Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ replied the captain. ‘I understand Mr Bourke. He’s just a journalist who has a trail to follow. It just doesn’t lead to me, that’s all.’

  Dead silence … until we made it to the next set, the train depot.

  ‘Mr Selznick has done a good job on the depot,’ approved Sergeant Routledge. ‘From this angle it seems like I could catch the train to —’

  We all halted, aghast at what was waiting just around the corner.

  The depot and the yard beyond were full of blood-soaked, writhing Confederate soldiers … Hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

  Routledge and Gouge stood paralysed at the sight.

  Captain Montgomery groaned, ‘God help me,’ and clutched his chest.

  I’d forgotten.

  The crew was setting up for tomorrow’s scene — the end of the Battle of Atlanta, when all the dead and wounded were piled around the train depot.

  The crew was testing one thousand dummies dressed as wounded Confederate soldiers.

  The dummies’ limbs were mechanised and the crew was making sure they worked. The metal soldiers bent and twisted in mock-pain, their mechanical hands raised, seeking succour that would never come.

  Five men, carrying buckets of red paint, were moving between them, touching up the wounds …

  24

  SOUND STAGE 2

  There was a guard sitting outside the open door into Sound Stage 2. He idly watched technicians carrying gear for the photo shoot and Jennings’ boys with their tour guide buttons on their lapels traipsing past. But he bounced to his feet and respectfully tipped his cap to Daniel as we stepped inside.

  Jennings must’ve told everyone to treat the prospective backer like royalty.

  We’d managed to get the three old veterans back to their families, but their expressions said it all — the bloodied dummies at Selznick’s train depot were too realistic. It’d brought back the horrors of those last days far too well.

  Inside the big sound stage a series of antebellum backdrops ran along the left wall. Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable, in full make-up, styled hair and period costumes, were posed in front of one depicting a magnolia in full bloom with Tara set on a hill in the distant background.

  Leigh was hissing through gritted teeth to Gable but his shaking shoulders indicated amusement rather than anything else.

  Around them, four of Vance Wheeler’s team were tinkering with the big lights to ensure that only the most flattering shadows were cast. In front of them, Bourke was busy organising his photographic crew and checking the best angle.

  Bourke was scowling; he hadn’t come close to getting what he’d flown halfway around the world for — information.

  I knew how he felt.

  Over against the right wall Veronica Hall and Leslie Howard, also in full make-up and costumes, were seated on director’s chairs. They were being interviewed by a harsh-featured older man seated opposite. The smartly tailored woman at his side was taking rapid shorthand.

  Hall seemed to be doing most of the talking but still managed to emanate a syrupy dignity that inferred she was too much of a lady to speak of her suffering. She’d really taken Earl’s Good Girl advice to heart. Meanwhile Howard was chain-smoking next to her and periodically rolling his eyes. He was bored and exasperated and didn’t care who noticed.

  The next minute Bernie Jennings bounded right into our path, forming a fleshy barricade.

  He gave an impressive show of overly large white teeth and then shot his hand out. ‘Mr Devereaux, you’re back already. I hope you enjoyed your visit with Bourke and our special guests down at Tara. Now do I have another treat ready for you …’

  Daniel eyed him with open hostility, but before he could fire off a salvo a ruckus started up behind us.

  ‘Get out of my way, cretin! I don’t care what you say, I’m coming in,’ barked an angry male voice from the doorway. I caught the hint of a French accent.

  Jennings, with his hackles fully raised, stood ready to blast whoever was marring his perfect day. An African-American man in a well-tailored suit was attempting to brush past one of his public relations boys.

  ‘Back away, Lamont,’ said the PR guy. ‘I’ve already told you nothing’s happening here.’

  ‘Mon Dieu! I just passed that fatuous editor of the Southern Bugle drinking mint juleps and lounging on your front lawn as though all his fascist fancies had come at once.’ Lamont poked his dark index finger at the doorway. ‘And I know the Life team is in that sound stage.’

  The guard jerked to his feet and started shoving at the interloper. ‘How did you get past the front gate, boy?’

  Lamont held his own against the guard and managed to peer inside the sound stage.

