by Joseph Kanon
“How’s Dick Marshall?”
“The perfect gentleman.” She put her hand on his chest, holding him in place. “Not like you.”
“How about I come for a swim?”
She shook her head, still holding him back, their faces close. “He’s taking me to the Grove.”
“After.”
“After I sleep. The camera picks it up. If your skin-”
“There’s nothing wrong with your skin,” he said, moving closer.
“Not here,” she said, pushing her hand against him.
“I can come late. Leave early,” he said, his face almost on hers.
“Don’t,” she said again.
“No one would know.” When she didn’t answer, he waited for another second, then stepped back. “If that’s it,” he said, his voice ironic. He moved away, leaving it, but she reached for his arm, pulling him back.
“Maybe it’s best. For now.”
He stopped still, just looking, trying to read her expression. Could eyes be trained, like voices?
“I wish I knew what you wanted,” he said quietly.
She returned his look, then let her hand drop, moving away from him.
“I wish I knew that, too.” She went back over to the mirror, a final check. “I have to go. They’ll be ready. You, too. Before anyone sees.” She patted her hair. “I have to meet the sister.”
He glanced at his watch, shifting moods with her. “And I have a meeting. Lasner keeps asking me to meetings.”
“He likes you.”
“I think he does it to needle Bunny. All right,” he said, moving to the door. “Do I go first or do you want me to sneak out after you’ve gone?”
“You think it’s a joke. People look for that.”
“By the way, what I came for? Did Danny know a man called MacDonald?”
She thought for a second. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“I came across his name in some papers.”
“What papers?”
“It doesn’t matter. Papers. He never mentioned a MacDonald?”
“No. That’s what you came for? More Daniel.”
“You’re sure?” he said, ignoring this.
“I don’t know. One name, all those years. How would I remember? MacDonald? Like the man on the farm?”
Ben nodded, waiting.
“I don’t think so.” She looked up. “I wish you would stop with this business.”
“When I know.”
“How? Who’s going to tell you? Daniel?”
“Maybe.”
“From the grave. You keep him alive, with all this. Here,” she said, touching her head, then turned and closed the script, her back to him. “It feels like cheating.”
He said nothing, looking into the mirror.
“Maybe that’s what I want,” she said. “Two in the room, not three.”
“I only see two,” Ben said.
He was early for the scheduling meeting. With only one project to manage there was no real need for him to be there at all, but Lasner had insisted, another mark of favor the other line producers took in with nervous wait-and-see glances. Only Sam Pilcer, an old hand at musical chairs, seemed not to care. They were waiting in the conference room next to Lasner’s office, where Bunny had set up a television, the first Ben had actually seen outside magazines. On the small glass screen a clown was performing.
“Again with this,” Lasner said to Bunny.
“Just look at it.”
“Look at what?”
“Found money.”
Lasner waved this off. “You’re like Freeman at Paramount. Remember he set up that Kraut? Right before the war?”
“Klaus Landsberg,” Bunny said. “And what? Two years, minimal investment, and he takes it on the air. W6XYZ. What you’re watching now,” he said, catching Lasner’s puzzled expression. “It’s not an experiment anymore, Sol. The only question is how fast they can make them. Last four years, they’ve all been working for the government. Every electronics company in the country. Army contracts. Now watch. They can start turning these out.”
“To watch this? Clowns.”
“No, Rex Morgan. The Silver Bullet series.”
“That’s ten, fifteen years old.”
“And just sitting there in the warehouse. Pictures nobody’s going to run again. And here’s a new exhibitor. With all day to fill. Why not with Rex? I’m telling you, found money. No prints. No advertising. No overhead. Aunt Tillie just died and left you a little something. Say thank you and cash the check.”
“What kind of money can something like that pay?”
“Not much now,” Bunny said. “But it’s bottom line to us, all of it. Right now we’re making nothing on Rex, just paying storage.”
But Lasner was only half listening, staring at the wooden box, eyes narrowing in thought, and Ben wondered for a moment if he was back in the dry goods store on Fourteenth Street, the fuzzy lines behind the glass just like the jerky figures of light on the tacked-up sheet.
“Of course, the real money,” Bunny was saying, “is going to be in production. But that’s down the road.”
“This is going to be the new pictures?”
“Nobody’s saying that.”
“People say it-I hear it. And we’re going to hand over Continental product for a few bucks? Cut our own throats? Let them stick with the clowns, see how far they get.”
“B product. Old B product.”
“And you said production.”
“It’s getting harder with the B’s, Sol, you know that. If they take away the block booking, we’re going to have a problem on our hands. We’re not Metro.”
“And you don’t see Mayer making clown shows, either.” He looked again at the set. “Where are the kids going to neck?”
“In the balcony. At the movies. That’s not going to change. Not with A product anyway.”
“I know, I know. More A’s. You keep saying.”
Bunny made a little nod, backing away, familiar ground. “It’ll never be pictures,” he said. “But maybe the new radio.”
“We’re not in the radio business.”
“No, the hotel business. It’s about turning over rooms,” Bunny said, spreading his arm to take in the lot outside. “Every time one of those stages is empty, we’re losing money. Sam’s going to wrap next week. Stage Seven,” he said, including Pilcer. “Then we’re dark two weeks until Greg does the interiors on Abilene.”
“Move River House from Five,” Lasner said. “They haven’t built the porch set yet. Then you’ve got Five for a longer shoot. Harry, you wanted six weeks, right?”
Ben listened, interested, the whole scheduling meeting already worked out in their heads.
“We can, yes,” Bunny said to Sol. “But the point is, you’re going to have some off weeks. So why not use the room, not waste it?”
“Bunny, we’re not just talking square feet here.” He looked again at the television. “The money’s not there yet,” he said flatly, as if he’d just run through the expense sheet.
