A Knife to Remember jj-5

by Jill Churchill

  Shelley and Jane both burst into laughter at the incongruity of it.

  A plump, frazzled woman in her sixties pushed through them and approached Maisie. "Nurse! Nurse! That girl with the awful spots! What did she have?"

  “Just chicken pox, Olive. Nothing to worry about.

  I've sent her home. Miss Harwell has had chicken pox, hasn't she?”

  The older woman sighed with relief. "Yes. When she was only four and a half, poor darling. She was terribly sick. Can you only get it once?"

  “Yes, only once."

  “Well, that's good. Thank you. I'll just take Miss Harwell some nice herb tea and tell her not to be concerned.”

  They waited until the woman was out of earshot, busily fussing around the craft service table, before Jane whispered to Maisie, "Who in the world is that?"

  “That is Miss Olive Longabach, Lynette Harwell's lifelong keeper. Apparently she was some kind of governess or nanny when Harwell was a kid and just stayed on with her. She's listed on the tech list as Harwell's 'dresser,' but she's dresser, keeper, social secretary, and all-round mother tiger. Poor old thing has no life of her own at all."

  “I need an Olive Longabach of my own," Jane mused. "Where do you think I might pick one up."

  “Just get yourself born into wealth in your next life," Shelley said, then after a pause added, "or be born a man and get married.”

  Since filming had apparently been suspended for the moment, Jane got up and edged close to the nearest fake building. There was, as she had hoped, a bit of a setback to one of the flats and she was able to peer out between them and see a slice of the field.

  She'd looked at this abandoned area, withoutreally seeing it, for nearly twenty years, but it was virtually unrecognizable now. It was literally crammed with people and equipment. Not merely actors and cameras — she would have expected those — but dozens of people in grubby modern dress, all appearing extremely busy, and enough lights and stands to illuminate a baseball stadium. There were twelve-foot-square screens on frames set here and there and the hulking condor with the floodlights was being moved, chugging along snaillike as young men slapped sheets of plywood in front of its treads so it wouldn't sink into the ground.

  There was also, to Jane's delight, a straggling row of tall wood and canvas chairs with the principal actors' names stenciled on them. "Just like in the movies!" she whispered to herself, grinning.

  The sheer clutter of it was amazing. It seemed as though everybody on the whole set had brought some kind of bag along, some of them very nearly suitcase-sized. These were piled in heaps, thrown in odd corners, slung over the uprights of the chairs, and all the miscellaneous objects in one area were being moved as she watched. The actors' chairs, with the books, bags, knitting, and snapshot cameras associated with them, were being hauled off to a new site. Bags, light stands, and big electrical cables were likewise being dragged away.

  Suddenly, a voice only inches away, but on the opposite side of the building flat, startled her. "Such a very nice boy you are.”

  Jane recognized Lynette Harwell's distinctive tone. For some reason Harwell's voice always reminded Jane of the old-fashioned phrase "Ashes of Roses." Elegant, extremely feminine without being shrill, understated, a little husky. No, more whispery. I'm standing a few inches from a movie star! Jane thought.

  “I wonder if you've ever considered going into the business? With that profile and physique, you could probably get tons of work. And beefcake never goes out of style, you know," Lynette was saying.

  “Not really, ma'am. I just live nearby and thought this would be fun," Mike answered.

  Mike. This woman was talking to her son Mike about going into the movies! Horrified, Jane almost burst through the scenery before she could get a grip on herself. The dirty old woman! Talking to Mike—her Mike — about beefcake! This was an obscenity! And to think how she herself had helped Mike get on the set. It was like a mother mouse shoving her young into a cage of eagles! Apparently they moved away because, try as she might, Jane couldn't hear either voice again. She stood there fuming for a moment before someone else approached the other side of the scenery.

  She heard footsteps rustle the grass, then an unidentifiable voice saying, "What is it? I've got things to do."

  “It's about that scene this afternoon. The kid who was supposed to be in it has come down with something."

  “Shit! Does Roberto know?"

  “Yeah. But you know what I want and I need your help.”