  When he caught a glimpse of the actors and the photographic crew his eyes narrowed. ‘I at least demand access to the Life journalist! They have to print something other than this romanticised slavery merde!’

  Incensed, the guard drew back to take a swing at Lamont’s face, but the PR guy was faster and caught the guard’s forearm in time.

  Lamont took the opportunity to make a lunge for the doorway.

  Jennings dashed forward to block Lamont and keep him outside.

  Daniel followed. I followed Daniel.

  ‘Lamont …’ said the PR guy. He glanced at Jennings for guidance, but his boss just stood in the doorway with his arms folded and lips pursed.

  ‘I told you, my name is Mr Hull!’

  ‘And I told you, Lamont, you can’t just arrive here and expect to see people without an appointment.’

  ‘And I told you, I made one weeks ago! I was promised an interview with both David O. Selznick and the Life magazine journalists. Today!’

  ‘Lamont …’

  ‘I was assured that the League’s concerns would be taken seriously. The Civil War is our people’s story as much as anyone else’s and we’re not going to put up with you making our cruel history into sanitised wallpaper for your motion picture.’

  ‘I don’t know who made any such promises …’

  ‘Ian Hollaway did.’

  ‘Er, Mr Hollaway left three weeks ago.’ The PR guy shot a nervous look at his glowering boss. ‘Mr Jennings is head of publicity now.’

  Bernie Jennings decided to intervene. ‘How the hell did he get past the front gate?’

  ‘Boss, this is Lamont Hull. He’s from the Civil Rights Defence League. You know, the commie lawyers who’ve been criticising the book. I don’t know how he talked his way onto the lot. Hollaway must’ve sent Lamont an invitation after he was fired …’ The PR guy paused and said gingerly, ‘Er … before Mr Hollaway left.’

  ‘So you’re Jennings?’ said Hull, considering Bernie with undisguised contempt. ‘I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘Good,’ said Jennings. ‘Now you’ve met me you can leave. We’ve scheduled time later this afternoon for a member of the Coloured People’s Association so …’

  ‘You mean for ten minutes after the Life journalists have left? Just so you can say you consulted with someone black?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Jennings lost his cool. ‘Guard, I want this nig —’ He checked Daniel’s expression. ‘I want this person off the lot … now!’

  Before the guard could react. Daniel stepped into his path and fired a volley of rapid French at Lamont Hull.

  Hull was startled then answered at an equal pace. He appeared to be asking a question.

  Daniel replied at length and then Hull nodded his head in agreement.

  Jennings looked like someone had stuck an electrical wire in a very personal place and thrown the switch. His mouth was open but he couldn’t seem to find the right words to say.

  ‘Mr Jennings …’ said Daniel; his French accent had thickened again.

  ‘Please, call me Bernie, Mr Devereaux,’ said Jennings, washing his hands in a desire to please.

  ‘Bernie …’ Daniel showed his even white teeth in a grin that reminded me of a sleek muscular cat about to eat an unwar
y canary. ‘I recognised Mr Hull’s accent. He is from my …’ Daniel pretended to think. ‘How do you say …?’ His French accent was almost unintelligible now.

  ‘Home town?’ I offered dryly. He spoke better English than Jennings.

  At that Jennings looked like the voltage on his electrical circuit had just been stepped up a notch. He managed to get out, ‘Really, Mr Devereaux?’

  Lamont Hull was openly delighted at Jennings’ unsettled expression.

  ‘I would be very interested to hear what Mr Hull has to say about Gone with the Wind, the film I am thinking of …’ Daniel stopped and turned to me.

  ‘Investing in,’ I said. I felt like I was part of a comedy duo.

  ‘Oui,’ Daniel agreed. ‘The film I am thinking of investing in.’

  Jennings clutched his chest as though preventing a coronary and said weakly, ‘Of course, Mr Devereaux, whatever you want.’ He glared at Lamont but said softly, ‘Yes, Mr Hull, you were saying?’

  Hull gave Jennings a look of utter contempt. ‘I told Ian Hollaway and I’m telling you — we will not stand for the film version of Gone with the Wind being made into another opportunity to stir up racial hatred in this country!’

