Reel Stuff

by Don Bruns

  The cinematographer held up his hands in front of his face and framed a camera angle, as if he was seeing me in his lens.

  “It was the first time with Randy Roberts. I’m certain it was him. I remember I was not one hundred percent sure of what he wanted. The guy was kind of vague. Not a real strong communicator. And, like I said, I’m pretty certain he was lacing his coffee with something pretty strong. I feel certain that had something to do with his direction. The guy was a little loopy.”

  “But you remember him?”

  “Yeah.” Handler nodded. “Looking back, I guess I do. There’s a team effort involved in shooting a movie or TV show. The director does a lot more than tell actors what to do. You may have seen it on your set in Miami. The director decides how to light the set. He is responsible for camera angles. He even makes design suggestions. So, even though we were together for maybe only two or three episodes, I do remember him. He was basically my boss. I took directions from him. It just took me a couple of minutes to process, you know?”

  “Would he remember you?”

  Handler seemed to be lost in a trance. His eyes glazed over, and he stared back at the rear of the restaurant.

  “Mmm, I don’t really know.”

  “You know who he was. Why wouldn’t he remember you? I mean, you were his eyes, right? The camera guy?”

  “This job tends to be somewhat of a blur. For everyone concerned. I mean, you do two weeks here, three months there, and six months somewhere else. Then a week, a day, or less in some other location.” He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’ve worked two hours before. And that was it.” Handler smiled. “It’s a blur of faces, personalities, and scenes.”

  I nodded, not really relating.

  “Then, there’s the layoff period. We nomads don’t have the most steady jobs in the world. Directors are in the same boat. They move around like gypsies. My wife wishes I’d get a job that actually gave me steady work, you know? Would he remember me? Maybe. But there have been a lot of shows between then and now. A lot of camera guys, actors, lights, sets, and angles. So, maybe not.”

  There was a connection. Roberts and Handler had worked together. Ashley Amber and Handler had worked together. That was big news as far as I was concerned. A connection I hadn’t had an hour ago.

  “The more I think back, he was really a bad director. Just didn’t know what the hell he wanted. I’m sure his drinking had something to do with that. I don’t understand why producers hire people like that.”

  As his memory improved, I was hoping he’d call me with any updates.

  “Again, I’m sorry I misled you with this interview, Greg, I really am. But help me out, man. Someone killed Jason Londell. Shot him. And they used your name to mask the killer. They used your name. Greg Handler. I understand you don’t know why, but can you give it some serious thought, knowing that you’ve had history with at least two of the players? Maybe it was Roberts? Maybe Ashley? Let it gel and see if you have any other ideas.”

  “I’m unemployed. Got nothing else to do but think about it until my agent calls.” He shook his head, and I could see he was processing it all in his head. It was a long shot, but I hoped he had some memories.

  “I worked with Ashley Amber. And I’m sure I worked with Randy Roberts. Possibly other people on the show. It doesn’t mean I know anything about them. I shoot the action. It’s up to a director to get to know them and tell them what to do. How to react. The story has a plot. I don’t design the plot, and I don’t usually get close to the crew. I just help the narrative. But I’ll work on it.”

  “If I e-mail you a list of the cast and crew, would you see if you recognize any of the others?”

  “Of course. You’d think the Miami P.D. would have asked the same question, wouldn’t you?”

  “They didn’t?”

  “No. Wanted to know if I was the shooter. No beating around the bush. Straightforward. But I foiled their plan. Would have been easy if I’d been the camera guy, the shooter. But it wasn’t to be.

  “Good for you.”

  “Damn good.”

  “So, you had a cover story?”

  “First of all I’ve never been to Miami in my life. And the second part was, I had an ironclad alibi.”

  “Just out of curiosity, what was the alibi?”

  “I was filling out my unemployment papers at the office here in L.A. the day Jason Londell was killed. Those signed papers are on file and it’s rock-solid evidence.” Handler leaned back and smiled. “We’d just wrapped up a movie and, like I told you, I am out of a job.”

  “Okay, man, I’m sorry I bothered you. But you did get a lunch out of the deal.”

  “I forgot how greasy the sandwiches are in this place.”

  I smiled, hoping he’d get a job soon. He seemed like one of the good guys.

  “You know, memories are strange. You don’t have a recollection, then you start to force things, and pretty soon you remember a little bit about a situation.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Then you’re a little clearer on certain matters.”

  “What are you clear on?”

  “The guy was drinking. Most of the time. And I kind of remember, early on the first episode, I said something to him about that.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sure I did. I just said something like, ‘if you’d lay off the sauce, we might have a better idea of what you want.’”

  “You go from not remembering him to this?”

  “The mind is a funny thing.”

  “Tell me,” I agreed. “You said that?”

  “Something like that. He didn’t respond is my recollection. And as I said, we shot three episodes with him as the director and the show folded. It happens.”

  I thanked Handler and was sure that James and I had evidence in the bank and money well spent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Pacing the sidewalk, I watched the entrance and exit to the coffee shop down the street. I didn’t want Em’s meeting to last too long, because I was certain the longer it went, the better her chance of a part.

  Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” blared from my pocket and I pulled out my phone.

  “Skip?”

  “Who did you think would answer?”

  “You’re in Hollywood, so who knows? Maybe Ben Affleck. Or The Rock.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a situation. I thought you should know. Maybe not that serious, but a situation, nevertheless.”

  “James, we’ve got a situation here, too. I just had a conversation with Handler, the real camera guy. Of course he’s not the shooter, we assumed that, but he worked with Randy Roberts on another project. Stranger than fiction. The one director we know and this guy has worked with him. And here’s the interesting component. You’ll never guess what actress played in that same project.”

  “Ashley Amber?”

  My amazing roommate.

  “Bingo, partner. I’m thinking Roberts should know who Handler is, and yet he apparently went along with the charade.”

  “You’re saying the real Greg Handler has run camera for Randy Roberts, yet Roberts bought the fake guy with the same name? Maybe Roberts wasn’t paying attention to the name. Guy was a one-time fill in. So Roberts didn’t really care who the guy was as long as he could do the job.”

  James had a point. Possibly Roberts wasn’t paying attention to the name.

  “But Handler says the director has to know his camera guys. We’ve seen it on the set. James, they’re a team. It seems to me he had to know that the Deadline Miami Greg Handler wasn’t the real Greg Handler.” I paused for a second. “And remember, Randy Roberts told me that Handler had been hired through Howell Video and Sound. Then Howell says he did not employ Greg Handler. So I’m guessing there’s something very phony going on with Mr. Roberts.”

  “Give me time to digest, amigo.”

  “Handler says he would remember a director because that’s his boss. He di
d remember Randy Roberts, but he gave Roberts a pass about remembering him. He made the claim that a lot of time has passed, and a lot of people have been involved in a lot of other projects. Still—”

  “Still, what?”

  “Well, as we talked, Handler remembered an incident. It seems that Roberts was in an alcoholic haze during most of the shoot, and Handler remembers saying something to him about trying to get off the booze so the directions would be clearer.”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “You said we’ve got another situation?”

  “Our boss, Bill Purdue—”

  Head of security.

  “—called me. He wants to know how long my business partner, that being you, is going to be missing in action.”

  “James, I’ve got the flu, or whatever excuse we came up with. It’s only been a couple of days. Someone can cover, can’t they?”

  “Listen to me, compadre. Clint Anders wants to know. Apparently, he asked Bill Purdue.”

  “Clint Anders? What the heck does he care if he’s short one security guy? Until I ran into him under the scaffolding, he had no idea I even existed. That makes absolutely no sense.”

  “I don’t know, Skip, but if Anders talks to Ashley Amber—”

  “Yeah. They seemed to be somewhat chummy. What if she says I’m out here in California on her behalf?”

  “Purdue didn’t make any accusations. All he said was that Anders wanted to know when you were coming back.”

  I’d ventured close to the curb and wasn’t paying much attention. Clint Anders was questioning my days off? The guy had a huge production he was in charge of and this was the last thing—

  The black BMW was going at least forty miles an hour. I heard his roar three cars away and turned to look as he swerved into the second lane. I could swear it was the same car that cut me off earlier. The driver had thrust his hand out of the window and flipped the bird to someone behind him. Maybe me? Oh, shit. I froze, watching him now one car away as he aimed for the curb, increasing speed, and headed directly toward where I was standing.

  As the sleek sports car approached the walkway, I jumped back, spun around, and took off running. As fast as I’ve ever run in my life. No strength conditioning, no workout schedule, yet I was making remarkable progress. Gulping oxygen, my lungs on fire, I achieved full speed, hoping the V-8 engine wouldn’t keep up. Obviously, a very stupid wish.

  The marauding machine followed, two wheels riding the sidewalk, scattering several people from their outdoor tables. Seeing an entrance to one of the eating establishments, I ducked in, hoping this focused driver wasn’t being paid enough to run his automobile into a physical building.

  He wasn’t.

  Gasping for air, I stared after him as the midnight-black car braked, took a hard right down the street, and disappeared from view. I wiped sweat from my forehead, shaking the entire time, and leaning against the inside wall of the restaurant I heard a squeaky little voice.

  “What movie is this going to be in?”

  Turning to my right, I saw her.

  An older lady with khaki shorts, an I L.A. T-shirt, sunglasses, and a straw-brimmed hat was looking up at me, trying to remember what shows I’d been in.

  “It’s for—” I couldn’t think of a movie or TV show. Not one. Concentrating, my hands shaking, I knew I had to sit down and come up with an answer. “Harry’s Law. An episode of Harry’s Law.”

  “With Kathy Bates?”

  “Sure.”

  “Young man, you don’t have to lie to me. That show was canceled several years ago.”

  I was the one who had almost been canceled.

  Looking at me with disgust, she walked away, a pale straw bag almost her size swinging from her arm.

  I fell into a seat by the window, staring at the street.

  “Skip?”

  Someone was calling my name, and the voice was coming from my shaking right hand. I realized I had a death grip on my cell phone.

  “James.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Somebody tried to run me over, man.”

