Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  I nod. “Thanks for dinner.”

  I go inside and find Coop lounging in the lobby, talking with a bellman. “Sorry, I forgot to call you.”

  “No sweat,” he says. “Thought I might catch you.”

  “Want to come up or shall we go to the bar?”

  “Bar is fine.”

  It’s nearly empty so we get a couple of club sodas and a corner table.

  “So how was the meeting?”

  “Fine, and so was dinner with Grant Robbins.”

  Coop frowns. “I had pizza.”

  “Hardly fitting for security chief.”

  “It’s the little people who make a movie successful.” Coop gives me a look. “So, you pick up on anything from Robbins or our boy Stiles?”

  “Like what? Sounds like you’ve been talking to Andie.”

  “I have, and also a friend with the Malibu Police.”

  “And?”

  “It’s just a gut feeling, but I still think there’s something hinky about the McElroy thing.”

  “Such as?” I watch him scan the room as we talk. I’m used to it now, the automatic cop reflex.

  “I don’t know. I got a look at the report. There’s nothing I can really pin down. Like I say, it’s just a hunch, you know, a hunch. Cops are naturally suspicious.”

  I laugh. “This is starting to sound like dialogue from Dragnet.”

  “I wish.”

  “Come on, Coop. The guy was cleared, wasn’t he?”

  “So were O.J. and Robert Blake.”

  “Meaning?”

  Coop heaves a big sigh. “Look, this is high-powered Hollywood. Millions of dollars at stake, every time somebody like Ryan Stiles sneezes. They can’t afford even a shadow of doubt hovering over a new project that would affect the box office. No offense, but don’t you find it just a tad strange the way they’re treating you, pulling out all the stops, making sure you’re happy? Andie told me about your conversation with Stiles’ mother, and I bet everybody involved knows about it except the police. You’re in the fold, and they want to make sure you stay there, a loyal subject.”

  I shift around in my chair. “It’s nice, but yeah I do. But what’s that got to do with Ryan? You think they’re worried about me knowing what Ryan actually did that night, and that I might say something about it?”

  Coop doesn’t answer for a moment. “I just think there’s something more.”

  “That’s what Andie says. She told me to listen, be alert, be careful.”

  Coop sets his glass down and leans in closer, making sure I see how serious he is.

  “Listen to her.”

  Chapter Twenty

  For the next two weeks, I immerse myself in the music for the opening sequence. It’s a process of experimenting, trying something, starting over, watching the notes gradually fill up the pages. I work in a small room on a back part of the studio lot, away from the hustle of activity that kept things as busy as a small city. Just me, a piano, and a table and chair. In between sessions, I visit the set, watching some of the later scenes of Murder in Blue begin to take shape and come together.

  I’ve seen enough movies about making movies. I’ve always been fascinated by the process, and now I get to see it up close as an invited guest. I know there is a lot of waiting, standing around while lighting is adjusted, makeup is touched up, and sound is checked. It’s a long list. Growing up in Santa Monica, I’d seen countless movies and television shows working on location.

  I remember one hot July afternoon watching an episode of a hit police television series being filmed. The scene called for the actor to jump out of a car, run across the street, and tackle an escaping suspect. They must have done it fifteen or twenty times from several angles. When the episode aired, the whole thing only took up less than a minute of screen time.

  Actual time in front of the camera seems minimal, but watching Ryan, it’s easy to see he’s in his element, basking in the attention whether waiting in his trailer or listening for the three magic words from Sandy Simmons: action, cut, print.

  I stand behind the army of technicians watching the director guide the young star through his scenes. It’s like watching a conductor coach a soloist with an orchestra. The two had their share of discussions, some heated. Ryan railed, Simmons listened patiently but usually won out. Ryan seemed to trust Simmons and listened to his suggestions for this or that gesture or movement. It is interesting, but eventually gets boring for me. I want to go home.