  Jennings shot a measuring glance at Daniel’s interested expression then decided to wade in anyway. ‘That’s rubbish,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Margaret Mitchell’s book is not about race! Jesus wept, it’s just a women’s romance!’

  ‘Oh I know what it’s about, Jennings. And so does Mitchell. She’s a fourth generation Atlanta belle who’s presenting her view of the Civil War to reignite Southern racial pride and cultivate Northern empathy.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, boy? It’s not a goddamned plot — it’s friggin’ literature! The book won a Pulitzer Prize for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘I’m not saying Mitchell wasn’t clever, Jennings. Scarlett only survives after the Civil War by transforming herself into a modern businesswoman. By the end of the book she’s more of a Yankee than you are!’

  ‘But it’s not about your people!’ Jennings insisted.

  ‘Have you even read the book?’ said Hull in disgust. ‘Slavery is shown as benevolent. Negroes are either child-like or evil savages. And the hero, Rhett Butler, is proud of murdering a darkie who was “uppity” to a white woman. His excuse was “what else could a Southern gentleman do?”’

  ‘Look, Hull,’ said Jennings appealingly. ‘Mr Selznick isn’t going to make a prejudiced film!’

  ‘Good! And that’s just what I want to hear from his own lips. Because we all know what a whirlpool of racial violence that other film monster, Birth of a Nation, created!’

  From his expression, Daniel was silently applauding Hull’s refusal to back down.

  ‘Rubbish. Birth of a Nation was just another film about the South after the Civil War.’

  ‘Just another film? Now that’s rich coming from a publicity hound like yourself. You’d sell your own mother if you could make Gone with the Wind half as successful. Birth of a Nation was made more than twenty years ago and it’s still the biggest money maker to ever come out of Hollywood.’

  ‘So what, Hull? So it made money? So people went to see it? Goodie! This is the movie business, wise-ass. We sell movies.’

  ‘No, no, this isn’t like selling a length of lumber, Jennings! Hollywood has to take responsibility for the effect it has on an audience. Birth of a Nation had exactly the same stereotypes as Gone with the Wind. The only difference is that it made the end of slavery the central story … the unleashing of the black man’s lust for white women. Talk about inciting fear and racial hatred!’

  ‘Look, buddy, we’re just talking about public entertainment here.’

  ‘Oh no we’re not. Tell that to Hitler and Goebbels. They have their own copies of Birth of a Nation. They loved it so much it gave them the idea to start making films about their own twisted versions of history. Their best friend, Leni Riefenstahl, saw it too and started making home movies of Hitler playing God. Now she’s selling them back to us!’

  ‘Ah, you’re crazy, Hull! Films sell dreams, nothing more.’

  ‘Nothing but dreams?’ Hull ground his teeth in fury. ‘Birth of a Nation directly led to the rebirth of the lynch mob. White men walked out of those darkened theatres in a state of such extreme rage that they set up new versions of the hate groups that had died out in the 1870s!’

  ‘Gimme a break, Hull!’ spat Jennings dismissively.

  Hull would not be silenced. ‘Within a decade of the film premiere there were five million brand-new members of white hate organisations spread right across the US. This time North and South together …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but what has this got to do with Gone with the frigging Wind?’

  ‘You don’t listen, do you, Jennings? I want to make sure David O. Selznick understands the power he holds in his hands.’

  Jennings scowled. ‘Oh, your kind is always whining about something. You’re free, aren’t you? Fix your own lives.’

  ‘Free, you say?’ Hull ignited with rage. ‘To live in fear of being lynched … ripped from your bed by a mob screaming your name? A mob that will hang you if you’re lucky, but may play with you first … In front of a crowd that wants to hear you howl for mercy? Do you know that sometimes they drag us behind a car, leaving a trail of flesh and blood that terrorises the whole district for the rest of their lives?’

  We all stood there mute, even Jennings.

  Hull shook his head. ‘We see that charred, tortured “thing” hanging from a tree and know it’s been left there as a warning. Just so we know what will happen if we don’t keep our place …’ Hull whispered, ‘Do you really think, Jennings, that even one more black man should die like that … just to sell a movie ticket?’

