"Yeah, it's about what I make a month, since we negotiated our new deal." The man who had once called her an asshole waited, clearly expecting Tess to say something cutting or sarcastic, but she was at a loss.
"Well… thanks. That's huge."
Ben seemed a little disappointed that rudeness had failed her for once. "The movie's starting. We should go back to our seats."
"It's a television show."
"Well, we call it the movie sometimes."
"And actresses are actors. Sorry, I've been out of the loop."
Before the screening of the pilot, Flip took the stage and made a little speech, thanking the crew and the city, hitting all the right self-deprecatory notes. Tess remembered him at Greer's memorial service, how well he had spoken there, too. Yes, Flip had the knack of saying the right words in the right way, but did he ever mean any of them? Here he was, praising his father's hometown to the skies, knowing that he wouldn't be returning. He had gotten what he needed out of the city and was moving on. The people who were laughing appreciatively at his jokes and witticisms would have to find new gigs, perhaps move to other cities for work.
Flip returned to his seat to enthusiastic applause, and Mann of Steel began with a bright, peppy credit sequence that made Baltimore look like the Disney version of a working-class town. Tess watched, absorbed in spite of herself. It was actually pretty good. But as the show wore on, she couldn't help noticing that something had changed. She had changed. Aware now of what happened behind the camera, she couldn't stop breaking down the effects required by each scene. There was Mann in the union office, but all Tess could focus on was pudgy, vain Johnny Tampa and the view through the window, which she now knew to be translights, computer digitized images lighted for daytime. She watched Selene float into the frame, and she thought about how the camera must have rolled along a track to create that giddy, gliding sensation. She listened to the sounds of a modern port, knowing much of it had been overlaid later, in a studio. She saw the moon rise and wondered if that had been easier or more difficult to capture than a sunrise, or if some stupid local girl had blundered into that shot as well.
And then, just like that, it was over.
With the crew present, the credits were one of the indisputable highlights, applause and shouts greeting each name. Even Tess found herself applauding one small line of type — based on a short story by Bob Grace. With eight episodes this season and a pickup for next, that credit was better than an annuity for Marie Sybert, Bob's heir. That had been Flip's idea, but it hadn't been done out of kindness, or even a belief that George Sybert had a legitimate claim. It was simply the cheapest way to buy Sybert's silence, to end any embarrassing talk of theft and plagiarism. More important to Flip, it kept his father out of things. For the thing that bugged Flip the most, Ben had told Tess, was not the possibility that someone would think his idea was stolen, but that it had been offered to his father first.
Lloyd's credit — assistant to Mr. Marcus — was at the very end, one of a long list. Tess and Crow hooted, pumping their fists, while Lloyd pretended to be profoundly humiliated. Or maybe he wasn't pretending. Tess noticed that others in the crew had cheered, too, and felt encouraged. Maybe Lloyd had found his place in the world, a place where he could succeed.
"It's so much better than I thought it would be," she whispered to Crow as the lights came up.
"Well," he said, gathering up the debris at their feet, "based on everything you ever told me, it would have to be."
"No, I mean it's good, really good. When I could forget how they did things — and when I could forget that the leads were played by two people I loathe — it was really affecting, and surprisingly funny. They got Baltimore right. Sort of."
She wondered if she would ever be able to watch a television show or a film in the same way again, now that she knew too much. She wondered if it was even possible to know too much about something — or someone — that you had once loved. And she had loved movies, once upon a time, not even a decade ago, when it was unthinkable not to be in line at the multiplex every weekend, when it was urgent and essential to see movies the very night they opened. In college, she had once driven to a Philadelphia art house, a distance of more than a hundred miles, to see — well, what was it that she had driven almost two hours to see? A German film, possibly Herzog, maybe Wenders. The American Friend? Aguirre, The Wrath of God? That was it — Aguirre, a film in which a character clutched something secret and vital in his hand, yet died without ever revealing what it was. Tess had left the theater almost in a swoon, so dazed and rapt by Herzog's images that she forgot to get a cheese steak on her way out of town.
Yet here was Lloyd, who knew far more about what happened behind the scenes than she did, and it was still magical for him. In fact, the movies might just save Lloyd's life.
"Dinner?" Crow asked.
"Sure," Tess said. "Lloyd's choice. It's his night, after all." So what if he picked some lowbrow franchise? A little grease was probably good for the stomach and the soul.