  “What?”

  “No shit.”

  “What happened?”

  “Car came up on the sidewalk.” It was hard to talk, breathing as heavily as I was. “Honest to God, James. I was outrunning a BMW.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea, but this guy was gunning for me.” I couldn’t see who the driver was, but there was no denying his intention.

  “About took out three or four other pedestrians, too.”

  “Guy for sure? Or girl?”

  “I’m just assuming.”

  “Maybe you’d better get back to Miami.”

  “There are a couple more things we’ve got to do, James.”

  “Hey, if someone is chasing you with a car—”

  James was right. I should have headed back to Miami. I should have gotten out of the P.I. business. I was much too young to put myself in harm’s way. I was a little scared. And a little pissed off.

  “Can’t leave at this moment.”

  “What do you have to do that’s so important? If someone is trying to kill you, we’re too deep in this, Skip. Come on home.”

  All we were to do was check on Juliana Londell’s life insurance policy and clear cameraman Greg Handler. That was it. And now Em was auditioning for a TV role, I’d been fired from a job I didn’t even have, and someone was trying to kill me or scare the crap out of me.

  Seeing Em exit the coffee shop, I walked outside the restaurant and waved. Juliana Londell was next, glancing up and squinting her eyes, frowning at me. The man following them had on a light-brown sweater and plaid green-and-yellow pants, like he’d walked out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, or he was auditioning for the remake of Caddyshack.

  “Skip, what is so important that you can’t fly back?”

  “We’ve got to make Em a star, James. It seems it’s part of the plan.”

  He was silent on the other end.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  As traumatic as the experience had been, I decided not to spring it on Em. I considered talking about it after she’d had a chance to discuss her experience at the coffee shop.

  Actually, I thought we would go back to the motel, relax, and maybe take advantage of a one-bed situation. That wasn’t to be. She started talking nonstop, and the contents of the meeting came pouring out.

  “He thinks I’ve got talent, Skip. Martin Scott.” She was babbling, obviously high on the situation. “Major potential.”

  Potential? I wasn’t surprised. She was fresh, talented, fresh, good-looking, and did I mention fresh? I was starting to realize that Hollywood was all about new talent. Fresh, new talent. Someone who had the potential. Because almost all the other actors had been reduced to secondary roles. A handful of A-list actors, maybe thirty or forty of them, got the big roles. Everyone else was hanging on by a thread. And the representatives, the agents, managers, producers, and directors were all desperately looking for someone hot, someone fresh, who had the potential to be the next big A-list actor.

  “He’s done episodes of Friends, Modern Family, Scrubs, The Big Bang Theory, Harry’s Law—”

  The little old lady with the straw purse wouldn’t be impressed. Half the shows had been canceled.

  “Martin has decided I can do the guest shot.” She squealed and grabbed my arm. “I got the part, Skip. I really got the part.”

  I was numb.

  “And Martin is going to start fleshing out the character.”

  First name basis already. Martin.

  “It may mean a continuing role. Isn’t this exciting? Continuing role. I mean, we’re here two days and even though I know we’re working a case, I mean—”

  Emily was almost always the grown-up in our relationship and here she was acting like a little girl. And I guess it was good to know she was aware of the reason we’d come to La-La Land. At this moment, I was aware of why it was often referred to as La-La Lan
d. Em was a little La-La at the moment.

  “And the fake card thing, I feel certain that Martin and Juliana can pull some strings when the time is right. Not that I’m going to tell them right now, I mean, but—”

  I drove slowly back to Londell’s office, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror and not saying anything. I fully expected to see the stalking shiny black BMW, but it didn’t materialize.

  “They want a new name, Skip. A new name? Apparently, they feel the name Emily Minard does not have a flow to it. It doesn’t have the glamorous sound of a Hollywood star.” She sounded somewhat annoyed.

  I always was partial to that name. I even wrote a poem for English class when I was a sophomore in high school.

  Emily Minard, if I were a bard, I’d write a greeting card, to tell you how much I love you.

  I got a D for my effort. I thought I should have received an A for my originality. It didn’t happen.

  “You do know this can’t lead to a happy conclusion, Em. We’re dealing with a fake résumé, a fake union card, possibly a killer wife, a fake cameraman and—” I started to tell her about the car that almost wiped me out, but she cut me off.

  “Just because she had a major policy on her husband, doesn’t mean she’s a murderer, Skip.” Her tone had gone cold.

  “Em—”

  “You don’t want this to happen, do you? It’s not just the case. I know what this is about. You are afraid that if I do well, and this thing is a success, it will come between us.”

  “Listen to you. Will you take a second and just listen to what you’re saying? Come on, Emily, this is make-believe. Fantasy. This is crazy talk.”

  “I go along with your ridiculous schemes. I put my life on the line. In the past, Mr. Moore, I have championed your causes on a regular basis, even when I thought they were the stupidest ideas in the world.”

  She had.

  “And you won’t grant me this one opportunity to do something I’ve secretly dreamed about my entire life?”

  And again, I almost told her that I’d put my life on the line today, not even knowing why.