The Other Side of Midnight

by Sidney Sheldon

  On the way home Fraser asked, "Did you enjoy the evening?"

  "Very much. I liked your parents."

  "They liked you, too."

  "I'm glad." And she was. Except for the vaguely disquieting thought in the back of her mind that somehow she should have been more nervous about meeting them.

  The following evening, while Catherine and Fraser were having dinner at the Jockey Club, Fraser told her that he had to go to London for a week. "While I'm gone," he said, "I have an interesting job for you. They've asked our office to supervise an Army Air Corps recruiting film they're shooting at MGM studios in Hollywood. I'd like you to handle the picture while I'm gone."

  Catherine stared at him incredulously. "Me? I can't even load a Brownie. What do I know about making a training film?"

  "About as much as anyone else," Fraser grinned. "It's all pretty new, but you don't have to worry. They'll have a producer and everything. The Army plans to use actors in the film."

  "Why?"

  "I guess they feel that soldiers won't be convincing enough to play soldiers."

  "That sounds like the Army."

  "I had a long talk with General Mathews this afternoon. He must have used the word 'glamour' a hundred times. That's what they want to sell. They're starting a big recruitment drive aimed at the elite young manhood of America. This is one of the opening guns."

  "What do I have to do?" Catherine asked.

  "Just see that everything runs smoothly. You'll have final approval. You have a reservation to Los Angeles on a nine A.M. plane tomorrow."

  Catherine nodded. "All right."

  "Will you miss me?"

  "You know I will," she replied.

  "I'll bring you a present."

  "I don't want any presents. Just come back safely." She hesitated. "The situation's getting worse, isn't it, Bill?"

  He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I think we're going to be at war soon."

  "How horrible."

  "It's going to be even more horrible if we don't get into it," he said quietly. "England got out of Dunkirk by a miracle. If Hitler decides to cross the Channel now, I don't think the British can stop him." They finished their coffee in silence, and he paid the check.

  "Would you like to come to the house and spend the night?" Fraser asked.

  "Not tonight," Catherine said. "You have to get up early, and so do I."

  "All right."

  After he had dropped her off at her apartment and she was getting ready for bed, Catherine asked herself why she had not gone home with Bill on the eve of his departure.

  She had no answer.

  Catherine had grown up in Hollywood even though she had never been there. She had spent hundreds of hours in darkened theaters, lost in the magic dreams manufactured by the film capital of the world, and she would always be grateful for the joy of those happy hours.

  When Catherine's plane landed at the Burbank airport, she was filled with excitement. A limousine was waiting to drive her to her hotel. As they drove down the sunny, broad streets, the first thing Catherine noticed was the palm trees. She had read about them and had seen pictures of them, but the reality was overwhelming. They were everywhere, stretching tall against the sky, the lower part of their graceful trunks bare and the upper part beautiful and verdant. In the center of each tree was a ragged circle of fronds, like a dirty petticoat, Catherine thought, hanging unevenly below a green tutu.

  They drove by a huge building that looked like a factory. A large sign over the entrance said "Warner Bros." and under it, "Combining Good Pictures with Good Citizenship." As the car went past the gate, Catherine thought of James Cagney in Strawberry Blond, and Bette Davis in Dark Victory and smiled happily.

  They passed the Hollywood Bowl, which looked enormous from the outside, turned off Highland Avenue and went west on Hollywood Boulevard. They passed the Egyptian Theater and two blocks to the west, Grauman's Chinese, and Catherine's spirits soared. It was like seeing two old friends. The driver swung down Sunset Boulevard and headed for the Beverly Hills Hotel. "You'll enjoy this hotel, miss. It's one of the best in the world."

  It was certainly one of the most beautiful that Catherine had ever seen. It was just north of Sunset, in a semicircle of sheltering palm trees surrounded by large gardens. A graceful driveway curved up to the front door of the hotel, painted a delicate pink. An eager young assistant manager escorted Catherine to her room, which turned out to be a lavish bungalow on the grounds behind the main building of the hotel. There was a bouquet of flowers on the table with the compliments of the management and a larger, more beautiful bouquet with a card that read: "Wish I were there or you were here. Love, Bill." The assistant manager had handed Catherine three telephone messages. They were all from Allan Benjamin, whom she had been told was the producer of the training film. As Catherine was reading Bill's card, the phone rang. She ran to it, picked up the receiver and said eagerly, "Bill?" But it turned out to be Allan Benjamin.

  "Welcome to California, Miss Alexander," his voice shrilled through the receiver. "Corporal Allan Benjamin, producer of this little clambake."

  A corporal. She would have thought that they would have put a captain or a colonel in charge.

  "We start shooting tomorrow. Did they tell you that we're using actors instead of soldiers?"

  "I heard," Catherine replied.

  "We start shooting at nine in the morning. If you could get here by about eight, I'd like to have you take a look at them. You know what the Army Air Corps wants."

  "Right," said Catherine briskly. She had not the faintest idea what the Army Air Corps wanted, but she supposed that if one used common sense and picked out types that looked like they might be pilots, that would be sufficient.

