
    The Howell guy was around forty-five, dressed in jeans and a collared shirt, a three-day growth of sandy-brown stubble on his face, and a pair of Oakley sunglasses pushed up on his head.
    â€œLet me guess. You two are getting ready to film the surprise hit of next summer and you need not only some top-notch equipment, but expert advice. Am I close?”
    Em smiled, her eyes meeting his. “The advice maybe.”
    â€œSo I’m not making any money on this transaction? Well, at least I’ve gotten to meet you.”
    I bristled. He was flirting with my girlfriend like I wasn’t in the room. I got that a lot. I hadn’t gotten used to it, but I got it a lot.
    â€œMr. Howell, I’m certain the police have already come to you,” I said, “but we’re here to find out who the cameraman was on the
Deadline Miami
shoot when Jason Londell fell from the scaffolding.”
    â€œAh, jeez, I couldn’t believe that. What a tragedy. So, you guys aren’t with the cops?”
    â€œNo,” Em shook her head. “We’re with a private investigation firm, and we’ve been hired to investigate the fall.”
    Investigation firm. All of a sudden I felt kind of grown-up. We weren’t just two P.I.s who stumbled through some cases, we were now an investigation firm. Leave it Em to bring a degree of professionalism to the job.
    â€œCops haven’t been here. Why would they?”
    â€œThe production company hired a camera operator who came from Howell Video and Sound along with a camera, am I right?”
    â€œThe company rented a camera. What are you asking about the operator? I don’t think we