  I wait for a break in the shooting, and finally get Simmons’ attention. He nods and turns back to the set. “Okay, people. One hour.” Lights go down, cameras are abandoned, and everybody is suddenly scurrying about headed for lunch. Simmons takes me aside, trailed by a young girl in jeans and a sweatshirt, her haired pulled back in a ponytail. She has a stopwatch around her neck, a headset, and carries a clipboard with the shooting schedule.

  “You have about ten days,” Simmons says, consulting some pages on the clipboard the girl hands him. “It’s going well so I think we can bring it in on time.”

  “Good, I want to go home to work on the music.”

  “Okay, just stay in close touch and plan on being here on the fifteenth for the first jazz club scenes.”

  “You got it. I’ll let Grant know.”

  “One more thing. I want to get you with Skip Porter. He’s done a lot of music editing for me. He can walk you through the technical side of things with the music. It’s a new game now, all digital when you sync the music with the frames of film.”

  “Yeah, I was going to ask about that.” I knew I could do the music, but the technical part of things would be new to me.

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll set up a meeting for you two. It’s much easier these days. You used to have to use a stopwatch, splice tape, all that.” He turns to the girl again. “Call Skip and give him Evan’s number.”

  “Thanks, Sandy. I appreciate it. How’s it going with Ryan?”

  “Great. He’s doing a good job. He’s very serious about this one. He gets a little distracted at times, but he’ll be all right. I think he’s going to surprise a lot of people.” He looks at me then waves to the girl who has walked away but is now motioning to him. “Be right there. I gotta scoot. Anything else?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  He starts away then turns back. “Hey, why don’t you look in on Ryan before you take off? He’s been asking about you. He’s in his trailer.”

  Ryan’s trailer is not hard to find, just a few minutes walk from the set. There’s a security guard standing by the door, talking to an actor in a torn shirt with bloodstains on it, and some purplish bruises on his face. All fake I trust.

  The bloody, bruised actor steps aside as I announce myself to the guard. He taps on the door. It opens and Ryan sticks his head out. “Evan Horne,” the guard says.

  Ryan looks at me, breaks into a big grin, and drags me inside. “Hey baby, look who’s here.”

  Melanie, looking gorgeous as ever, gets up and comes over and gives me a hug. “Evan, so good to see you,” she says. It’s been awhile since I last saw her.

  “You too.”

  Inside, the trailer is plush and well-appointed with, I assume, as many of the comforts of Ryan’s Malibu home as possible. “We were just going over some pages to shoot after lunch.” We all sit down and Ryan offers me a drink from the mini-fridge.

  “Water would be fine.” He hands me a bottle and grabs one for himself. There’s a moment or two of silence between the three of us, then Ryan drops into a chair. “Melanie, why don’t you grab us a sandwich or something. I need to talk to Evan, okay?”

  “Sure.” She stands up, gives Ryan a mock salute and me a smile as she goes out.

  “Haven’t seen much of you,” Ryan says. “Everything going okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just been working on the music.”

  “Cool. You being taken care of?”

  I smile. “Proba
bly better than I ever have been.”

  “You saw the People magazine, right?”

  “I did. Caught me a little by surprise.”

  Ryan shrugs. “Publicity, man, publicity.” He grabs a remote and points it a small flat-screen television. “Did you see this?”

  It’s a brief interview with Ryan on one of the E Channels. Ryan looks relaxed and happy. “Did that a few days ago.”

  I nod. “I don’t keep up much with those entertainment shows.” I watch Ryan, trying to get a read on him, but there’s nothing in his expression, so I take a shot. “Anymore paparazzi trouble?”

  “What do you mean?”

  There’s an almost imperceptible change in his expression, but he quickly chases it with his signature grin. “Well, they were kind of getting out of hand.”

  “No, everything is cool. With a picture in progress, I’m giving them what they want.”

  “No fallout from the McElroy thing?”

  “No, why should there be? I was totally cleared. You know that.” He takes a big swig of water and avoids my eyes.