  "I'll have a car there for you at seven thirty A.M.," the voice was saying. "It'll only take you half an hour to get to Metro. It's in Culver City. I'll meet you on Stage Thirteen."

  It was almost four o'clock in the morning before Catherine fell asleep, and it seemed the moment her eyes closed, the phone was ringing and the operator was telling her that a limousine was waiting for her.

  Thirty minutes later Catherine was on her way to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

  It was the largest motion picture studio in the world. There was a main lot consisting of thirty-two sound stages, the enormous Thalberg Administration Building which housed Louis B. Mayer, twenty-five executives, and some of the most famous directors, producers and writers in show business. Lot two contained the large standing outdoor sets which were constantly redressed for various movies. Within a space of three minutes, you could drive past the Swiss Alps, a western town, a tenement block in Manhattan and a beach in Hawaii. Lot three on the far side of Washington Boulevard housed millions of dollars' worth of props and flat sets and was used to shoot outdoor spectacles.

  All this was explained to Catherine by her guide, a young girl who was assigned to take her to Stage 13. "It's a city in itself," she was saying proudly. "We produce our own electricity, make enough food in the commissary to feed six thousand people a day and build all our own sets right on the back lot. We're completely self-sufficient. We don't need anybody."

  "Except an audience."

  As they walked along the street, they passed a castle that consisted of a facade with two by fours propping it up. Across from it was a lake, and down the block was the lobby of a San Francisco theater. No theater, just the lobby.

  Catherine laughed aloud, and the girl stared at her.

  "Is there anything wrong?" she asked.

  "No," Catherine said. "Everything is wonderful."

  Dozens of extras walked along the street, cowboys and Indians chatting amiably together as they walked toward the sound stages. A man appeared unexpectedly from around a corner and as Catherine stepped back to avoid him, she saw that he was a knight in armor. Behind him walked a group of girls in bathing suits. Catherine decided that she was going to like her brief fling in show business. She wished her father could have seen this. He would hav
e enjoyed it so much.

  "Here we are," the guide said. They were in front of a huge, gray building. A sign on the side of it said "STAGE 13."

  "I'll leave you here. Will you be all right?"

  "Fine," Catherine said. "Thank you."

  The guide nodded and left. Catherine turned back to the sound stage. A sign over the door read: "DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON." The light was off, so Catherine pulled the handle of the door and opened it. Or tried to. The door was unexpectedly heavy, and it took all her strength to get it open.

  When she stepped inside, Catherine found herself confronted by a second door as heavy and massive as the first. It was like entering a decompression chamber.

  Inside the cavernous sound stage, dozens of people were racing around, each one busy on some mysterious errand. A group of men were in Air Corps uniforms, and Catherine realized that they were the actors who would appear in the film. At a far corner of the sound stage was an office set complete with desk, chairs and a large military map hanging on the wall. Technicians were lighting the set.

  "Excuse me," she said to a man passing by. "Is Mister Allan Benjamin here?"

  "The little corporal?" He pointed. "Over there."

  Catherine turned and saw a slight, frail-looking man in an ill-fitting uniform with corporal's stripes. He was screaming at a man wearing a general's stars.

  "Fuck what the casting director said," he yelled. "I'm up to my ass in generals. I need non-coms." He raised his hands in despair. "Everybody wants to be a chief, nobody wants to be an Indian."

  "Excuse me," said Catherine, "I'm Catherine Alexander."

  "Thank God!" the little man said. He turned to the others, bitterness in his voice. "The fun and games are over, you smart-asses. Washington's here."

  Catherine blinked. Before she could speak, the little corporal said, "I don't know what I'm doing here. I had a thirty-five-hundred-dollar-a-year job in Dearborn editing a furniture trade magazine, and I was drafted into the Signal Corps and sent to write training films. What do I know about producing or directing? This is the most disorganized mess I've ever seen." He belched and touched his stomach. "I'm getting an ulcer," he moaned, "and I'm not even in show business. Excuse me.

  He turned and hurried toward the exit, leaving Catherine standing there. She looked around, helplessly. Everyone seemed to be staring at her, waiting for her to do something.

  A lean, gray-haired man in a sweater moved toward her, an amused smile on his face. "Need any help?" he asked quietly.

  "I need a miracle," Catherine said frankly. "I'm in charge of this, and I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing."

  He grinned at her. "Welcome to Hollywood. I'm Tom O'Brien, the A.D."

  She looked at him, quizzically.

  "The assistant director. Your friend, the corporal, was supposed to direct it, but I have a feeling he won't be back." There was a calm assurance about the man which Catherine liked.

  "How long have you worked at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer?" she asked.

  "Twenty-five years."

  "Do you think you could direct this?"

  She saw the corner of his lips twist. "I could try," he said gravely. "I've done six pictures with Willie Wyler." His eyes grew serious. "The situation isn't as bad as it looks," he said. "All it needs is a little organization. The script's written, and the set's ready."

  "That's a beginning," Catherine said. She looked around the sound stage at the uniforms. Most of them were badly fitted, and the men wearing them looked ill at ease.

  "They look like recruiting ads for the Navy," Catherine commented.

