by Nero Blanc
“Give me the gun, sir,” the officer said in a tone that sounded as if he’d been weaned on the original Dragnet.
The man in the Mercedes began to stutter. “Hey … I mean … I mean … a man’s … got a right to protect himself, right? I paid for this gun. It’s mine.”
“Give me the gun, sir.”
“But … I …”
“Give me the gun, sir.”
“He started it.”
“Give me the gun, sir.”
Rosco noted that the detective’s inflection never varied. Nor did his stance. If the man decided on a sideline as an actor, each of his “takes” would have made a production’s continuity department smile with relief.
The driver of the Mercedes swore under his breath, and reluctantly handed the .357 to the detective, who then looked at Rosco and said, “The traffic’s beginning to move up ahead, sir. Please return to your vehicle. And please, sir, don’t step out of a car on the freeway again.” Following that stentorian directive, the detective refocused on the owner of the Mercedes and .357 Magnum. “Driver’s license and registration, please, sir.”
“Hey, a man’s got a right to protect himself,” he insisted as he handed over the documents. “That clown in the Mustang came after me. Didn’t you hear his accent? He doesn’t even live here. I’ll bet that car’s a rental. I got a right to protect myself. I own that gun. It’s mine.”
“When the traffic eases, sir, please pull your vehicle to the side of the highway … And please have your pistol permit ready for inspection.”
“What? What are you talking about? What permit? You can’t do this to me, you lousy—” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Just pull your vehicle off to the side of the highway, sir.”
Rosco returned to the Mustang as the car in front of him began inching forward. When the congestion magically cleared, and he picked up speed, he could see Mr. Impatient in the mirror desperately punching numbers into his cell phone while steering his car to the side of the road. The sight brought a quick grin to Rosco’s face. Being stuck in traffic definitely had its pluses on occasion.
The remainder of the ride to Culver City proved uneventful, and he pulled into the studio a little bit after 10:30. Sara and Belle had arrived forty-five minutes earlier.
“We were beginning to worry about you,” Belle said. “Sara’s already in make-up having her hair done, and Lew Groslir wants to have a word with us in his office.”
“What’s it all about this time?”
“One way to find out.”
Don Schruko informed them that they wouldn’t be “rolling film” on Sara for another fifteen minutes, so Belle and Rosco headed toward Lew’s office, Rosco using the time to bring his wife up to speed on what he’d learned from Debra Marcollo.
Belle’s response was a laconic, “That’s quite a list of suspects she supplied … But at least we know Bart Welner didn’t shoot his nephew. Dead people seldom commit murder nowadays.”
“Lucky thing.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
During their conversation, Belle made no further reference to the previous evening’s encounter with Harriet Tammalong as Rosco’s reply to the Rolly Hoddal/Wanda Jorcrof information had been an expected, but no less irritating, “This is homicide we’re dealing with, Belle. People who take it into their heads to kill other folks aren’t always as nice or honest as they seem.” How could anyone respond to a fatuous observation like that? Belle thought. On the other hand, it was a point well worth remembering.
“Wow, that was some scare, yesterday,” Lew announced the moment the couple was seated in front of his desk. “Thank heavens Schruko kept it under his hat until Dean finished his takes. Otherwise, everyone would have freaked out.”
“You’re talking about the real bullets?” Rosco said in a tone that was half-question, half-statement.
“Yeah. That could have been a real disaster. And listen,” Lew pointed a finger and wagged it meaningfully between Belle and Rosco, “let’s keep this little dust-up between the three of us—and Ivald and Schruko, of course. It won’t help morale if the entire set learns about it.”
“How do you think those shells got there?”
“No telling, but all’s well that ends well, that’s what I say.”
“I’d be a little concerned that something like this could occur again,” Belle offered.
“What?” Lew replied with a forced chuckle. “The gun’s been returned. We got the scene, we got the shot. The weapon’s gone. End of story. No more bullets. Live or otherwise.”
