by C. S. Poe
Marion must have seen me. It would be impossible to miss my towering presence directly behind Paul. But his gaze was focused on some distant point over my shoulder. His expression was hard. Dangerous. So unlike the sweet man with the boyish charm from yesterday. It’d taken a moment for it to sink in that Marion was on the clock. This was his work. Not only was he an actor, and quite a good one if Bastard Boyfriend was anything to go by, but in The Bowery, he portrayed a high-class, violent criminal. He must have been in some… dark character zone.
The second actor detached himself from Ethan at that point, stepped behind Marion, put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “That entire tirade can be summed up as: be more sad.”
Still staring at that faraway point, Marion made a quiet shushing sound under his breath.
“I’m sick of it,” the other actor continued. “Was I hired to parrot back Ethan’s bullshit acting or do the role myself?”
“All set,” Paul declared, taking a step away from Marion. “Let’s go,” he said to me as he moved out of the glow of lights and headed for his sound cart.
I heard Marion say, “Do the scene as we discussed. I’ll handle Ethan.”
I dared one glimpse over my shoulder. Marion put a hand on his costar’s chest, gave him an affirming little pat, and walked out of the scenery and surrounding props.
“Out of the shot, PA,” someone near camera shouted.
I hauled ass back to the mess of sound equipment.
“Always take a listen after making a mic adjustment,” Paul said without skipping a beat, as if we’d been talking the entire time. He handed me his headphones again before busying himself with buttons and levels on his mixing board.
Not that this multimillion-dollar production should be trusting my untrained ears, but I obediently put the headphones on and took a listen. I heard nothing but the set ambience—faraway voices, the sound of equipment and tools—then Marion’s sudden voice gave me a start.
“I think James did wonderful during rehearsal.”
“You think?”
I raised my head, scanned the massive room, and found Marion in a secluded corner, speaking with Ethan.
“Yes,” Marion said, quiet but insistent. “And telling him how to do this scene instead of helping him find it—”
“He’s not finding shit, Marion,” Ethan spat, voice farther away but still heard through the tie mic. “I was hired to make this show a triumph, and James is an albatross.”
“Ethan.”
I picked up a fluttering, almost thumping reverberation from Marion’s microphone. Quick but constant.
Like—a heartbeat.
Marion’s heart was pounding so hard, the microphone was actually picking up the sound.
“Are you the goddamn director?” Ethan retorted.
“No,” Marion whispered, the courage in his tone waning considerably. As if this was a battle he knew from the start he’d lose.
Even from where I stood, I could see Ethan step closer and point a finger in Marion’s face that in turn caused Marion to visibly bend away from the invasion.
“Remember who made you.”
“We are not a package deal,” Marion replied.
“We’ll see about that,” Ethan answered. “Get back to one.”
I didn’t like Ethan.
Although the reason I detested the man was admittedly a bit unrelated to the actual reason for my being at Kaufman Studios. I’d had hours on set in which to study him, and Ethan’s treatment of the talent was subtle but reprehensible. With John however, he was completely cooperative, communicative, and polite. I could imagine their rapport flourishing into something collaborative—like maybe directing John’s script. Ethan had moments with him that seemed a bit too… ass-kissy, but it was clear he knew not to shit where he ate. And either John enjoyed the attention, or didn’t notice he was being sucked up to. The producer’s slightly oblivious personality made me think the latter.
John had already established that he and the director left set together in the evenings in order to watch edits in the office. So despite Ethan’s behavior suggesting he’d never double-cross John, the fact that he’d been in the vicinity of the script countless times couldn’t be disregarded. However, it was worth noting that Ethan hadn’t once left set during production hours. So while I had no hard evidence that proved him highly suspect or innocent, should Ethan had been the one to steal the script, it likely would have been in the evening.
There’d been no editing done over the weekend. And John said his script was still safe in his office Saturday night.
But still. Ethan was an egotistical prick to the nth degree.
He wasn’t a director.
He wasn’t even an artiste.
He was a manipulator and a bully.
I needed to speak with John to clarify what time Ethan had arrived on set Monday morning. But I also needed to bring his treatment of talent to John’s attention. If he was so protective of Marion and of keeping him on The Bowery, John needed to be aware of the fact that actors were uncomfortable on set with the one man allowed to interact with them.
Upset and frustrated, even.
I simply couldn’t in good conscience look the other way when Marion visibly recoiled around Ethan Lefkowitz. No success was worth it—not my case, and not a groundbreaking television show—if it came at the expense of another’s emotional safety.
I rose from the lunch table as that revelation reared its ugly head. I was willing to compromise—no. It wasn’t compromising anything if I simply asked John to be more cognizant. I moved with the intention of making a quick dash to his office, when a few seats down, Davey stood as well. I watched him pick up his jacket from the back of the chair, pull his arms through the sleeves, pat the pockets, and walk out of the room.
Cigarette break.
Shit.
