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"Oh yeah? Try this. Either you take the marshmallows out of your mouth or I'll go down to your boss's office and have your ass stuffed in a tree shredder," Helen said.
"Say what you want. You ain't getting on this set," he said.
Just then, Cisco Flynn opened the door of a trailer and stepped out on the short wood porch.
"What's the problem, Dave?" he asked.
"Boxleiter."
"Come in," he said, making cupping motions with his upturned hands, as though he were directing an aircraft on a landing strip.
Helen and I walked toward the open door. Behind him I could see Billy Holtzner combing his hair. His eyes were pale and watery, his lips thick, his face hard-planed like gray rubber molded against bone.
"Dave, we want a good relationship with everybody in the area. If Swede's done something wrong, I want to know about it. Come inside, meet Billy. Let's talk a minute," Cisco said.
But Billy Holtzner's attention had shifted to a woman who was brushing her teeth in a lavatory with the door open.
"Margot, you look just like you do when I come in your mouth," he said.
"Adios," I
said, walking away from the trailer with Helen.
Cisco caught up with us and waved away the two security guards.
"What'd Swede do?" he asked.
"Better question: What's he got on you?" I said.
"What have I done that you insult me like this?"
"Mr. Flynn, Boxleiter was hanging around small children at the city pool. Save the bullshit for your local groupies," Helen said.
"All right, I'll talk to him. Let's don't have a scene," Cisco said.
"Just stay out of the way," she said.
Boxleiter was on one knee, stripped to the waist, tightening a socket wrench on a power terminal. His Levi's were powdered with dust, and black power lines spidered out from him in all directions. His torso glistened whitely with sweat, his skin rippling with sinew each time he pumped the wrench. He used his hand to mop the sweat out of one shaved armpit, then wiped his hand on his jeans.
"I want you to put your shirt on and take a ride with us," I said.
He looked up at us, smiling, squinting into the sun. "You don't have a warrant. If you did, you'd have already told me," he said.
"It's a social invitation. One you really don't want to turn down," Helen said.
He studied her, amused. Dust swirled out of the dirt street that had been spread on the set. The sky was cloudless, the air moist and as tangible as flame against the skin. Boxleiter rose to his feet. People on the set had stopped work and were watching now.
"I got a union book. I'm like anybody else here. I don't have to go anywhere," he said.
"Suit yourself. We'll catch you later," I said.
"I get it. You'll roust me when I get home tonight. It don't bother me. Long as it's legal," he said.
Helen's cheeks were flushed, the back of her neck damp in the heat. I touched her wrist and nodded toward the cruiser. Just as she turned to go with me, I saw Boxleiter draw one stiff finger up his rib cage, collecting a thick dollop of sweat. He flicked it at her back.
Her hand went to her cheek, her face darkening with surprise and insult, like a person in a crowd who cannot believe the nature of an injury she has just received.
"You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer. Put your hands behind you," she said.