  They were speaking in emphatic whispers, a gravelly, unisex sound. Jane had no idea who was speaking or even what sex they were.

  “I'm not on good terms with Roberto. It's all we can do to stay in the same state together without killing each other. I'm not gonna fight your battles."

  “I wouldn't walk off if I were you, and I wouldn't take that attitude either," the first voice said, low with menace.

  Jane was practically leaning against the flat.

  “What's that supposed to mean?" the second unknown said. Even filtered through the scenery, there was just the smallest hint of fear in the voice.

  “You don't want to forget that we go way back together. Remember Bambi's Bed? And Frat House Orgy? Wonderful films. A great credit to your acting skill.”

  There was a long pause, then the second voice said, "How do you know about those?"

  “I know, that's all. Think what the media would make of it," the first went on. "You know, I don't believe they've ever given one of those presidential honors or Oscars or anything else to anybody with porno films on the old credit list. Maybe you'll be the first.”

  Whatever response the second speaker gave must have been with a gesture, because no more words were spoken. Jane heard somebody walk off and then the unknown voice muttered, "Son of a bitch!”

  5

  Jane staggered back to where Shelley and Maisie were talking and sat down heavily on her lawn chair.

  “What's wrong?" Shelley asked. "You look like somebody's been slapping you around with a baseball bat.”

  Maisie wandered off to refill her coffee cup.

  “A couple things," Jane said, trying to sound calm. "I've just been listening to a blackmail attempt not to mention somebody talking dirty to my own child."

  “My, you do get around," Shelley said.

  Jane explained first about the conversation she'd overheard between Mike and Lynette Harwell.

  Shelley listened with a tolerant expression. "Jane, you're exaggerating this in your own mind. She was probably just trying to be helpful. In a tacky way, I'll admit," she said.

  “Shelley, you didn't hear her. It was downright Mae West — ish! Seductive! You know that voice she's got; she could soften up an eggshell just by talking to it."

  “Jane, I don't mean to depress you more, but Mike's a few months away from going to college.

  You've got to trust that you raised him right, and you know you have.”

  Jane considered. "No, I think I'll just take him home and lock him in his room until he's thirty. There are good educational channels on television. He can learn from them. It's all because I agreed to go away for the weekend with Mel. I've set a depraved example and ruined him.”

  Shelley laughed. "Mike isn't ruined. It's Harwell who's got a problem. She's old enough to be his mother!"

  “Oh, God! Don't say that!" Jane groaned.

  But Shelley was on a roll. "Besides, if somebody were to seduce him, better her than some bimbo teenager who might end up as your pregnant daughter-in-law."

  “Shelley, have you ever thought about going into the business of professional counseling?"

  “No. "

  “Then don't. You wouldn't be good at it." Shelley smiled. "Jane, you do know you're going off the deep end, don't you?"

  “Yes, but I thought a nice plunge into despair might be an antidote to the cheerfulness I've been feeling lately. I don't feel I'm being a good mother if I don't worry myself into a froth about something fairly regularly."

/>   “So what were you saying about blackmail?"

  “Blackmail? Oh, yes! While I was standing over there I heard somebody trying to persuade somebody to talk to the director about doing something."

  “Oh, that is enlightening!" Shelley said. "Who are these somebodies?"

  “I couldn't tell. But it was real blackmail."

  “Is this the same kind of berserk overstatement you were making about Mike and Harwell?"

  “No, not at all. The one person was saying he or she had some kind of proof about the other person being in porn movies and how they never give prestigious awards to people like that. And this person would keep it a secret if the other one would talk to the director."

  “But about what?"

  “I don't know. But they both seemed to."

  “Surely you have some idea of whether it was a man and a woman or two men or whatever?" Shelley asked.

  “No, not really. I have the impression it was men, but I know it's only because it was a brutal kind of conversation I don't associate with women. ."

  “You ought to get to a beauty shop more often to be cured of that idea," Shelley said.

  “What are you two plotting?" Maisie said. Jane and Shelley hadn't noticed that she'd rejoined them.

