The Notorious Pagan Jones

by Nina Berry

  Devin was trotting up the grand staircase, though, having spoken to a guide, so she reminded herself of her mission to learn more about him and followed. Above, the ceiling was painted cerulean blue and festooned with pink cherubs. The hall upstairs was far grander, with a shiny parquet floor and huge windows reflected in the long wall of mirrors.

  “And I thought Beverly Hills was ostentatious,” she said.

  As she watched, Devin moved up to one of the windows and scanned the frame, leaning close to squint down. She came over and craned her neck to look down with him. She saw only the outside walls and the courtyard. The guy on the horse looked a lot smaller from up here.

  “I bet he had a bald spot in real life,” she said of the statue.

  “Hmm? Oh. Probably.” Devin strode away from the window and down the hall past two older women reading a brochure, his tall slender form reflected in the mirrors. “Most of the restored rooms are up here. How about some Chinese porcelain?”

  She tagged behind him through carved double doors into a golden room packed in every corner with porcelain plates and pots decorated in graceful curves of blue. Very pretty, Pagan supposed, but boring. She preferred the painted ceiling, which was cloudier this time, with gods and plump women in capes whooshing around, winking and beaming at each other as if they knew that life in the sky was better than for the suckers down below.

  Devin was at the window again, looking straight up this time. Why was he always at windows? The door opened to admit a museum guard, who sighed heavily and went to stand in the corner.

  Devin gave him a sharp glance and moved to the next room, which contained a huge gilt-covered bed and several dozen paintings of fleshy people cavorting through faded landscapes showing more skin than a beach movie. The clean white marble bust of a Roman with a receding hairline was a relief after all the movement and color.

  Devin’s eyes swept the room and landed on the painting of a picnic with lounging figures and a dog. The label said it was by Antoine Watteau.

  “Like that one, do you?” she asked. “The dog’s not bad.”

  “Precursor to Impressionism, Watteau,” Devin muttered.

  She watched him closely. It was subtle, but his eyes traveled over the edges of the painting’s gilt frame rather than studying the painting itself.

  He’d spent more time studying the windows and how the painting was attached to the wall than he had the art itself. Did that mean what she thought it meant? Time to find out.

  He’d flirted with her a day or so ago before making himself stop. Let’s see how he handled things when she really let out the stops.

  “They don’t have a guard in here,” she said. “We’re all alone. In someone else’s bedroom.”

  He shot her a glance. Now that the sunglasses were off, she thought she saw a fierce glint in his eyes. “With no one but the paintings to see what trouble we get into.”

  The room felt suddenly quite warm. She ignored it and pressed on. “We could steal something.”

  He cast his eyes up at the busy ceiling, hands clasped behind his back. “Why,” he asked, “would we do that?”

  “It’s fun to think about, isn’t it?” She glanced out the window. “I’d say let’s toss the marble head out the window, but someone would see us.”

  “Not at night they wouldn’t,” he said. “The lighting conditions are deplorable. Still, I wouldn’t advise it. The windows are alarmed.”

  So he had been scoping out the alarm system around the windows. “But you could disable those easily enough,” she said as if that were a given.

  He raised both eyebrows, face blank. “What makes you think that?”

  She waved her hand at him, dismissing a joke. “We could sneak it out during the day if you insist.” She moved over to the Roman bust. “I could come in here with a pillow under my dress…” she put a hand under her blouse to pouf it out near her stomach “…and make the switch when the guard steps out.” She mimed grabbing the bust and stuffing it under her shirt.

  He laughed. “That would be one advantage to having a female accomplice.”

  “You mean you didn’t have one?” She slipped the question in as if they’d already discussed this. “All good art thieves should have a pretty female accomplice, to distract the police at crucial moments.”

  His face was blandly baffled. “At the studio we call them secretaries.”

  So he was sticking to the studio executive story. Time for drastic measures.

  “This one’s your favorite, right?” She strode over to the Watteau. “Probably the most valuable. It’s a bit big, but we could just…”

  She grabbed the frame and hoisted the painting up.

  He lurched forward, eyes widening. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She stayed where she was, not letting it go. “Testing to see if the painting was alarmed, of course. I figured it wouldn’t be.”

  “You never touch the frame!” He grabbed the frame, brushing her hands away, and lowered it so that it hung straight once again from its hooks.

  “Why not? Oh, fingerprints.” She dusted her hands off. “How can anyone ever steal a painting if you don’t touch the frame?”

  His face had gone pale with anger and agitation. “Father said, you cut the painting out in four quick strokes.” He zipped his hand inches from the painting around its four edges. “Fold it up, stick it in your bag, and walk out.”

  “You cut and fold the painting?” she asked in horror. “Doesn’t that damage it?”

  “The cutting might…” He broke off, mouthing a curse word.

  “Do go on,” she said, trying not to sound too triumphant.

  His blue eyes were suddenly stormier than usual. “Time to go,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  She followed him, half running to keep up. “You were an art thief.”

  He didn’t respond, but his shoulders tightened as he headed down the stairs.