Davey had been doing a good job at keeping real low-key that day. Even being granted set access all morning, I’d found it difficult to keep eyes on him and had been unable to confirm where he occasionally disappeared to. Now that I had a hot second in which to corner him, I wanted to go the opposite direction and spend the last few minutes of my break with John. I hesitated on my feet, mentally flip-flopping over which angle was more important. I’d even reacquainted myself with nicotine last night, after years of being smoke-free, because of the tobacco stains I’d noticed on Davey’s fingernails. A cigarette break was the closest thing to water-cooler chitchat with these folks, and I couldn’t afford to miss those opportunities.
After all, people love to talk.
People love to gossip.
It didn’t matter if it was a high-rise, corporate accounting office, or the back lot of a film set. Universally, humans craved knowledge of one another. Gossip was a tool—a currency—in which individuals bonded or excluded those who didn’t support a group mentality. Statistically speaking, Davey would spill something interesting to me sooner or later. There was no denying human hardwiring. Also, taking into consideration his antipathy toward me, it would likely result in boasting to belittle me. And that was fine. Because when men shoot the breeze, it’s usually in regard to status or position.
In other words, a perfect cocktail for an admission of guilt without their knowledge.
“How’s the weather up there?” a woman beside me asked, looking up. “Breezy?”
I laughed politely. Automatically. “I’d love to have a quick smoke. Where should I go for that?”
She pointed in the direction Davey slipped out. “Take the elevator to the ground floor, but then go out the door on your immediate left. It’s the loading dock. Everyone smokes back there.”
“Thanks.”
She finger-gunned me and continued eating lunch.
I grabbed my peacoat and put it on while walking out of the room and down the long hall. I buttoned the front before slowing outside the bathroom door where I’d met Marion.
I almost stopped.
Almost poked my head inside.
>
“After lunch—I’ll be washing my hands again.”
The rebound of a lifetime. But I had a job to do.
I reached the elevator and pressed the button with my thumb. The doors opened with a ping, I stepped inside, chose the first floor, and rode it down. The ground-floor hallways were decorated with framed movie and television posters of productions filmed at the studios—Sesame Street, Nurse Jackie, Orange is the New Black. Granted, I was only familiar with the big yellow bird….
I went out the door marked LOADING DOCK and feigned surprise when Davey turned at the intrusion. “Sorry. Ah, do you mind if I smoke out here too?”
Davey raised his cigarette, licked the paper, and carefully rolled it shut. “I don’t own the place.” He put it in his mouth, fetched a Zippo lighter from his pocket, and lit the end.
I took a few cautious steps forward, the door falling shut behind me. I tapped a cigarette out of a pack I’d bought that morning, turned away from the wind, and lit it. I took a few drags and watched as Davey ignored me in favor of scrolling through a Facebook feed on his phone. “How long have you been in the industry?” I asked at length.
“Five years,” he replied absently.
“Wow.”
He grunted.
“Did you go to school for film?”
He laughed at that and looked up. “I earned my career by getting on set and doing the job.” He started to put the cigarette to his mouth before pausing long enough to say, “And a family friend didn’t help.”
Oh, touché, you little dick.
I shrugged and leaned out the open dock to tap ash onto the pavement below. “John’s a decent guy.” I gauged how much of Davey’s cigarette was left and took a deep drag from mine. The rush of nicotine made my head swim. “The PA gig is tough,” I said after blowing the smoke into the biting-cold afternoon air.
Davey finally smiled, wide and sharkish. “Giving up already?”
“No, no. But I don’t think I could make it my career.”
“It’s a stepping-stone,” Davey answered, his tone inflecting upward in a curious, knee-jerk response to some perceived criticism in my comment. He reached up and combed his fingers through his Gimli beard.
I kept my face neutral but carefully prodded at that exposed insecurity. “What’s that?”
“No one wants to be a PA until the job cripples them.”
“I see.”
“I’ve got a way out, in fact,” Davey continued. He nodded to himself, took a final drag, then squashed the leftover bit of cigarette into an overflowing ashtray some other previous crew member had left behind. “I recently took on a project. Working on lining up investors too. I won’t be organizing lemmings for a paycheck forever.”
I smiled and licked my lower lip.
INT. CHAPTER FIVE – NIGHT
John was walking toward the elevator. Another day of production had wrapped on The Bowery. I’d just stepped out of staging and into the long corridor when I recognized the shorter man from the back, dressed for going outside.
I quietly moved down the hall, easily catching up to his slower pace. “John—”
He jumped, gave a surprised shout, and practically tripped into me as he spun around.
“Easy,” I said, putting my hands out to steady him. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Rory… sorry… I didn’t hear you.” He cleared his throat and squared his round shoulders.
“You’re leaving early,” I observed, making it a point to check my watch.
“Am I?” John started walking again.
I followed him. “Can we talk for a moment?”
“Not really. I’ve got to see a man about a horse.” He turned to the elevator panel on the wall.
I reached over John’s shoulder and covered the buttons with the palm of my hand. “I am not the person to do that with.”
John huffed. He leaned back to look around me, confirmed the hall was empty, and then said, “I have a standing date every Wednesday.”