  In an undertone, Jane repeated to Maisie what she'd overheard.

  Maisie shook her head in disgust. "The blackmailer was probably Jake. He's that sort of unprincipled person. It's a wonder he's still walking and breathing. As far as I can tell, he's mortally offended nearly everyone he's ever worked with."

  “Then how does he get work? Doesn't the director

  know him? Why would he hire him?" Jane asked.

  "Oh, Jane," Maisie said. "The director doesn't

  hire him. The director is just an employee like everybody else, although he's a very important employee and would never admit to being part of the 'hired help.' It's the producer who puts the whole staff together. And the reason Jake gets work is because he's so fantastically good at what he does. He just sits here in the middle of his vast national spiderweb of contacts and can lay his hands on any object you'd ever imagine. You want an eighteenth century tea service or a Revolutionary era spinning wheel or a Meissen toilet — you name it and Jake produces it without any fuss or bother. It just miraculously appears. Nobody likes him much, but he's very, very good at what he does. It's the same way with the principal actors. An extra has to be very agreeable, but a principal — if they're good enough — can get away with murder.”

  Jane had been listening, but her mind had fastened on a detail. "Are there such things as Meissen toilets?”

  Before Maisie could reply, Shelley asked, "So who's the producer on this production? Anybody we've ever heard of?"

  “I'm not sure. It's a weird thing," Maisie said. "It seems to be a consortium of people, but the front man is a little nerd nobody's ever heard of. He hangs around twitching and gulping nervously and makes lots of phone calls checking in with whoever he represents. That's him over there on the phone now.”

  Maisie pointed to a rattled rabbit of a man speaking into the set telephone with his hand over the receiver so he wouldn't be overheard. "Sometimes the money people like to stay in the background and run things from there," Maisie went on. "Not often, but it happens."

  “But you told the person in your office that you were going to be talking to the producer soon," Jane said, then regretted this proof that she'd been eavesdropping.

  Maisie didn't seem to mind. "I lied," she said cheerfully. "But it got me what I wanted in a hurry."

  “I've always wondered what a producer does. You always see that on credits," Jane said.

  “Oh, the producer's everything," Maisie replied. "The producer acquires the property — the story, that is — hires everybody from the scriptwriter to the janitor, and, most important, rounds up the money to make the film in the first place. That's a huge undertaking. It costs millions and millions to make a film. Even a television movie costs three or four million these days.”

  Jane was only half listening. Her eyes had strayed from the producer's representative to Jake, who had reappeared and was having an intense whispered conversation with the young woman Jane had noticed him speaking to earlier — the pretty girl in the sweat-stained, scorched dress. He was looking pleased and smug, but this time the girl was obviously mad as hell. She had her hands on her hips and her pretty face was drawn into an unattractive scowl. She snapped something at him_ and tried to walk away, but he grabbed her elbow roughly and pulled her back. She looked down at his hand with an indignant expression, and he reluctantly turnedloose of her. But now he was angry, too. His fair face flushed and his handsome features were pinched. Jane nudged Shelley and pointed discreetly. Shelley, in turn, whispered to Maisie, "Speaking of the devil."

  “Our little Angela doesn't seem exactly happy to have him leering over her," Maisie said in an undertone. "I'm glad. She seems like a nice girl. I wonder how she got herself tied up with him."

  “Is she?" Jane asked. "Tied up with him, I mean."

  “Good point," Maisie said. "Maybe not. He pays a lot of attention to her and acts possessive. But now that you mention it, I don't recall seeing any signs of his interest being reciprocated."

  “Who is she, this Angela?" Jane asked.

  “Just an extra," Maisie answered.

  Their conversation was cut short by the entrance of the director into the craft service area — and "entrance" it was. Roberto Cavagnari was a stocky little tractor of a man with dark, flashing eyes, designer jeans, and a flamboyant green velvet poncho that would have looked effeminate on anybody less aggressively male. He didn't walk; he strutted. He didn't speak; he proclaimed. Underlings schooled around him like minnows around a handsome, glittering trout.