  Jennings gaped at Hull, then at Daniel; he didn’t know how to respond.

  Over Jennings’ shoulder I caught a glimpse of a group of men who’d attended the morning speeches. They ambled towards us, led by a thickset man with a red face.

  Jennings saw them too and groaned, ‘Oh no! Boy, you have to leave now!’

  Hull followed Jennings’ gaze and animosity sheered across his features. ‘Dunstable!’

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘It’s the editor of the Southern Bugle, Clarence Dunstable,’ said Jennings. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he contemplated the approaching men. ‘Mr Devereaux, I think it’s time for you to leave. This won’t be pleasant …’

  Daniel fired another volley of French at Hull. Hull shook his head, resolute.

  ‘Well lookie lookie what we have here,’ said Dunstable, his face glowing like a stop sign.

  He was either very sunburnt or very drunk. Whichever it was, his five friends were in a similar condition.

  I was going for drunk.

  One of his friends said, ‘I think it’s that dirty commie, Lamont Hull. You know, the coloured boy that’s always yapping to the Northern press about civil rights.’

  ‘Civil rights?’ sniffed Dunstable. ‘When’s your kind going to show some proper gratitude that we dug you outta your holes in Africa then let you go here, boy?’

  You could almost see the hackles on the back of Lamont’s neck rise. ‘You didn’t let us go, Dunstable, we took our freedom.’

  Dunstable stuck out his jaw. ‘Bullshit, boy, these here Yankees set you free. Like the monkeys you are.’

  ‘You don’t even know your own history, you drunken ignoramus!’ whipped back Hull. ‘We fought and died as Union soldiers …’

  ‘Soldiers? That’s just Union propaganda, boy. Your people are natural-born cowards.’

  ‘And your people boast about the Southern code of honour, but you slaughtered us at Fort Case after we surrendered.’

  Dunstable’s eyes switched onto high beam. ‘Now that’s a dirty black lie! Your white commander never surrendered.’ He sneered at Lamont. ‘But I did hear that you boys squealed like stuck pigs while you died.’

  Hull launched himself at
Dunstable.

  Dunstable’s boys grabbed Hull and held him while their ringleader pulled his beefy arm back for a punch.

  As fast as sheet lightning, Daniel slid between them and smashed Dunstable right in the mouth.

  And then it was on.

  25

  VENICE

  Earl’s limousine erupted from the studio gates like the cork out of a shaken champagne bottle. He was now armed with a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, loaded, which he’d confiscated from one of the security guards and he intended to barricade himself at Ceiba House for the night.

  Earl was keeping himself just drunk enough to not quite know what else to do.

  I’d spent the past hour alternating between calming him down and pumping him for information, but Earl was sloppy drunk and paranoid.

  Not a good mix for an interrogation.

  Selznick had arrived just as Daniel and Lamont Hull were obliterating Dunstable and his henchmen, only to be hit by one of the flying bodies. His howl of rage brought the fight to an abrupt end and the guards stepped in. Selznick had dressed down Jennings, demanding to know exactly why he’d allowed Mr Devereaux be attacked like that, and then insisted on personally escorting Daniel back to his hotel.

  I wasn’t finished with Daniel Devereaux. I’d find out what the hell he was doing here if I had to sit on his chest and browbeat it out of him!

  But first things first!

  There were too many leads to follow. Lewis Renfrow seemed the most likely culprit given the cement encased disposal method …

  But then there were those horrible little dolls and the damned Redbud desk. I didn’t know where to even start with them …

  Staking out Ceiba House tonight seemed like the best idea. At least one person — possibly two — was after Earl and they might just show up for a closer squiz at their target. My rumpled little business suit wasn’t going to cut it if I had to climb walls and I needed my handgun — a Smith and Wesson .38 just like Earl’s — so I decided to go back to Venice.

  Dusk was fading as I climbed the stairs to Phyllis’ front porch. I stuck my key in the lock just as the screen door of the neighbour’s house creaked open.