by Parnell Hall
I put up my hand. “Sidney, let me get this straight. It isn’t the scene you object to, it’s the way it’s integrated in the script? So you don’t want me to rewrite the scene, you want me to rewrite the connecting material?”
“No, rewrite the scene too. Some of the action’s all right, but look at the dialogue. Is there any line you’re in love with? I wouldn’t think so. So throw it out, and give me something else. And when you write it, consider who’s doing it. I mean, these lines are okay, but not for Jason Clairemont.”
That was too much. I looked at him. “You want me to tailor the lines to this actor?”
Sidney looked at me in surprise. “What, are you nuts? Of course I do. And that’s a good point. The rest of the movie—you’ve got to give it a dialogue polish. Think Jason Clairemont, and make it sound like him.”
“Oh yeah? What the hell does he sound like?”
“Didn’t you see To Shoot the Tiger?”
“Yeah.”
“Like that.”
“That’s one movie. Does he always sound the same?”
“A kid like him? I should think so.”
“He’s just going to play himself?”
“What would be the point of havin’ him if he didn’t play himself? Look, you are not dealing with Dustin Hoffman here. Consider you got a one-trick pony. To Shoot the Tiger’s out on video cassette. Get a copy, watch it, make him sound like that. Well, hello.”
I turned, looked over my shoulder to see Sergeant MacAullif bearing down on us.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Sergeant,” Sidney said. “We don’t start shooting for two weeks.”
“Yeah, I know,” MacAullif said. “In the meantime, I do have this murder investigation.”
“Oh? What’s new?”
“Well, there’s the autopsy results. Death was a blow to the back of the head—you know that. But we got the time of death pinned down now. At least, narrowed the field. According to the medical examiner, it could have happened day before yesterday any time between noon and six o’clock.”
“That’s a fairly broad range.”
“Best we could do,” MacAullif said. “So what were you doin’ Monday afternoon between twelve and six?”
“I love it,” Sidney said. “Hot damn, I love it. Just like in the movies. What were you doin’ between the hours of twelve and six. Sergeant, I’m going to work you a cameo, I swear.”
“And I appreciate it. Meanwhile, you thought of an answer?”
“Are you serious?”
“Just doin’ my job.”
“Good lord,” Sidney said. “Well, that’s a tough one. And such a broad range. Two days ago. Let me think. Ah, twelve o’clock I’d be at lunch. Monday, what did I do for lunch? Oh yes. I had lunch with Pam.”
“Who?”
“The assistant director. I took her out to lunch.”
“And just where was that?”
“I don’t remember offhand. Yes, I do. It was a deli on Fifty-seventh Street. I’m not sure of the name, but I could take you there.”
“I doubt if that will be necessary. When did you finish lunch?”
“I imagine around two.”
“And where did you go after that?”
“I think I went back to the office.”
“Did the assistant director go with you?”
“I don’t think she did. In fact, I’m sure she didn’t. She had some errand to run at the guild office.”
“And what time did you get back to the office?”
“I’m not sure. Is it important?”
“Absolutely. It’s crucial,” MacAullif said. “It’s the fact I need to crack the case.”
Sidney Garfellow looked up sharply, saw MacAullif’s deadpan, and smiled. “You have an interesting way of making a point. I like that. Okay, I would say I got back to my office around two-fifteen or two-thirty.”
“Who was there?”
“Grace, of course.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How long were you there?”
“Hold on a minute,” Sidney said. He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out what proved to be an appointment book. He opened it, flipped the pages. “Here we are. Aha. No, I was not there long. I had a meeting with my lawyer at three.”
“Lawyer? Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“No. I’m producing a movie. You ever produce a movie? Well, before you start shooting, ninety percent of it is contracts.”
“So how long did the meeting last?”
“I would say I was back in the office by at least four-fifteen.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Frankly, I can’t stand listening to lawyers. I get out of there as quick as I can.”
“Who’s your lawyer, by the way?”
“Fenton, Westpaul, and Klein. My man’s Westpaul. They have offices on Madison Avenue. Around Forty-eighth Street.”
“Uh-huh,” MacAullif said. “And after that?”
Sidney shrugged. “I have nothing in my book. I’m trying to remember.”
“So you’re not sure how long you stayed at the office?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you went back at all?”
“I think I did. But I can’t be sure. You might check with Grace.”
“Thanks. I will,” MacAullif said. “And after you left your lawyers, you have no idea where you were until six o’clock?”
“At the moment, I can’t remember.”
“Perhaps if you thought about it ...?”
“I will certainly try,” Sidney said. “Particularly since I see how crucially important it is.”
We were interrupted by a voice calling, “Mr. Garfellow.”
It was Dan the gofer. He came hurrying from the far end of the warehouse, waving his hand.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but Mr. Westpaul called. He said it was important. The phones aren’t in yet, so they sent me over.”