  So Devin Black had a past as disreputable as her own. It explained his acting ability and his pickpocket skills. It might even explain the hidden gun.

  It did not explain his interest in her family background or why he wanted her cast in Neither Here Nor There. In fact, nothing about Devin Black made sense.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs, and she caught up to him, keeping her voice low. “Did you ever steal anything really valuable? Any jewels or Picassos?”

  He said nothing, staying two steps ahead of her and lowering his sunglasses over his stony face as he walked out onto the groomed gravel path. She took the path to the right, branching away from him, and ambled next to the grass, listening to her saddle shoes crunch on the gravel and to the rustle of the breeze playing with the carefully trimmed rosebushes. Ahead, the fountain splashed, and she sped up to reach it then leaned over to dip her fingers in the sun-dappled water. A faint mist from it brushed her nose and forehead.

  Devin Black stalked over to her, eyes masked by the sunglasses. “Let’s go.”

  “Dare me to dip my toes in the water?” she asked.

  “Let’s not get arrested today.”

  She kept her voice light and asked, “How does one go from child bandit to working in Hollywood?”

  She couldn’t read his eyes behind the glasses. “You’re the one with the criminal past,” he said. “You tell me.”

  He didn’t wait for her answering scowl but crunched his way over the gravel toward the car.

  Back at the hotel, he disappeared into his room, while Pagan took a quick shower and tried to picture a young Devin Black stealing museum pieces with his no-doubt debonair father.

  But as she dried off, the reality of what she faced the next day began to sink in. She had to be on set very early the next morning. In her previous life, the night before a shoot, she’d be well into her second martini
by now, happily riding the buzz that drowned out any butterflies. It was unnerving to face the first day on a movie without that.

  Filmmaking was an intricate, demanding process, a dance between actors, the camera, the lights, and the director. So much to remember. So many ways it could go horribly wrong.

  Pagan walked out to the living area in her robe, toweling her hair with one hand, and picked up the phone to order something to drink. The image of an ice-cold martini swam through her thoughts, like a salmon battling upstream.

  Something made her turn. Devin stood in the half-opened doorway to his bedroom, his shirt unbuttoned all the way. She looked up from the smooth muscles of his abdomen and flushed so hotly he had to see the blood in her cheeks.

  He didn’t smile. His lips parted, as if about to say something, his eyes like turbulent seas on a blustery night. She saw a question in his face, and a wordless answer rose inside her, beating against her heart.

  But then Devin shut his lips and turned away, saying in a very clipped tone, “I’ll order dinner in a minute.”

  What the hell was going on? She still loved Nicky. And this man was the enemy, her jailer, nothing else.

  “All right.” Her voice was distant to her own ears. Pagan put the phone handset back in its cradle.

  She hadn’t done it. She was safe. She was strong. She could do this.

  Devin clicked his door shut. But her hands were trembling. She threaded her fingers together and headed back into her room.

  When she was younger, before the drinking, the jitters of the night before a shoot would be stilled by spending time with her mother, running her lines, going over the names of the other actors, figuring out what her character really wanted and how to show that without saying it. Mama had been brilliant at taking apart a scene or a script to see what depths lay behind the facade.

  “Most words are lies,” Mama had said. “Small lies, big lies, slanted or bald-faced lies. They’re what we use to disguise the wonder and terror we feel but can never say.”

  Those were some of Pagan’s best memories of her mother, those nights before production started. Mama would pull out the script, put her arm around Pagan, and they’d pore over it together. It had made the next day seem less frightening, and they’d shared a common admiration of the complexity of life, and a common cause to be as good as possible at the job.

  Mama could be frustrating and controlling, but she had understood that process. And at least Pagan had been safe with her. If Pagan was worried she’d mess up a scene, Mama would rehearse with her till she knew it cold. Just as when Ava got frustrated with a piano piece, Mama would break it down bit by bit for her until it flowed. The monsters under the bed were scared of Mama. Jerry Allenberg and most of the people at the studio had been, too.

  But Mama had decided to go away. She would never come back.

  The amorphous, smothering fear she’d first felt the night after her mother died filled her lungs and loomed over her, bearing down with its hulking, soul-crushing mass.

  She sucked in air and clenched her fists. Yes, her eyes were leaking. But she wouldn’t give the fear anything else.

  You want a drink? Have a drink. Of water.

  And then study your lines. That’s what Mama would want.

  Pagan poured herself a glass of water and drank it down as she wiped her eyes. The script lay waiting for her on the bedside table. She’d read it over twenty more times tonight if she had to.

  The door behind her creaked. “Pagan? What would you like to me to order?”

  Devin. She turned toward him without thinking and stopped, her red eyes staring right into his.

  His face dropped. He took one hasty step into the room, then pulled up short. “I’m sorry. When you didn’t answer my knock, I got worried…”

  She hadn’t heard a knock at all. She must’ve been too deep in thought. “I’m just tired,” she said, pushing her lips up into a weary smile.

