Hollywood associates, that anyone else spent a night under his roof.
The sense of isolation and asceticism Clay had cultivated in his home was intentional. During the shooting of his tenth film, aptly named Criminal Mischief, he’d encountered the one foe he couldn’t overcome: cocaine addiction.
By the time he made Criminal Mischief, most of Clay’s movies were being produced by his own company. But this effort was a co-production deal because another company owned the script. Ironically, the picture had an anti-drug theme.
Not that you’d know it from looking at most of the cast. The only reason Clay didn’t kick their asses the first time he’d seen drugs being passed around was that these people still got their jobs done, and did them damn well.
At the wrap party, Clay was struck by a life changing temptation. He thought if his fellow actors could handle coke without suffering, he ought to at least know what all the shouting was about. It was the worst mistake of his life.
What he discovered was that he loved cocaine.
Worse, he had all the money he needed to indulge his new love to death. Which he just about did one day when he was pushing his Ford Cobra through the mountain roads so fast he thought it might be fun to see if the car could actually fly. So he pointed it straight at an unprotected curve and flattened the accelerator.
He would have killed himself that day if his path hadn’t taken him past a scenic overlook and he hadn’t registered the looks of utter shock on a family of tourists who thought they were witnessing a madman committing suicide. The horrified concern of complete strangers brought Clay back into last-second contact with reality.
Clay had publicly told the story of this epiphany many times. But he’d never once been able to explain how he’d managed to keep his car on the road and make that curve at the speed he’d been traveling.
The next day, Clay resigned as mayor — he was serving his second term — and checked himself into rehab. When he successfully completed his course of therapy and returned to Goldstrike, he found that his resignation had been declined by the town council. He was told if he could stay clean Goldstrike still wanted him as its mayor.
After maintaining his sobriety and winning his third term, the town council gave him a plaque for his office that said: Clay Steadman, Mayor for Life.
He put things in perspective with a new nameplate for his mayoral desk: Clay Steadman, Recovering Drug Addict.
He didn’t believe in sugarcoating anything, especially his own weaknesses. He knew his demons were close at hand, and always would be. That’s why he tried to live his personal life in a style he called tastefully monastic.
As Ron pulled up to the mayor’s front door, Clay stepped out with a cup of coffee in each hand. Further proof the mayor saw all. He gave one cup to the chief and invited him in.
They sat in the breakfast nook off the kitchen. The public rooms in the house faced the town. The bedrooms and Clay’s home office were guarded by the cliff.
“Reverend Isaac Cardwell?” the mayor asked.
“That’s the way the DMV has him.”
“So the killing could be a racial thing or it could be a religious thing.”
“Or it could be purely personal,” the chief said.
“Just as painful for him, but a lot easier for us.” Ron didn’t doubt that Clay Steadman was just as angry as he had been yesterday. But by now he’d had the time to consider the situation as the town’s mayor. Clay asked, “Too soon to know if the reverend lived here or was just visiting?”
Ron told Clay that Isaac Cardwell had lived in Oakland.
“So was he was here on vacation. Or he’d come to meet someone.”
“We don’t know why he was here. Or if he was killed somewhere else and left here.”
The mayor gave the chief a level gaze. Ron met his stare without blinking or looking away. It was one of the things Clay liked about him.
“Someone wants to cause
The sense of isolation and asceticism Clay had cultivated in his home was intentional. During the shooting of his tenth film, aptly named Criminal Mischief, he’d encountered the one foe he couldn’t overcome: cocaine addiction.
By the time he made Criminal Mischief, most of Clay’s movies were being produced by his own company. But this effort was a co-production deal because another company owned the script. Ironically, the picture had an anti-drug theme.
Not that you’d know it from looking at most of the cast. The only reason Clay didn’t kick their asses the first time he’d seen drugs being passed around was that these people still got their jobs done, and did them damn well.
At the wrap party, Clay was struck by a life changing temptation. He thought if his fellow actors could handle coke without suffering, he ought to at least know what all the shouting was about. It was the worst mistake of his life.
What he discovered was that he loved cocaine.
Worse, he had all the money he needed to indulge his new love to death. Which he just about did one day when he was pushing his Ford Cobra through the mountain roads so fast he thought it might be fun to see if the car could actually fly. So he pointed it straight at an unprotected curve and flattened the accelerator.
He would have killed himself that day if his path hadn’t taken him past a scenic overlook and he hadn’t registered the looks of utter shock on a family of tourists who thought they were witnessing a madman committing suicide. The horrified concern of complete strangers brought Clay back into last-second contact with reality.
Clay had publicly told the story of this epiphany many times. But he’d never once been able to explain how he’d managed to keep his car on the road and make that curve at the speed he’d been traveling.
The next day, Clay resigned as mayor — he was serving his second term — and checked himself into rehab. When he successfully completed his course of therapy and returned to Goldstrike, he found that his resignation had been declined by the town council. He was told if he could stay clean Goldstrike still wanted him as its mayor.
After maintaining his sobriety and winning his third term, the town council gave him a plaque for his office that said: Clay Steadman, Mayor for Life.
He put things in perspective with a new nameplate for his mayoral desk: Clay Steadman, Recovering Drug Addict.
He didn’t believe in sugarcoating anything, especially his own weaknesses. He knew his demons were close at hand, and always would be. That’s why he tried to live his personal life in a style he called tastefully monastic.
As Ron pulled up to the mayor’s front door, Clay stepped out with a cup of coffee in each hand. Further proof the mayor saw all. He gave one cup to the chief and invited him in.
They sat in the breakfast nook off the kitchen. The public rooms in the house faced the town. The bedrooms and Clay’s home office were guarded by the cliff.
“Reverend Isaac Cardwell?” the mayor asked.
“That’s the way the DMV has him.”
“So the killing could be a racial thing or it could be a religious thing.”
“Or it could be purely personal,” the chief said.
“Just as painful for him, but a lot easier for us.” Ron didn’t doubt that Clay Steadman was just as angry as he had been yesterday. But by now he’d had the time to consider the situation as the town’s mayor. Clay asked, “Too soon to know if the reverend lived here or was just visiting?”
Ron told Clay that Isaac Cardwell had lived in Oakland.
“So was he was here on vacation. Or he’d come to meet someone.”
“We don’t know why he was here. Or if he was killed somewhere else and left here.”
The mayor gave the chief a level gaze. Ron met his stare without blinking or looking away. It was one of the things Clay liked about him.
“Someone wants to cause
Similar Books