But Rosco wasn’t so easily persuaded that the case had been resolved. “Who’s authorized to handle firearms on a set like this?”
“What, am I talking to a wall here?” Lew snapped. “I said, ‘end of story.’ That’s not what I brought you in here to talk about …” Groslir tapped his fingers on his desk and looked nervously from Belle to Rosco and back to Belle. “Okay, here’s the situation. Because of Chick’s death, we’re going to need Belle to stay in L.A. for the entire four-week shoot. It’s her story Darlessen adapted, so who better to fill in answers if we have questions? I mean a screenwriter can’t do justice to the real deal.” Lew held up his hand to prevent Belle from objecting. “I know what you’re going to say—’You’re not a writer.’ Not to worry. Dean can handle additional dialogue if it’s necessary … We just need you to make sure the project has a genuine look—and, also, in case any crossword-type problems arise.”
Belle refrained from mentioning that “crossword-type problems” had already arisen. Instead, she responded with a determined “I can’t do that. I want to go home.”
“You have a contract, Belle—”
“Which says she finishes work tomorrow and leaves on Saturday,” Rosco stated. He made no attempt to sound friendly or even polite.
Groslir grinned. It wasn’t one of his more loving attempts. “Lee Rennegor agreed to the three week extension—a double salary for Belle. Rosco, you stay on as well. Mrs. Briephs is the only one who returns to Massachusetts on Saturday. Dean says he’ll have all her stuff in the can by tomorrow at lunchtime.”
“We never spoke to Lee about this,” Belle stated.
The producer handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s the deal memo Rennegor signed off on.”
“Well, he never consulted me.”
“That’s between you and your agent, I’m afraid.” Groslir leaned back in his chair, his smile had turned decidedly smug. “Look, Belle, this is a good deal. Nobody gets an offer like this any more. That’s a hell of a lot of money that Rennegor weaseled out of me on your behalf, and you should be happy as a baby with clean diapers. What’s an extra three weeks? Besides, what’s it doing back there in Massachusetts? Snowing, right? The weather stinks back there. I saw it on the news last night. Snowplows all over the place.”
“Maybe we like snow,” Belle said.
“Where’d you get that? No one likes snow,” was Groslir’s dismissive response. “Well, skiers … but then, they’re always breaking things … bones and things.”
Rosco took the memo from Belle and perused it. “We have to think this over.”
The producer sat up straight and laid his hands flat on the desktop. “Well, that’s the point I’m trying to make here, Rosco. See, this situation is kinda set in stone. You can’t back out without getting into some very unpleasant breach-of-contract problems. A deal memo’s a deal memo. But, like I said the other day, it’d be nice if we could all just—get along. Now, I’ve offered you some very serious cash. Let’s do the best we can for the next three weeks and depart as friends.”
Belle and Rosco sat in stunned unhappy silence.
“See how easy that was?” Groslir continued. “I knew you two kids would see it my way.”
Rosco stared back at him. “If I’m stuck here for another three weeks, I’m going to use my time productively and find out who put live ammo in Andy Hofren’s .38.”
“Ma
ybe you didn’t hear me earlier, Rosco. I said ‘end of story’ as far as that gun situation’s concerned. If you want to push it, you can head back to the ice and snow and sleet this very afternoon.”
Rosco handed the deal memo back to Groslir. “Hey, I’ve got a contract, Lew. I’ll do whatever I want while I’m here. If you’ve got any problems, I suggest you talk them over with my agent.”
CHAPTER 29
After they’d returned to the soundstage from their tête-à-tête with Lew Groslir, Belle decided to join Sara in makeup while Rosco took up a position on the catwalk above the Vermont Inn’s “Parlor” set. Stagehands and prop people were busily dressing the furnishings below him. The metal walkway wasn’t a terrific location if an emergency required immediate response, but it afforded Rosco a good view of the entire studio. Once the lights were kicked up, he could keep an eye on Sara, as well as everyone else. An added advantage was that the lamps’ bright glare would keep anyone from seeing what he was doing. He hunkered down and commenced an all-too-familiar routine of watching and waiting.