She glanced back at Flip and Ben, surrounded by well-wishers and sycophants, all those little moths beating their wings against the bright promise embodied in the two friends' careers. Tess could all but read their thoughts: If only they had a contact, an in, a friend of a friend of a friend. If only they could tell someone of their amazing ideas, they would be rich beyond their wildest dreams.
Someone — an older man, the kind of person who seldom attracted a second glance, whether alone or in a crowd — appeared to be thrusting an envelope toward Ben, but he was much too slick for that now. He raised his hands, as if to surrender — then shoved them back into his pockets and quickly walked away, motioning Flip to follow. The man rescued his envelope from the theater's sticky floor and watched them go, his face still weary with hope.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I put these things at the end for a reason, so be forewarned: You might read something here that will spoil part of the story for you.
This is a work of fiction. Seriously. Yes, I am married to a television producer, David Simon, one of those behind HBO's The Wire. But The Wire, during its six years in Baltimore, had little drama behind the scenes. The actors were down-to-earth; the crew worked hard; the only real drama queen along the way was the former mayor of Baltimore. In order to write this novel, I had to create my own show — not just the concept, but its cast and crew, its behind-the-scene problems and interpersonal relationships — wholly from scratch. The only true thing in this book is that people in television work harder than most of us can ever imagine.
In that light this book is dedicated to the memory of Bob Colesberry, an executive producer on The Wire for seasons one and two. No one ever worked harder on filmmaking, or loved it more. Bob died just as season three was beginning to prep. I don't want to pretend to a greater friendship with him than I had, but I will be forever grateful to Bob because (a) he was always up for a good meal and (b) he helped keep my significant other happy and relatively sane. (David once described their working relationship, which dates back to The Corner, as one of the most successful shotgun marriages in history.) Nina K. Noble continues in that latter capacity, bless her and all the other Nobles — David, Nick, and Jason. Ditto, Joe Chappelle. William F. Zorzi Jr. and George Pelecanos also were sources of ballast, and while I wouldn't say that Ed Burns keeps David sane, he does help him to stay grounded and makes the work better in every way. It's impossible to name everyone in our extended Wire family, which included virtually every department head and actor, but I do want to give a shout-out to Karen Thorson and John Chimples. Last but never least, I am indebted to Laura Schweigman, David's assistant. "The good Laura," as we often call her, is sweet, conscientious, and supercapable. She was kind enough to take time, in the middle of her sixteen-hour days, to explain to me the inner workings of a production office.
While I'm on the subject of family — Ethan Simon is the best son that any hardworking father ever had and the best company his stepmom has
ever known; Ethan's mom, Kayle Tucker Simon, could make a claim to being Ms. Incredible, given her flexibility in the face of unending chaos.
As for my sanity — to the extent that I have any, I credit the staff of Spoons and Todd Bauer. I also owe props to Linda Perlstein and John Miller, good neighbors and good friends. Besides, John let me use his iPhone to see just how quickly a novice could learn to navigate the device without any instruction.
Two names in this text appear here because of donations made, respectively, to Health Care for the Homeless and the Parks & People Foundation's Ella Thompson Fund. Thank you, gentlemen, for your generosity to two causes that mean so much to my household. You know who you are.
Finally, partial spoiler here: Zervitz v. Hollywood Pictures was a real lawsuit and is presented here in a factual light, based on my own reporting during my years at the Sun. I never wrote about the case, but I read the entire court file and interviewed several of the principals. Any errors — whether they involve the production of a television show, legal issues, the tenancy rate or security systems at Tide Point, or even the regular presence of a Kobe beef hamburger on the menu at Nasu Blanca — are my own, the consequence of oversight, manipulation, or downright wishful thinking.
About the Author
LAURA LIPPMAN was a newspaper reporter at the Baltimore Sun for twelve years. Her previous novel, What the Dead Know, was a New York Times bestseller. Her Tess Monaghan books — By a Spider's Thread, The Last Place, The Sugar House, Baltimore Blues, Charm City, Butchers Hill, and In Big Trouble — have won the Edgar, Agatha, Shamus, Anthony, and Nero Wolfe awards, and In a Strange City was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. Lippman is also the author of the critically acclaimed stand-alone novel Every Secret Thing. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
www.lauralippman.com
ALSO BY LAURA LIPPMAN
What the Dead Know
No Good Deeds
To the Power of Three
By a Spider's Thread
Every Secret Thing
The Last Place
In a Strange City
The Sugar House
In Big Trouble
Butchers Hill
Charm City
Baltimore Blues
Another Thing To Fall Page 26