“Good. You can run me back.” Sidney looked at MacAullif. “Unless you have something else urgent, Sergeant?”
“Not just now,” MacAullif said.
“Right. Come on, uh, then.”
I could see Sidney hesitate on addressing the gopher, unable to come up with his name. If Dan was hurt, he didn’t show it, just turned and accompanied Sidney out the door.
Leaving me alone with MacAullif. For the first time since he’d signed onto the project.
“So,” I said. “Why are you really back here. Just a taste for show business?”
“Not at all,” MacAullif said. “I gotta tie this up before I pass it on to the next guy.”
“Pass it on?”
“Just between you and me, it’s not the type of thing gets solved. Probably be on the books for a while. Before I pass it over, I gotta tie up all the loose ends.”
“I thought you did that yesterday.”
“I thought I did too. Let everyone go.” MacAullif shrugged. “Sometimes you make a mistake.”
I frowned. “Mistake?”
“Yeah. Cops found a busted window, report to me it’s just routine—bums break in, one kills the other. That sounds good to me, the movie crew’s answered enough stupid questions, I say fuck it, let ’em go. Now I say to myself, what kind of cop are you, lettin’ those people walk just ’cause they’re movie folk?”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Equal justice under the law and all that crap. And what brings on this startling burst of conscience?”
“You’re the one called me, fuckface. You’re the one asked me to smooth this out.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said. “Anyway, what’s the punch line? How come you’re back?”
“The window. The stupid fucking window. I check it out myself and guess what? Your two-bum theory goes right out the window—no pun intended.”
“How come?”
“Where the glass fell.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. And I gotta tell you, I ch
ewed ’em out over it.”
“What about the glass?”
“It fell outside the window. Not inside the window. Like it would have if someone had smashed the glass from outside to get in. There’s no doubt about it. The glass was smashed from inside.”
8.
GRACE JENKINS BLINKED UP AT MacAullif over the top of her steel-rimmed glasses. “I don’t understand,” she said.
That was not surprising. Grace was a simple tool at best. And when Sidney Garfellow had hired the poor girl straight out of secretarial school two months ago to hold down his newly rented production office, I’m not sure what he gave her in terms of a job description, but I’d be willing to bet being grilled in a homicide wasn’t included in it. But that’s what Sergeant MacAullif was up to, and why he’d driven back to the East Eighty-sixth Street production office.
I understood the principle. If the bums didn’t get in by breaking the window they must have got in somehow, hence it became necessary to trace the key. Still, I have to tell you, I wasn’t that impressed. The phrase that came to mind was, big fucking deal. In my opinion, if the bums didn’t get in through the window they got in some other way and the key had nothing to do with it.
Of course, MacAullif wasn’t asking my opinion.
“Listen carefully,” MacAullif said. “I want you to understand the principle.”
Grace blinked. “Yes?”
“I’m investigating a murder. You know that.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Well, I have to know how the victim got into the building. You can see that, can’t you.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“So I have to keep track of the key. Because you open a building with a key.”
“I’m not stupid,” Grace said.
It was the type of remark that must have killed him. He couldn’t say anything, but I knew he had one hell of a rejoinder.
“Fine,” MacAullif said. “Then help me trace the key. You knew Jake Decker was having keys picked up from the real-estate company?”
“Of course,” she said. “I made the call.”
“What call?”
“The call saying we were picking up the keys. Jake told me to call, say Dan was going over to pick them up.”
“Why didn’t Dan call?”
“They didn’t know Dan. I’d talked to them before. So I called, telling them to expect Dan.”
“What time was that?”
“Around lunch.”
“That’s what everyone says,” MacAullif said. “Did you go out for lunch?”
“No, I had a sandwich sent in.”
“It was around then you called?”
“Yes.”
“What time of day would that be?”
“Around one.”
“And when did Dan go for the keys?”
“Then.”
“Right after you called?”
“Yeah. He was there when I called. I wrote out the address for him, and he left.”
“And when did he get back?”
“I don’t know. It was later that afternoon.”
“How much later?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Three o’clock? Four o’clock? Five o’clock?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Six o’clock?”
“Before then.”
“How do you know?”
“I went home then.”
“And he’d dropped off the keys?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I remember telling Jake that he had.”
“Jake wasn’t in the office when Dan dropped off the keys?”
“No. If I remember, Dan came back, asked me where Jake was. I said he was out, Dan said, ‘What should I do with the keys?’ and I told him to leave ’em on his desk.”
“Who was here then?”
“No one. Just me and Dan.”
“What about the boss?”
“Sidney wasn’t here either. I don’t know where he was.”
“At his lawyer, perhaps?”
“Yeah, I think he was.”
“Then it must have been early.”
“What?”