“With who?”
“Irrelevant. They’re not in the industry.” John made a shooing motion at my hand.
I didn’t budge.
“Mr. Byrne,” he said in an authoritative tone oddly reminiscent of the one every high school teacher seemed to possess. “I see a lovely young man Wednesdays at 8:00 p.m. And he charges whether or not I show up on time. Now, do you mind?” John asked with growing frustration.
First Nate. Now John. Am I the only one—
The unbridled and unfinished thought felt as startling as being doused in ice water. Quite suddenly I was—what? Offended? Disappointed? Not exactly. Because I could literally not care any less how John conducted himself in private.
The realization had nothing to do with John.
Nothing to do with Nate, even.
And everything to do with me.
The stark truth was, I was a good—damn good—investigator. But I’d never once been able to stop looking for deception, even in my own love life. I sabotaged myself. Went out of my way to isolate myself. To lose myself in the job.
Zero drama. Maximum efficiency.
My life was fulfilled.
But was it… happy?
I physically jerked at the notion, as if it were the painful sting of some venomous creature.
John was staring hard, brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I lied. I moved my hand and pressed the elevator button.
The doors opened, but John was still giving me a doubtful expression.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. I reached my arm out over John’s head so the doors wouldn’t close. “You’re going to be late.”
“Shit. Right.” And just like that, John was done worrying about me. He quickly boarded the elevator.
I stepped in beside him, chose the ground floor, and said as the doors slid shut, “I have some concerns regarding a crew member.”
“You found the thief?” John exclaimed.
“No.” I looked sideways. “It’s about Mr. Lefkowitz.”
“Ethan? What about him?”
“What time did he arrive on set Monday morning?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Positive?”
John looked annoyed. “Yes, of course. I met him at the elevator, in fact. We walked onto set together.”
So Ethan hadn’t arrived before John to grab the script that morning.
“I witnessed some disconcerting behavior today,” I said next. “I know this is unrelated to my investigation, but—” I took a moment to collect my thoughts. John already seemed upset. Tread carefully. “Ethan appeared to have caused a fair amount of discomfort to your talent while on set today.”
“What? No! He’s a little intense, I do agree with you there,” John babbled, waving a hand. “But he’s the real deal. Raw. Powerful. He’s got a vision for—”
“I’m only asking that you keep an eye on him.”
The doors opened.
John stepped out first, shaking his head and pulling out those silly wraparound earmuffs from his coat pocket. “I will, but believe you me, he’s one of the good guys.”
“I can’t not investigate certain people, simply because you insist,” I replied, stepping out after him. “The investigation loses integrity that way.”
John started for the front doors while saying, “I’ll worry about Ethan. You worry about—Marion!”
Said man appeared as we turned the corner. He stood in front of the glass doors, bundled in his winter coat. He raised his mouth from the folds of his scarf, politely greeting John. And unlike earlier, when I might as well have been invisible on set, Marion’s gaze zeroed in on me like a gunshot to the chest.
“Get home safe, honey,” John told Marion as he brushed past and opened the doors.
“Yes, you too, John,” Marion called. He never took his eyes off me.
This man was not making my job easy.
The cold air from outside ruffled Marion’s hair before the doors fell shut
. He smiled and said, “I washed my hands earlier. Must have missed you.”
“Sorry about that. I was bonding with the Key PA.”
“Davey. Did you braid his beard?”
I laughed. “Had a smoke.”
“Are you two BFFs now?”
“No. He still hates me.”
Marion clucked his tongue. His eyes glimmered, and I knew I was being laughed at.
“What’re you doing?” I asked him.
Marion jutted a thumb over his shoulder at the doors. “Waiting for my ride.” He added after a brief pause, “You weren’t outside. I didn’t think you’d left yet, so I waited here.”
Fuck. This wasn’t fair. And that, in and of itself, was a childish thought, fueled by nothing but primal desire and frustrating, professional limitations. I’d never been so keenly attracted to someone as I was to Marion. Every man I’d been with, from the onset, I knew—hell, expected—to be an ex. But I didn’t feel that inevitable finale when I stared at Marion’s sweet, charming face.
And that I was thinking about a tomorrow with him when there wasn’t even a now was absurd.
When had I become this? A man brought to his knees by a bit of harmless flirting from someone a decade younger. It had to be some instinctual, rebellious action because my brain knew I couldn’t have Marion. Because there was a case. Boundaries between us. And after I wrapped everything up, the only place I’d see Marion would be on television reruns.
Except… that hurt.
Hurt like hell to think about.
“Don’t stop flirting.” Marion’s voice broke through the cascade of self-deprecating thoughts. “I was having fun.”
I could lose my job—my career—by screwing around with him. And yet, the foundation of the wall between us was eroding as if having been battered by relentless tides for a century. Right now, right here, I could so easily convince myself to have fun tonight.
John had made it clear he didn’t want me treating Marion Roosevelt as a suspect. Did I even believe him to be one?