  “No reason I guess. Just curious.”

  He sits the water bottle down and looks at me. “Something on your mind?”

  “No, not really. I just—” Before I can go on the door flies open and Melanie comes in carrying two paper plates.

  “Here you go, boys. Pastrami on rye.” She hands us both a plate, napkins, and little packets of mustard.

  Until then, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Over the sandwiches, we make small talk. Ryan talking about the shooting, Melanie asking about Andie, and me bringing them up to date on the music.

  “Hope you’ve got some cool theme for my character,” Ryan says.

  “It’s all I’ve been working on. I think you’ll like it. Have you been practicing your piano playing?”

  Ryan grins. “Tell him, baby.”

  “Religiously,” Melanie says. “Every night when we go home. I feel like I’m living with a jazz piano player.”

  “I’ll be ready for the nightclub scenes. Don’t worry.”

  There’s a knock on the door then it cracks open. “Five minutes, Mr. Stiles,” the guard says.

  Ryan stands up, checks himself in a full-length mirror, and heads for the door. “Stay and visit with Melanie. She gets bored hanging out here, and I don’t like her on the set.” He waves and starts out, then turns and points a finger at me. “To be continued,” he says.

  Melanie looks at me. “What was that about?”

  “My fault. I think I struck a nerve. I just asked if there was any more fallout from the photographer’s death.”

  For a moment, Melanie’s face goes ashen. “Has something happened?”

  “No, nothing, Melanie. Everything is fine.”

  It takes her a few moments but she finally relaxes and manages a smile. “Sorry, that was just such a stressful time.”

  “I know. It was for all of us.” I finish my sandwich. “Well, I should get going. I’m going home for a few days.”

  She walks me to the door. “Please say hi to Andie. I’d love to see her again.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe she’ll come back down with me.”

  “I’d really like that.”

  “You take care, Melanie.”

  I manage to book a late-afternoon flight back to Oakland, and then give Coop a call.

  “You on duty?”

  “Always here to protect and serve. What’s going on?”

  “I’m flying back later this afternoon. Want to take me to the airport?”

  “Not part of my security duties, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

  “Duly noted. I want to run something by you. I’ll wait for you at the hotel. I’m just going to pick up my bags.”

  By the time I check out, Coop is pulling up at the entrance. I get in his car and we head for LAX. On the way, I tell him about my conversation with Ryan and Melanie, and their reactions to my questions.

  “I think your hunch might be right.”

  Coop smiles. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  “I wasn’t exactly probing, but Melanie especially acted like I’d accused Ryan of something.”

  “She’ll crack before he does if she knows something.”

  “You think he’s told her something?”

  We pull up at the departure entrance. “Let’s see what happens,” Coop says. “See if your questions trigger anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My guess is you’re going to get a call from Mama.”

  I call Andie from the airport. “Want to give a struggling piano player a ride to Monte Rio?”

  “No, but I might for an up-and-coming film composer. Where are you?”

  “Oakland Airport. I just got in.”

  “Give me an hour. I’m almost done here.”

  I get some coffee and spend twenty minutes browsing through movie magazines looking for any further photos or mention of Ryan and the film, but there is nothing. Outside, I find a bench by the baggage claim exit, and watch the parade of people rushing for flights or looking for friends and relatives to pick them up. Andie is right on time.

  She pops the trunk and I throw my bags in and get in the car.

  “What a nice surprise.” She gives me a hug and a lingering kiss before pulling away. “No trouble in Hollywood land, I hope?”

  “No, I just needed to get away for a few days to work on the music. They don’t need me till the fifteenth.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “According to the director, great. I watched some of the shooting and I’d have to agree.”

  Andie looks over as we merge onto 880. “But?”

  I shrug. “Nothing I can really pin down. I spoke with Ryan and Melanie earlier today while they broke for lunch.” I pause for a moment, gazing out the windshield at the traffic. “Okay, I think you and Coop are both right. I kind of edged around with Ryan. He was defensive, little wary maybe, but covered it well. But when he left, Melanie was like a deer in the headlights when I asked her if everything was okay.”