However, given the events of the previous twenty-four hours, and the either accurate or spurious information he and Belle had gathered, it was difficult for Rosco to keep his brain plugged into only one issue; the mystery crosswords kept getting jumbled up with Belle’s return visit to the taping of Down & Across, which, in turn, returned him to Darlessen’s death, and then the .38 caliber shells that had originally been in Chick’s possession. The shells that intuition told him might be the same ones Don Schruko had found in Andy Hofren’s revolver.
The logical suspects in what might have been a major disaster had to be Don Schruko and Andy Hofren, since, as far as Rosco knew, they were the only two people who had actually handled the pistol. On the other hand, they were two of the most affable guys involved with the production. And he wondered, Why would Don put real bullets in the gun just to remove them later? On top of that, if Dan Millray had been a target for murder, Rosco could think of a heck of a lot more easier setups. Mistaken identity on a crowded freeway was the one that most readily came to mind.
As the stage lights advanced to their full wattage, Rosco kept one eye on Hofren and Schruko and another on Sara, although Rosco was beginning to question what potential danger could befall her in the busy studio. Like the loaded weapon, he could name other places where foul play would be more easily accomplished. A kidnapping on a quiet Santa Monica street was among them.
In typical Hollywood fashion, Dean Ivald was preparing to shoot one of the final scenes, although he was only a quarter of the way through the production schedule. Nearly the entire cast would be on the stage, Dan Millray being the notable exception since his character was now deader than a doornail. From his perch on the elevated walkway, Rosco felt the same perplexing sense of déjà vu that Belle had previously experienced. It was as though he’d died and been deposited in some metallic version of heaven where he was witnessing a flashback of his short time on Earth. He found it hard to ignore what was going one between the “Belle” and “Rosco” on the set, and at the same time, concentrate on Sara, Ginger Bradmin, Louis Gable, Carol Von Deney, and their attendant makeup artists and costume wizards. Trying to focus, Rosco shook his head vigorously but was only rewarded with a ringing in his ears.
The scene Ivald was filming was the one that implicated Andy Hofren’s character of murder in the first degree, an accusation that the director wanted Hofren to greet with extreme nervous indignation. Being a good actor, the behavior made Andy appear guilty of every homicide in North America for the past ten years. While Don Schruko, the second suspect in the live ammo switch, spent his time doing what he always did during a take: restlessly pacing behind the cameras while trying to anticipate whatever obscure item Ivald might holler for next.
Watching this activity, Rosco realized he needed to return to the source. The key grip had been the one to discover the live ammunition. That was the person Rosco would talk to first.
Because of the number of performers involved, nearly three hours elapsed before the scene was finished. Angles were filmed and refilmed; reverse takes and actor’s reactions were recorded; while toward the end, Ivald moved in for close-ups of his principals. Finally the director shouted, “Cut!” for the last time and glanced at his wristwatch. “All right, it’s two o’ clock people, let’s everyone break for lunch, and be back here at three-thirty. We’ll be going right into scene thirty-seven.”
Rosco caught up with Don Schruko five minutes later, and the two men retreated to the now-empty electrician’s workshop.
“I don’t know if Lew Groslir told you,” Rosco began, “but he’d like to keep this ‘live ammo’ business under wraps for fear of alarming the cast and crew.”
“Yeah, he briefed me on that.”
Rosco sat on a tall metal stool. He wanted to keep things light and conversational. If Schruko were guilty of exchanging real bullets for blanks, then the interview needed to be delicately handled. “I was just curious, but how could something like that happen?”
“You writing a book?”
Rosco laughed. “Hey, it’s not a half-bad idea.”