“When Dan dropped off the keys.”
“Why?”
“Because Sidney was back by four-fifteen. At least that’s how he remembers it.”
“Oh.”
“Is that how you remember it?”
“This was two days ago.”
“I know that. I know it’s hard. This is the same day you called about the keys. And Dan brought them back and left them on the production manager’s desk. Sidney wasn’t there then. But do you remember when he got back?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe I can help you. You remember the production manager getting back?”
“Huh?”
“Because you told him about the keys being on his desk.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Now what time was that?”
She made a face. “I’m not good with time.”
How MacAullif resisted saying, What are you good at? was beyond me. But he just nodded and said, “Well, we know it was before six o’clock because that’s when you went home.”
“That’s right.”
“Anyway, whatever time it was Jake Decker came in—was he alone, by the way?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When he came in and you told him about the keys—was he alone?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Did he say anything else. Like, ‘Boy, was that a long meeting,’ or ‘That guy gave me a hard time,’ or anything like that?”
She shook her head. “No. He came in and he said, ‘Where’s Dan?’”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. He was looking for Dan. To get the keys, you know.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Dan went out, but the keys are on your desk.’”
“You said Dan went out?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t say something like, ‘Oh, you just missed him’ ?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“But you might have?”
“I might have said anything. But I don’t recall saying that.”
“So the production manager probably didn’t get back to the office until sometime after Dan left. Or you probably would have said something like, ‘Oh, you just missed him’.”
She crinkled up her nose. “I guess so.”
“Anyway, you told Jake Decker the keys were on his desk. Did you tell him anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Like anything. If you were all alone in the office, you must have been answering the phone. Did you have any messages for him?”
“Phone messages? No. Oh, but Sidney wanted him to make sure he spoke to the art director to confirm the location scout.”
“You told him Sidney wanted him to do that.”
“Yes.”
“But that wasn’t a phone message?”
“No. He told me to tell him.”
“When did he tell you to tell him?”
“I don’t know. It must have been ...” Her eyes widened slightly.
“After he got back from the lawyer?” MacAullif said.
“Of course,” she said. “That’s when it was.” For the first time, her face looked animated. “I remember now. That’s why I couldn’t remember him coming back from his lawyers. I didn’t see him coming back from the lawyers. He came out of his office, he said he was leaving for the day and to make sure Jake got hold of Lance—that’s the art director—to confirm the location scout.”
“He didn’t ask about the key?”
“No.”
“This was after Dan had dropped it off.”
“It must have been. In fact, I know it was. Because it occurred to me if Jake didn’t get back before I left, I’d have to leave a note telling him that, on
his desk under the keys.”
MacAullif smiled. “Well, you’ve got a pretty good memory after all. So Dan dropped off the keys. Sometime after that Sidney came out of his office—but you never saw him go in—and told you he was leaving for the day and to tell Jake to tell the art director about the location scout. And sometime after that Jake came by and you gave him the keys and the message.”
“I didn’t give him the keys,” Grace corrected. “I just told him where they were.”
“Right,” MacAullif said. “And those were the only people in the office that afternoon.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Dan, Sidney, and Jake. Aside from you, they were the only people here.”
“Who told you that?”
MacAullif frowned. “You mean they weren’t?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“You didn’t ask me.”
MacAullif took a breath. “No, I suppose I didn’t. I’m asking now. Who was here that afternoon?”
“Oh, practically everybody.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, all the department heads. The assistant director. And the art director. And the electrician. And the cameraman. And that awful sound man.”
“All of them?” MacAullif said. “Why were they here?”
“They came by to pick up the script changes.”
“Script changes?”
I could see it coming. Prompted by the words script changes, her eyes shifted to me.
“Oh,” she said. She pointed. “And him, of course.”
9.
REHEARSALS BEGAN THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, the first day of the third and final week of preproduction.
The start of rehearsals marked a change for me in terms of my participation in the movie. Prior to rehearsal, my involvement had been akin to attempting the impossible while being pestered by swarms of bees. When rehearsals began, it was more like being drawn and quartered.
I’ll never forget that first day of rehearsal. It was on the ground floor of the warehouse, where the art director had laid out floor plans with masking tape and set out folding chairs and tables to represent Blaire’s apartment, the set for which was being constructed upstairs by the set crew even as we rehearsed.
But you don’t know who Blaire is. It’s happening to me again. I’m getting all crazy and telling this wrong. Movies do that to you.
Anyway, the plot of Hands of Havoc, Flesh of Fire, give or take a warehouse fight scene or two, was essentially this: Our hero, Rick Dalton, while in jail—for a crime he didn’t commit, natch—is tutored in karate by his cell mate, a strangely endearing aging Japanese serial killer, who takes an interest in the boy. On his release, Rick, uses his newfound skill to track down the men who framed him.