  O'Brien laughed appreciatively.

  "Where did these uniforms come from?"

  "Western Costume. Our Wardrobe Department ran out. We're shooting three war pictures."

  Catherine studied the men critically. "There are only half a dozen that are really bad," she decided. "Let's send them back and see if we can't do better."

  O'Brien nodded approvingly. "Right."

  Catherine and O'Brien walked over to the group of extras. The din of conversation on the enormous stage was deafening.

  "Let's hold it down, boys," O'Brien yelled. "This is Miss Alexander. She's going to be in charge here."

  There were a few appreciative whistles and cat calls.

  "Thanks," Catherine smiled. "Most of you look fine, but a few of you are going to have to go back to Western Costume and get different uniforms. Let's line up, so we can take a good look at you."

  "I'd like to take a good look at you. What are you doing for dinner tonight?" one of the men called.

  "I'm having it with my husband," Catherine said, "right after his match."

  O'Brien formed the men into a ragged line. Catherine heard laughter and voices nearby and turned in annoyance. One of the extras was standing next to a piece of scenery, talking to three girls who were hanging on his every word and giggling hysterically at everything he said. Catherine watched a moment, then walked over to the man and said, "Excuse me. Would you mind joining the rest of us?"

  The man turned slowly. "Are you talking to me?" he asked lazily.

  "Yes," Catherine said. "We'd like to go to work." She walked away.

  He whispered something to the girls which drew a loud laugh, then slowly moved after Catherine. He was a tall man, his body lean and hard-looking, and he was very handsome, with blue-black hair and stormy dark eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and filled with insolent amusement. "What can I do for you?" he asked Catherine.

  "Do you want to work?" Catherine replied.

  "I do, I do," he assured her.

  Catherine had once read an article about extras. They were a strange breed of people, spending their anonymous lives on sound stages, lending background atmosphere to crowd scenes in which stars appeared. They were faceless, voiceless people, inherently too ambitionless to seek any kind of meaningful employment. The man in front of her was a perfect example. Because he was outrageously handsome, someone from his hometown had probably told him that he could be a star, and he had come to Hollywood, learned that talent was necessary as well as good looks and had settled for being an extra. The easy way out.

  "We're going to have to change some of the uniforms," Catherine said patiently.

  "Is there anything wrong with mine?" he asked.

  Catherine took a closer look at his uniform. She had to admit that it fitted perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders but not exaggerating them, tapering in at his lean waist. She looked at his tunic. On his shoulders were the bars of a captain. Across his breast he had pinned on a splash of brightly colored ribbons.

  "Are they impressive enough, Boss?" he asked.

  "Who told you you were going to play a captain?"

  He looked at her, seriously, "It was my idea. Don't you think I'd make a good captain?"

  Catherine shook her head. "No. I don't."

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "First lieutenant?"

  "No."

  "How about second lieutenant?"

  "I don't really feel you're officer material."

  His dark eyes were regarding her quizzically. "Oh? Anything else wrong?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said. "The medals. You must be terribly brave."

  He laughed. "I thought I'd give this damned film a little color."

  "There's only one thing you forgot," Catherine said crisply. "We're not at war yet. You'd have had to win those at a carnival."

  The man grinned at her. "You're right," he admitted sheepishly. "I didn't think of that. I'll take some of them off."

  "Take them all off," Catherine said.

  He gave her that slow, insolent grin again. "Right, Boss."

  She almost snapped, "Stop calling me boss," but thought, the hell with him, and turned on her heel to talk to O'Brien.

  Catherine sent eight of the men back to change their uniforms and spent the next hour discussing the scene with O'Brien. The little corporal had come back briefly and then had disappeared. It was just as well, Catheri
ne thought. All he did was complain and make everyone nervous. O'Brien finished shooting the first scene before lunch, and Catherine felt it had not gone too badly. Only one incident had marred her morning. Catherine had given the infuriating extra several lines to read in order to humiliate him. She had wanted to show him up on the set to pay him back for his impertinence. He had read his lines perfectly, carrying off the scene with aplomb. When he had finished, he had turned to her and said, "Was that all right, Boss?"

  When the company broke for lunch, Catherine walked over to the enormous studio commissary and sat at a small table in the corner. At a large table next to her was a group of soldiers in uniform. Catherine was facing the door, when she saw the extra walk in, the three girls hanging on him, each one pushing to get closer to him. Catherine felt the blood rush to her face. She decided it was merely a chemical reaction. There were some people you hated on sight, just as there were others you liked on sight. Something about his overbearing arrogance rubbed her the wrong way. He would have made a perfect gigolo and that was probably exactly what he was.

  He seated the girls at a table, looked up and saw Catherine, then leaned over and said something to the girls. They all looked at her and then there was a burst of laughter. Damn him! She watched as he moved toward her table. He stared down at her, that slow, knowing smile on his face. "Mind if I join you a moment?" he asked.

  "I--" but he was already seated, studying her, his eyes probing and amused.

  "What is it you want?" Catherine asked stiffly.

  His grin widened. "Do you really want to know?"

  Her lips tightened with anger. "Listen--"