Don laughed as well and also sat. He then shook his head. “It’s mind-boggling how something like this could happen. I have no idea. We don’t keep any guns on the lot; for insurance purposes, the studio doesn’t own them. There’s an outfit in Inglewood that rents firearms to production companies, so Mr. Groslir uses them. They also have a live firing range, so it is possible they left the real bullets in the gun. Although, those folks have an excellent safety record.”
“Whose responsibility is it to make sure the gun’s loaded with blanks?”
“It’s one of those things that can fall through the cracks—and has—and did. On rare occasions, actors and crew members have actually been killed because of mistakes just like this. See, if a gun is fired off-camera, then it’s the responsibility of someone on my team. A grip would have fired that gun, and I would have checked it out beforehand, personally. But once the pistol gets into the shot, then it becomes a prop. It’s fired by an actor, so it’s the prop department’s look-out. It’s a union thing. Once that gun and Andy’s hand moved into the camera’s frame, the .38 instantly became a prop. The mix-up factor’s in here because according to the original script, the stage directions read ‘off-camera gunshot,’ which is why props obviously never bothered to check the gun.”
“So, why did you check it if it was basically the prop department’s job?”
Don frowned. Rosco noted the look of genuine consternation on his face. If directors felt ownership of their productions, key grips probably felt equally responsible for work running smoothly. “Dumb luck. As they were rehearsing the scene, I noticed the box of blanks on the prop table, and the seal hadn’t been broken yet. My assumption was that props had just forgotten to load the dang thing, or didn’t realize it was their job; so I went over to check it out.”
“And you told no one until after Dean Ivald wrapped it up?”
“I have to agree with Mr. Groslir, this is the kind of situation that could ruin morale on a shoot, especially after the accident that put Nan out of commission and the original ‘Rosco’s’ car crash … There’s been too much yack about a jinxed set, and we all know how superstitious actors can be … The way I saw it, it was Dean’s call as to when the others were told; my decision was to stay mum until that shot was in the can.”
“But if the ‘outfit in Inglewood’ didn’t leave the shells in the .38, then as far as I can tell, you and Andy Hofren were the only ones to handle it.”
“I wish it were that easy, but the pistol sat on the prop table, along with the box of blanks, from the time it arrived on the set at 9:00 A.M. until Andy grabbed it for the shot. Anyone could have fooled with it.”
“Did Ivald return the shells to you?”
“No. He kept them … What’s with all these questions?”
“Nothing, really,” Rosco said, backtracking. He decided that the
“casual observer questions” had gone as far as they could without arousing suspicion. “I’m just fascinated by this business. I’ve been keeping a journal … Plus, as an excop, we always had concerns about munitions, station house safety, and accountability.” He glanced at his watch. “Say, do you want to grab some lunch? I’m starved.”
“Thanks, but I always bring mine. Some of the other grips and me play a few hands of Hearts during the breaks. I’ll ask them if they saw anyone playing with that gun, but as much as I hate to admit it, my guess is that the guys in Inglewood screwed up big time.”
“I guess Lew Groslir will have something to say about that.”
Don shrugged. “No telling.”
By the time Rosco reached the commissary, Belle and Sara had been joined by Louis Gable, Carol Von Deney, Jes Nadema, and Madeline Richter, leaving no room for him at their table, so he sat by himself, with his turkey sandwich and coffee, and wondered if Don was right, and the bullets had been accidentally left in the .38 by the ‘outfit in Inglewood.’ It seemed plausible. Horrific, but plausible.
“Ah, the loneliness of the celebrity’s spouse,” Dean Ivald said, looking down at Rosco. “May I join you, or are you into a Zen-turkey-sandwich thing that requires absolute solitude?”
“No. Please, have a seat.”
Ivald placed his sandwich and bottle of designer water on the table and sat. “That scene we just completed worked like clockwork. Coordinating that many actors can be quite a headache. Your Mrs. Briephs is the find of the century. I do hope she’s enjoying her time out here?”
“I think she is. I think she found you ‘most charming’ at dinner the other night.”
“I could say the same about her. It almost makes me wish you and your lovely wife were playing your own parts, as well.”
