by C. S. Poe
“Don’t I know it,” he said before accepting. “I’ve been trying to quit. One of those New Year’s resolutions.”
“Not working out?”
“January came in like a freight train,” he said with a melodic chuckle and careless wave of his hand.
I allowed myself a brief, unabashed moment to study Marion. The way the orange glow of the nearby tungsten bulb cut sharp shadows across his face. The way his cheeks hollowed a little when he inhaled. The way he licked his bottom lip after blowing smoke.
“What?” he asked. Marion’s voice was deep, but he didn’t speak with the strength of his diaphragm. So his tone was lighter, gentler.
A careful and practiced sort of speech.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Okay.” He smiled. Like he knew what was coming—was expecting it.
So I threw him a curveball. “Do you enjoy working with Mr. Lefkowitz?”
Marion’s facial expressions flickered like an old television. Charm gave way to confusion, to disappointment. Then he squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and inhaled another breath of smoke. “Why do you ask?”
I shook my head a little.
A black car pulled up to the curb. The driver got out, called a greeting to Marion, and walked around the trunk to the back passenger door. He opened it and waited.
Marion held out the cigarette. “Thank you for the nicotine.”
I accepted the stick. “Sure.”
“That’s my ride.”
“I figured.”
Marion looked up at me, considered something to himself, but ultimately said, “Have a good night.”
“You too.” My cell rang as I watched him walk to the hired car. I reached into my pocket, took out my phone again, and looked at the screen. It was the Big Boss.
“Rory,” Marion called.
I glanced up, thumb hovering over the Accept button.
“If you’re around tomorrow,” he started, blunt fingertips tapping the top of the car door in a hesitant manner. “After lunch—I’ll be washing my hands again.”
Hell. What a bad week to end it with Nate. I felt stripped and naked. Defenseless against the subtle charms of an unconventionally handsome man who absolutely knew I was goddamn smitten.
No.
Do not pass go.
Do not collect two hundred dollars.
I smiled apologetically and did the only thing I could to break the moment. I answered the call. “Byrne.”
“Rory. Have a moment?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I kept my gaze on Marion as he climbed into the car, shut the door, and the vehicle sped off into the night. I flicked my cigarette, crossed the street, and went in the opposite direction, toward the parking garage.
“How’s TV life?”
“About as hectic and ego-driven as you’d expect it to be.”
Shelby’s laugh was warm. “So I won’t be losing you to the limelight?”
“Afraid not, ma’am.”
“Good.”
“The theft was of a script. An unpublished piece Anderson wrote. It was taken from his office,” I explained without prompting.
“I see. Were you able to narrow the scope of the investigation from that ridiculous initial suspect count?”
“A bit,” I said, switching the phone to my other side and putting my cold hand in my pocket. “The post-production department can be omitted on account of their scheduling. But there’s still a lot of coming and going to take into consideration. Some crew members, electricians and such, are more restricted in duties, I’ve noticed. I’m fairly confident in disregarding them as suspects on the grounds that there’s little if no way for them to step into the production office without it being questioned.”
“But?” she prompted.
“But there is a pecking order on film sets unlike anything I’ve seen before. From a sociological standpoint, it’s fascinating. From an investigative one, it’s extremely frustrating.”
Shelby made a humming sound. Her thinking-out-loud noise.
I continued. “On the one hand, it narrows the scope considerably, as the only individuals who have immediate access to John are those in positions of power themselves. But not all these department heads have an obvious motive. There are some low-ranking crew members I’m having to consider as well.”
“How would they know about the script if they don’t speak with the producer like you say?” Shelby questioned.
“Besides the fact that Anderson can’t remember who he may have spoken to about it?” I said with a touch of annoyance. “Everyone on set has a walkie.” I dug out my parking receipt as I reached the garage.
An attendant stepped out of a booth, took the paper from my outstretched hand, and went to fetch my car.
“There’s a process for having a private discussion, but everyone has access to the channel in question. It’s possible any number of conversations could have been overheard and used to an individual’s advantage.”
“What do you think about Anderson?” Shelby asked at length. “Is this script of his worth a lot?”
“It may be worth nothing.”
“Oh?” I could hear the wry smile in that single word.
I glanced toward the ramp leading from the underground garage as my car’s headlights lit up the street. “I’ve noticed a considerable amount of hostility and abuse of power among certain individuals. I don’t believe the script itself is worth money. It’s the idea. And if the idea is a moneymaker, it could be a reasonable assumption that someone was willing to steal it in order to get out from under someone else’s thumb.”
Gary was sitting on the table when I entered the apartment. My soldering iron was dangling over the edge by its cable, the floor was littered with strips of PVC shrink tube, a partially unspun roll of alloy wire for soldering, and a pair of wire strippers were under a chair. He meowed loudly as I shut the door and hung up my coat.
“Hi, baby.” I walked toward him, leaned over, and kissed his head. “Is this some sort of social protest?”