  “Did you talk to Coop?”

  “Yeah, the other night, and he took me to the airport today. His theory is Ryan will probably mention to his mother that I was asking leading questions. She might give me a call.”

  Andie nods. “What I think too.”

  “What do you think it is? Officially he’s in the clear on the whole thing.”

  “Cases can always be reopened. If something is dangling out there, they want to know who knows. They’re walking on eggshells while the movie is shooting. There’s a lot of money at stake now. You know Ryan’s story, and you know what his mother told you. You’re the only weak link.”

  “And that would explain why they’re treating me so well?’

  “Not entirely.” She pats my leg and smiles. “They want you for the beautiful music and the credibility you bring as the consultant. But they want to make sure you’re on their team if anything goes wrong, or if something comes up unexpectedly. All you can do is wait and see if anything happens.”

  We make good time to Andie’s apartment, where we stop for a few minutes while she grabs some things, then continue on to Monte Rio. “If you’re really nice to me, I’ll stay till Monday morning. Think you can manage that?”

  We stop for dinner in Santa Rosa, then press on to Monte Rio. Andie is tired and turns in early. I’m too pumped so I stay up working on the main theme and some of the shorter cues, music that will last only a few seconds linking scenes but are still motifs of the main theme.

  It’s after two when I crawl into bed, but I still wake up early. I let Andie sleep in late. It’s almost ten when I finally hear her coming up to the loft in her robe, carrying two mugs of coffee.

  “Want to hear this?” I gulp the coffee and look at the music I’ve sketched out.

  She nods and sits down beside me.

  I play the open
ing sequence, kind of a slow blues to begin that will feature the piano. I watch Andie close her eyes listening. I finish with one of the short motif lines that echoes the opening.

  “Well?”

  Andie opens her eyes and looks at me. “It’s beautiful, Evan, really beautiful.”

  “I like it, too. Not bad for a first try.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “I can’t do much else until I see the uncut film. That’s the tricky part, matching the action with music. I’ll have to add some standards in there someplace, and write something for the closing credits.” I squeeze my hand into a fist and stretch my fingers. Maybe it was the all-nighter, but I’d felt a twinge several times while playing.

  Andie notices right away. “Your hand okay?”

  “Yeah, just a little stiff. Nothing to worry about.”

  She takes my right hand in hers and massages gently. I flinch a little when she squeezes harder. Her eyes meet mine. “Promise me you’ll have it checked out.”

  Saturday night after dinner, we walk across the bridge to the Monte Rio theater and see an action thriller. It’s not my kind of film, but I play particular attention to the music, the way the composer links scenes, how the music intensifies the action or sets a mood for the quieter scenes. Leaning back in my seat in the darkened theater, my mind runs through a dozen standards that might work for the end credits of Murder in Blue, and the cost of permissions.

  Sunday, we sleep late, have breakfast in Guerneville, and lounge around the rest of the day, finally ending up with a long walk along the Russian River. I’m ever alert for another twinge in my hand but even when I squeeze it into a fist, I feel nothing. Still, when Andie leaves for the long trek back to the City Monday morning, I call the doctor in Santa Monica who got me through the surgery from my accident.

  “Evan, great to hear from you,” Dr. Martin says. We spend a couple of minutes catching up, then I run out of questions. “This is not entirely a social call, is it?”

  “No.” I tell him about the soreness in my wrist. “Probably nothing, but my girlfriend insists I get it checked out.”

  “She’s probably right.” He pauses for a minute. “There’s a doctor in San Francisco who’s doing some good work in performing arts medicine. I know he’s worked with some musicians in the symphony. I met him at a medical conference last year, and we compared notes. He’s pretty busy, but let me give him a call. Maybe he can squeeze you in. I’ll fax him your records.” He gives me the doctor’s name and number. “I’ll have him call you.”