  “Call the weatherman," he ordered in what sounded to Jane suspiciously like a fake Italian accent. "I won't have overcast sky today." Jane wondered if he really supposed that weathermen ordered the weather rather than merely reporting it. A toady ran to do his bidding.

  “Mister Cavagnari, if I could just have a word wi—" somebody said.

  But the underling's request was lost in the next declaration. "I will have coffee. Mocha. Extra sugar," Cavagnari announced. Another assistant rushed to do the maestro's bidding, but he stopped her with an authoritative snap of his stubby, beringed fingers. "No, I will prepare it myself so it's done correctly," he said in the tones an empress might have used to say she'd do her own mending. Underlings fell back, nearly bowing, as he approached the snack table.

  “Ja, mein herr," Shelley said under her breath.

  “I think you've got the wrong country," Jane whispered. "I think we're supposed to be chanting, `Duce! Duce!' “

  Shelley laughed and Cavagnari whirled and glared at them for a moment before turning back to the preparation of his mocha coffee.

  A second later he bellowed, "Jake! Jake! Here she is, my watch! I told you to look here.”

  Jake materialized at his side. "I did look for it here. Not half an hour ago."

  “You did not use your eyes, Jake. It was here, beneath a chip wrapper."

  “I am very good at seeing objects! I searched thoroughly," Jake said firmly. "It was not here."

  “But you see? Here. . just here before my eyes." He slipped the watch on.

  “I tell you it was not—"

  “Enough, Jake! I have spoken. It is done.”

  Jake subsided, obviously furious at having bothhis judgment and his eye for details questioned, but apparently unwilling to anger Cavagnari further. His eyes narrowed and he looked around the group as if daring anyone else to criticize him. Then his expression turned deeply thoughtful.

  Cavagnari discoursed briefly on the proper way to prepare his coffee, most of his audience pretending rapt attention. Then, when it was done to his satisfaction, he sipped and said, kissing his fingertips and offering them to heaven, "Perfect! Now, we will do the close-ups of scene fourteen, then luncheon.”

  He swept a
way, underlings trailing like the train of a coronation gown.

  “Wow!" Shelley breathed. "That's an extraordinary display of ego run amok.”

  Maisie nodded. "Yes, but would you cross him? Or insist on your own interpretation of a role? You've got to be pretty ostentatious to intimidate actors."

  “Jake stood up to him pretty well," Jane said.

  “Jake's a fool," Maisie said dismissively.

  But Jane was still looking at Jake and was thoroughly chilled by the sight of the small, secretive smile on his face.

  Shelley followed Jane's preoccupied gaze and said quietly, "He's scary, isn't he?"

  “I don't know whether to be scared of him or for him," Jane said, involuntarily shivering.

  6

  The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, at least for the moviemakers. For Jane, every new discovery was an event. She started out by prowling carefully through her neighbors' yards. In her own was the craft service setup and the "location office," which consisted of a table covered with stacks of paperwork and a phone. Two "honey wagons," which was what the trailer-type dressing rooms with bathrooms were somewhat obscenely called, were parked on Shelley's property. These were divided into tiny cubicles with doors along the long side, on which were written the principal actors' names. Jane was dying to get a glimpse of the inside of a cubicle, but nobody was around them just then and she couldn't peep through any open doors.

  The house to the other side of Jane's had the wardrobe changing tent and the meal tent. Both were crude arrangements. The meal tent just had long trestle tables and wooden folding chairs. There was an odd piece of equipment at one end that she discovered was a kerosene heater, used at breakfast when it was still cold outside. The changing tent had a men's entrance at one end, a women's at the other,and a sheet hung between. There were lightweight wardrobe racks standing around the perimeter and everybody changed in the center of each section.

  The wardrobe truck itself was in the yard beyond. This contained more substantial racks and a desklike arrangement where a young man was intent on updating the apparently meticulous records kept on each article of clothing. There was a minuscule washer and dryer in the truck as well as a sewing machine and a setup for ironing. Jane had once been "backstage" at a circus and this looked much the same: all the necessities of life made miniature and portable at a moment's notice.