I bent to collect the fallen hobby items, and the cat jumped onto my shoulders. He meowed a second time before digging his claws into my shirt and holding on as I straightened and set everything on the tabletop. I scratched Gary’s chin while I walked into the kitchen. I didn’t bother with the light. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, then went to the couch on the other side of the room from the table and sat down. The cat climbed onto my chest, butt directly in my face before he turned, got comfortable on my lap, and continued to voice his disapproval over my tardiness.
“Sounds like you had a rough afternoon.” I leaned over awkwardly, pulled free the crew roster from where it’d been wedged in my sock all day, and tossed it onto the cushion beside me. I untwisted the top from the beer bottle and took a sip. “Did you want to hear about my—no? Okay. Keep going.”
Gary talked while I kicked off my sneakers, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, turned on the television, and took another drink. He was still vocalizing as I went into the TV guide and did a search of programs by actor.
M A R I O….
Marion Roosevelt popped up as a suggested name, and I tapped Search. One movie was available for immediate viewing. Bastard Boyfriend. A new release too, although I considered anything post Star Trek: The Next Generation to be a relatively new release. Film-related entertainment had simply never held my interest or imagination. And once I’d finished college and was hired with Dupin, every minute of my life had been dedicated to my profession.
Followed by Gary.
And then men.
In that order. That’s how I liked it. Zero drama, maximum efficiency.
I hit Play on Bastard Boyfriend.
I found Marion to be extremely attractive. I wouldn’t have bothered watching his movie if I didn’t enjoy staring. Physically, he was everything I liked in a man—slender, toned, shorter than me, and pretty in a decidedly masculine way. He wore a suit like it’d be a sin to undress him. And thos
e eyes. Thirty seconds into this movie and Marion already conveyed more emotion with those heterochromatic eyes than his costars did with their lines.
But he didn’t get a free pass in this investigation simply because his ass looked fine in tweed.
And that was all there was to it.
Gary meowed loudly in my face, crossed blue eyes giving me a level look.
“Sorry.” I continued petting him, and his eyes fluttered shut in contentment.
I leaned over once again, set my beer on the coffee table, picked up a pen, then snatched the crew roster. I unfolded the printout and diligently crossed off each post-production name. I wrote Marion’s name in the margin, crossed it out, then wrote it again. Outwardly, there seemed very little reason for him to betray John and bite the hand feeding him. He’d landed what sounded like a dream job for most actors, and his millions were expected to continue multiplying. Marion’s motive may have been more unconventional, of course, although my gut was saying no. But I wasn’t paid for instinct. I was paid to produce facts and hard evidence.
For certain, there were a few folks raising red flags that I needed to do a background check on and shadow tomorrow. Some of the key personnel on The Bowery represented a number of humanity’s greatest sins to such a T, Dante himself couldn’t have done better.
Envy—Production Manager, Laura Turner.
Wrath—Director, Ethan Lefkowitz.
Pride—Key PA and my good pal, Davey.
INT. CHAPTER FOUR – DAY
My reports on the three musketeers came back surprisingly bland the next morning. No criminal records, no serious debt beyond an unruly credit card, consistent employment for the last five years. There was nothing to suggest financial constraints were a factor in the theft, if indeed Laura, Ethan, or Davey were guilty beyond being Grade A assholes with excellent credit scores.
But I wasn’t able to easily shake off their abrasive personalities and consider them clean like post-production. A major factor in this case was the environment itself. This wasn’t some high-rise office in Midtown caught performing underhanded accounting, because in that setting, it was always about the money. Ego, popularity, and fame came with the territory of the film industry. And if a crime was committed in order to rise in the ranks of power, well, there wasn’t any sort of background check I could run on that.
I was further cockblocked that morning by Davey’s unrelenting attitude toward me. I was certain he didn’t suspect I was anything but an inexperienced PA, but that didn’t stop him from taking every afforded opportunity to kick me off set in order to complete some menial task for another department. I understood that PAs were, by their very nature, assistants to any part of production, but it seemed counterproductive to send them away from the very location where they needed hands-on experience the most.
Or in my case, where I needed to be in order to oversee Davey’s movements. Specifically because his job also allowed for a great deal of flexibility, and I wanted to confirm for myself exactly what he did with his time on and off set. I’d noticed, upon arriving at the same time as the crew, that there were several set PAs who answered to Davey. And like me, he sent them elsewhere.
Why?
Less eyes on his movements?
If it were only me being punted about, I’d say it was because he resented the way in which John had dropped me into his lap yesterday. But all of us?
“The only job lower than a PA is an intern,” said the wardrobe assistant.
I’d been sent upstairs, where the costume department stored all their clothing, to aid Elizabeth Something-or-Other, who could have been Bettie Page’s contemporary sister, in a “double-check” of all the attires organized by episode and character.
“Some people in the industry get shit on when they first enter,” she continued while reading the labels on hanging garments and cross-checking each with her clipboard. “So once they get to a position of power, they return the favor and claim newbies gotta earn their keep like they did.” She stared at me over the rack. “Davey’s swell. If he likes you. If not, I hear you end up making photocopies all day for Laura.”
“I did that yesterday.”
She shook her head, took a hanger, and moved it to a different rack. “Want a piece of unsolicited advice?”
“Sure.”
