“Woke up this morning, blues falling down like hail, And I got to keep on moving, cause there’s a hellhound on my trail...” - Robert Johnson
The ringing was persistent and annoying, and when I was sure it wasn’t going to cease I snatched up the cradle, sighed deeply before I spoke.
‘Yeah?’ My voice was cracked and lifeless.
‘Daniel Tremaine?’
I coughed and automatically searched the bedside table for cigarettes. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My name is Detroit Jones, Mr. Tremaine.’
My hand paused over the table. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘I’m Detroit Jones.’
‘I’m sorry.’
If Jones picked up on my blatant rudeness he chose to ignore it. ‘I was given your number by an employer of yours, Mr. Tremaine.’ His tone was as dry and smooth as polished wood. ‘If you’re not too busy I could use your services.’
I was about to reply when a burst of coughing erupted from my throat. Jones waited patiently while I narrowly avoided bringing up a chunk of lung, and when I’d got myself under control he continued.
‘You sound like you could use some water.’
‘I could use a lot more than that, Mr. Jones,’ I replied, easing myself off the bed and feeling the familiar headache resurface as I sat up slowly. The air in the room was stale, lit by a flickering and silent TV screen in the corner and the pale dawn edging through the gap in the drapes. ‘Who did you say gave you my number?’ I said, narrowly avoiding stepping in leftover pizza as I stumbled towards the window.
‘Conroy Scott. You were with him in Rome, yes?’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘He is,’ said Jones. ‘An agency has seriously let me down and we’ve got three days of city location on the slate. Can you help me at all?’
I pulled the drapes aside and flooded myself with an early morning picture of the Paris skyline. Grey skies, slanting rain and traffic backing up, even at this early hour. Trying to find the sun would have been an exercise in futility.
‘Keep talking,’ I said.
It took only a couple of minutes for Jones to explain his situation, and after getting the final details and a brief negotiation of my fee I told him I’d see him within the hour. I scrubbed myself in the shower and shaved under the steaming spray, and when I wiped the fog from the mirror and examined myself the reflection looked better than it had for some days. My eyes were still bloodshot and the pain in my head was approaching a crescendo, but I’d work through it. Back in the bedroom I dressed quickly in my standard attire of jeans, boots and a black shirt. I lived in the world capital for fashion, but had myself chosen to ignore it.
The kitchen was in the same state as the rest of the apartment. The place was a dump, but for a central city area overlooking the river I was paying very reasonable money. I found juice in the fridge and swallowed it down along with a couple of Aspirin, grabbed my keys and retrieved my leather coat from behind the front door. As I was closing it behind me the cat slipped in, narrowly avoiding an amputated tail, and I spent a moment rubbing her behind the ears and giving reassurance that a decent meal was on the way. I’d pick up a little fresh tuna on the way home and give her a treat. Living with me, that was the least she deserved.
My watch read 6.40am as I headed away from my building in the direction of the Metro. The patisserie on the street corner was already alive with activity, the open counters piled high with incredibly fresh bread still smoking from the oven. Generally I found the smell intoxicating and would have stopped to grab breakfast, but when the yeast hit my senses as I approached it reacted with the remains of the vodka I’d overdosed on the night before, and I felt my stomach give a lazy roll. I rushed past, and it was only when I reached my hand inside my breast pocket and found I’d left my cigarettes in the apartment that I realized what a long day this could turn out to be.
In fact, it turned out to be the longest day of my life.
********************
The metro was as hot and busy as I knew it would be, but as always it was the preferable alternative to driving through the city. I stood near the doors and found myself wedged between a slim woman who would have been attractive were it not for the blatant hair on her upper lip, and a man with intense body odor who rhythmically ate indigestion pills throughout the journey. Between this and the rocking of the train carriage my health struggled to improve, and I decided to stare at my shoes and concentrate on what the implausibly named Detroit Jones had told me about the job.
Jones was employed as a location manager with the famous French studio Canal Plus, whose main office and production houses were situated in the centre of Paris. Over the last few weeks the respected director Olivier Assayas had been shooting his new picture at Canal, and although filming was nearing completion the production was scheduled to move into external locations around the city for the last few days. Extensive security was always required on location, especially in a city of nine million and with a movie shoot that had been splashed across the papers for the last two weeks. Some members of a security team Jones had arranged in advance for the location had pulled out at the eleventh hour, leaving him with a wild director, several famous stars and expensive camera equipment littered around the streets and not enough eyes to watch over them. This was were I fitted in. Jones had sorted out most of his problems but still had no-one to oversee the safety of two of the main stars of the picture. Movie productions live and breathe on word-of-mouth, and after he had made several frantic telephone calls my name had been thrown into the arena.
My stop arrived, and I joined the pushing crowd as they exited the carriage and headed towards the escalators. The heat was stifling and I started to feel claustrophobic, my throbbing temples not improved by the busker’s tones echoing against the tiles of the station walls. He was attempting to massacre a version of Bowie’s Space Oddity and succeeding admirably. If I’d had been able to reach him he’d have been eating the guitar, not strumming it. Mercifully I saw the daylight of the exit and pushed against the crowd, virtually throwing myself into the rain and fresher air.
The district of Saint-Denois was on the outskirts of the city, and quieter than the central location that I had traveled from. I started a fast walk and checked the directions to the location that I had scrawled while listening to Jones. Rain dripped across the paper, making the ink bleed, and I tucked it back inside my coat and turned my collar high against the weather. I just hoped someone was there to provide umbrellas and hot drinks.
It’s difficult to hide a film unit, and I found the production easily. It appeared as if the crew had taken over and closed several small suburban streets, and a security post had been erected at one end of the road with a barrier and tape keeping the public clear. Not that any Parisian’s seemed to be interested in a film lot that looked fairly deserted; a rain-swept Tuesday morning at 8.00am was no place for spectators. I approached the security post and gave my name, and the short but stocky guard examined his clipboard until I saw his eyebrows raise in recognition. I was given a laminated pass with my name, the name of the production and the words ‘Full Access’ on the plastic, and the guard let me pass through the barrier with a barely audible grunt. I also had no interest in stimulating conversation, so I headed towards the long line of Mobile trailers that were parked along the length of the street, my boots kicking up puddles as I walked. One of the doors swung open as I approached, and a bald man with a waterproof jacket and a scowl emerged.
‘Hey friend, I’m looking for Detroit Jones. Know where I can find him?’
He looked at me as if I’d just asked if I could sleep with his wife, and remained silent.
‘Monsieur Jones? Erm, s’il vous plait, er, ah, fuck it.’