  He took another unconscious step toward her. “Can I get you something…” He stopped himself. “We can run lines, if you want, over dinner,” he continued, his voice more formal, but still warmer than it had ever been before. The kindness buried there nearly made her tear up again. “Or whatever you need.”

  She couldn’t bask in any kindness now, or she’d crumble. She sniffed and shook her head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll eat in my room tonight. Alone. So I can be ready for tomorrow.”

  He didn’t move for a moment, looking at her. And that scared her more than anything, that he might say one more nice thing and destroy her completely. But he schooled his face into its usual nonchalance and nodded.

  “All right,” he said, backing out of the room. “I’ll have your food brought to you in here.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and the door clicked shut. She was alone with her doubts and an oh-so-inspirational glass of water. Shoulders back, Pagan. That’s what Mama would have said. Head high.

  She would be great tomorrow. She’d nail it. She had to. Her entire future depended on it.

  Pagan arrived on set with Devin a few minutes early, wearing no makeup and with her hair down and dirty. That was how the stylists liked it, and it made life a lot easier when you had to drag yourself out of bed at 5:00 a.m.

  The quasi-domestic oddity of life in the suite with Devin had continued mostly in silence that morning. He hadn’t said a word about the day before, and she still couldn’t reconcile all the conflicting information she knew about him. Devin Black was shady, and she’d figure out exactly what was going on soon.

  But today she had to focus. Today she had to be brilliant.

  Makeup and hair done, dress fitted, she was called on set so that Bennie could walk her through the scene with Jimmy Brennan. Brennan was cold, but kept his skepticism of her in check in front of Bennie.

  Bennie, meanwhile, was brisk, rattling out the blocking, guiding her from one mark to the next, expecting instant absorption. Afterward, Pagan scribbled notes on to her script so that she wouldn’t forget, then went to seek out Matthew Smalls, the assistant director. She had two favors to ask him, but she decided to start with only one, because it, at least, might be important for the production of the film. The other one would keep until she could tell whether he liked her or not.

  “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” she said, putting a hand gently on his arm when no one else was within earshot. The grips were nearly done focusing the lights, and she didn’t have much time.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Jones?” Matthew asked, keeping one sharp eye on Bennie as he bickered with the gaffer and the DP over whether the set was overlit or not. Matthew’s job was to make Bennie’s job go as smoothly as possible, so he was never far from the director.

  “This might be a drastic favor to ask,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. It wasn’t as if the whole world, particularly movie people, didn’t know her history, but it still wasn’t easy to confront. “It would be best for me if there wasn’t any real alcohol on set. I know usually it’s all iced tea and water, but sometimes actors ask for the real thing…”

  The upcoming scene took place in the office of the character played by Jimmy Brennan, and like most executive offices, it had a bar, complete with ice bucket and tongs. In a later scene, Jimmy’s character had a drink with his secretary/mistress while dictating a letter, and the thought of it had been in the back of Pagan’s mind for a while.

  Matthew’s shrewd brown eyes assessed her. “There’s no alcohol,” he said. “Anywhere.”

  “Ah, good, thanks.” She looked around for Devin, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Did that annoying Mister Black already ask you to do that for me?”

  Matthew shook his head, his features registering no surprise, no curiosity of any kind at her rather odd question. “It’s standard procedure on all of Bennie’s movies.”

  “That’s good
to know.” She couldn’t help smiling ruefully. “I’ve got to say, you have the best poker face I’ve ever seen.”

  He breathed a laugh. “If only that was true when I actually played poker.”

  A few yards away, Bennie was walking, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in thought, over to the camera. “I think we’re ready, Matthew.”

  “Places!” Matthew boomed.

  Lounging crew members snapped to attention as Jimmy Brennan yawned and got out of his chair, moving to stand behind his character’s desk. He nodded at Pagan, who smiled and made her way quickly over to stand behind the door that led into the office. A waiting grip smiled back at her in greeting.

  “Door shut, please,” Bennie said.

  Pagan knew better than to touch the door. The grip leaned in and shut it behind her. A makeup assistant tiptoed over and freshened up her powder. Pagan had forgotten how the lights pressed down on you with palpable heat. Her nose got shiny fast in these conditions, but the makeup folks were never far away. She adjusted the fur-lined jacket she was wearing so that it hung haphazardly off one shoulder, showing more of the low scooped neckline of the tight flowered Nina Ricci dress they’d put her in, and shut her eyes, going over Violet’s movements just prior to this scene in her head.

  “Thank you all for being here, ladies and gentleman,” Bennie said, hoisting himself up into his elevated director’s chair. “We’re going to do a rehearsal take of the master and go from there.” The master was the long shot that showed the entire scene from start to finish, as if they were shooting a play. Bennie liked to start that way to let the actors find their rhythms. Later they’d break it down for the medium shots, inserts, and close-ups, if any. “I know you’ll all act with consummate professionalism and talent, so that we finish today’s scenes on time, on budget, and with something we can all be proud of. All right.” Bennie gave Matthew the nod.

  “Quiet on set,” Matthew said.

  Down the hall, the second assistant director shouted, “Quiet, please!”