Elizabeth paused and looked at me again. “Make yourself useful to someone other than Davey. But be subtle. No one likes a know-it-all PA. If you can be That Guy, though, departments will request you by name. Davey won’t be in a position to say no to someone over his head.”
“Won’t that piss him off?”
“You want to get a call back for a job in the future or not?”
“Point taken.”
Elizabeth nodded and returned her attention to the clipboard. “Do you have Tommy O’Sullivan’s episode three suit on that side? Gray tweed.”
I looked down at the line of clothes in front of me and quickly pawed through them. “Right here.” I removed Marion’s costume and passed it to her.
Elizabeth muttered something about interns under her breath as she relocated the outfit.
“So how do you suggest I make friends with the crew?” I gently prodded.
“You have any gum?”
I frowned and patted my jeans pockets. “I have Altoids.” I held up a miniature tin of breath mints.
“That’ll work. Everyone wants fresh breath after lunch.”
“Ah. Bribery.” I laughed a little.
“Davey for Rory,” said the static voice in my earpiece.
I reached for the mic button of the surveillance. “This is—er—go for Rory.”
Goddamn set talk.
“What’s your 20?”
I resisted rolling my eyes. As if he didn’t already know where I was. “I’m still upstairs in wardrobe storage.”
“Report to set.”
“All right.”
“Copy,” Elizabeth whispered loudly. “Say you copy.”
“Copy,” I hastily added into the mic. “Thanks,” I told her before stepping out of the maze of clothes. “I’ve got to run.”
“Hope it’s not for coffee,” she called after me, tone sympathetic.
I left the stuffy storage room, hurried down the back staircase, and ran along a practically hidden hallway lined with dressing rooms. I stopped at the side entrance to the stage. The red light, which indicated recording-in-session, was off, and the door had been propped open. I stepped inside. Crew was busily adjusting set pieces and relocating the camera when I heard Davey shout my name.
I turned to my left, wove around equipment, and found him standing beside Paul, the sound recordist who’d provided me with the new earpiece yesterday.
“We need you to make a run,” Davey stated.
“Where to?”
Paul, still sitting, dropped a frayed cable into my hand. “An audio rental house a few blocks from here. Camera ripped my timecode cable, and there isn’t time for me to make one.”
I held up either end, studied the connectors, and realized the perfect opportunity to get in with a different department had just presented itself to me. This case could be wrapped more quickly than anticipated if I could hang out around Paul. I’d have a vantage point from which to study the interactions of Ethan, Davey, and—whether or not John liked it—the talent. “If you have the supplies,” I began, looking back at him, “I can make this for you right now.”
“We’ll buy one,” Davey quickly interjected.
Paul held up a hand at Davey. “These cables are like eighty bucks, cowboy. I don’t want to get in a tiff with Laura.” He gave me a concentrated stare. “You know how to solder? Because LEMO connectors aren’t a joke.”
“I’m certified. Give me the schematics, and I can do it in fifteen minutes.”
Paul made a gruff sound under his breath. He tore a piece of paper from a small notebook, hastily drew a wiring diagram, and held it out. “Make sense?”
“Yes.”
“G
ood.” He stood, went to a hard-shell case covered in logo stickers propped up against the back wall, then returned a moment later with a Ziploc bag full of unassembled connector parts and lengths of cable. “There’s a soldering iron in the art workshop.”
I was back in sixteen minutes, but I did have to allow the soldering iron to heat first, so the discrepancy seemed a reasonable excuse. And the cable worked, much to my relief, Paul’s gratitude, and Davey’s annoyance—so all was right with the world.
“Take a listen,” Paul said, handing me his big headphones. “What do you hear?”
After proving myself useful, Paul kept me at his side and dismissed Davey, like I’d hoped. And hell, unlike most of the crew, he was more than happy to talk about the ins and outs of his job. Should I have actually been a PA, Paul would have been the saving grace of my career thus far.
But I wasn’t a PA. I was a PI.
Big difference.
So every little detail he taught me about mics or timecode or whatnot was simply one more opportunity to glean information regarding his interactions with individuals on set. It gave me a chance to present myself as someone he could trust. Someone to complain to. To confide in.
I put the headphones on my ears, and after a moment, said, “Sounds like clothes rustling.”
“That’s right. It’s Marion’s tie mic. No one notices good sound until it’s bad.”
I set the headphones down and looked toward the set. Marion was standing in the middle of the scene, arms crossed, shifting absently from foot to foot as someone from makeup touched up his face. Ethan was talking animatedly with a second actor who, I think, portrayed Tommy’s lover in the show. John sat in one of those folding director’s chairs several feet away, texting a mile a minute and seemingly oblivious to the nonsense Ethan was spouting.
The assistant director yelled a warning that camera was almost ready to roll on the new angle.
Paul stood and motioned for me to follow. The set was bright and uncomfortably warm under the thousands of watts of light, but I guess it was something one simply got accustomed to. Marion lowered his hands to his sides as Paul replaced the woman who’d been brushing his jawline. He silently lifted his chin when Paul indicated what he meant to do. The sound recordist hastily loosened the knot on Marion’s tie and deftly adjusted a hidden microphone in the clothing.