“No, not yet.”
“And I should set up a new Second Unit,” Lasner said to Pilcer. “I think he enjoys it, giving me grief.” He turned to Bunny. “You got something, though, with the Silver Bullet s. What the hell. Get one of these for Rex, he can watch himself all day. Fees, right? Not sales. Just another exhibitor.”
“Fees,” Bunny said, a handshake.
“He keeps an eye out for you, Sol,” Pilcer said.
Bunny dipped his head to Pilcer, self-deprecating, like a courtier in one of his boy prince films.
Sol smiled, touching Bunny’s shoulder. “Who else could squeeze another nickel out of Rex? Christ.”
“All right, shall we start?” Bunny said, pulling out some papers with time graphs. “We’re looking at a two-week overrun on River House and that’s before the retakes, so we’re going to have to move things around. Abilene we’re still okay.”
“Nobody ever lost money on a Western,”
Lasner said, about to take a seat. “What the hell’s that?”
They all looked toward the window. Lasner went over, following the shouting coming from below. On Gower Street, the pickets had swarmed around a car trying to go through the gate, yelling, a few of them banging on the fender.
“What the hell-?”
“Why so many today?” Pilcer said, joining him, everyone else following.
“Change of tactics,” one of the producers said. “What I heard,” he said when they all looked at him. “Pick one or two studios to make a point. Instead of spreading themselves thin.”
“So they pick us?” Lasner said.
“And Warners. They’ve got a whole army out on Olive. I heard,” he said when they looked again. “We’re the pick in town. One gate. Paramount, you’d need three times the people.”
Below, the studio police had rushed out and were now pushing people away from the car with clubs. Just night watchmen, Bunny had said.
“I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Lasner said to Bunny.
“With our people, no. You can’t pay off two sides, Sol.”
The car had begun to move, but now the strikers were squaring off against the studio cops, shouting in their faces, still a ritual, not an actual fight.
“There’s that fuck Stein,” a producer said.
Ben followed the pointing finger. Howard was near the edge of the crowd, apparently trying to quiet things down as he made his way through. A technician heading for the gate was stopped by picketers, then surrounded by studio police, pushing the strikers away. One shoved back, grabbing the cop, who raised his stick. Two other pickets rushed over and the cop, alarmed, stuck the club into the striker’s chest to hold him off. The striker, taking it as an attack, swung at the cop and then, in an instant, like a fire catching, everyone seemed to be shoving, pushing chests, the line breaking up, people spilling into each other.
Bunny picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Carl, get the police. Ask for Healy. Tell him we’ve got a street fight here. And tell Charlie to keep his men out of there. Away from the gate.”
The shouting was now a roar, and Ben felt his neck stiffen, a startled animal’s reaction. Violence was always sudden. A fistfight in a cellar bar, drunk GIs smashing bottles, jeeps pulling up, white helmets and billy clubs. Combat. The same adrenaline fear, your whole body flushed with it, everything happening fast. It was nothing like the movies, no sound-effect punches, choreographed swings. Clumsy, pulling at shirts, gouging, falling down, like the studio cop below, covering his face to ward off a kick. Ben saw Howard Stein, still trying to pull people away, putting out a brush fire.
“Jesus Christ,” Lasner said, but quietly, his face pale, eyes fixed on Gower Street.
Then Ben saw Hal trying to skirt around the crowd to reach the gate. Strikers swerved around to block his way, the crowd now moving by instinct. More shouts, grabbing him as he tried to rush in, the studio police shrinking back. Someone landed a punch, maybe unintentional, and Hal swung back, drawing the others on him. A lucky hit to the face, suddenly a spurt of blood, so startling that everything stopped for a second, a freeze before crossing the line, then a blur of rushing hands. Ben looked down the street. A siren wailing, squad cars. Not one, a stream of them. Like MPs with clubs. Now there wouldn’t be any sides. Just bodies in the way.
He ran out of the conference room, clumping down the stairs and tearing through the gate. A small group of studio workers had clustered behind it, watching.
“Help me get Hal,” he shouted at one of them, but didn’t wait, pushing his way into the crowd.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“The cops are coming. Get out of here. Everybody.”
“Yeah? Friends of yours?”
He kept going. Hal and the striker were now in a kind of wrestling lock, too close to get any punches in, pounding each other’s back.
“Get the fuck out,” the striker said as Ben tried to separate them.
“Let go. The cops are coming. Want to get your head cracked?”
Hal stepped away, the opening the picket had been waiting for. A quick jab to the face, Hal’s nose running blood, then another punch as Hal held his hand to his nose, stunned and reeling now.
“You stupid fuck!” Ben yelled, jumping on the picket, hitting him hard enough to knock him down, then dropping to his chest, another hard punch, so that the striker turned on his side, cowering, trying to cover his head.
Ben pushed himself up and grabbed Hal by the shoulders, herding him toward the gate, his hand throbbing. A studio cop stopped Hal with his stick, anyone bleeding now suspect, and Hal swung back at him. The cop weaved, clutching Hal’s shirt until Hal managed to pry him loose, flinging his arms away. A flashbulb went off somewhere to the side. The cop fell, taking one of the strikers down with him. But people had begun pulling away, looking toward the sirens, the street jumping with sound. Ben got Hal through the gate.
“Call the infirmary,” he said to Carl. “He’s not going to be the only one.”
He pulled Hal over to a low wall, sitting him down, and handed him a handkerchief to wipe the blood. “How’s the nose? Broken?”
“I don’t know. What’s that feel like?”
“Squishy.”
“My head,” Hal said, touching it. “Son of a bitch actually kicked me.”
A studio cop staggered in, blood streaming down the side of his head. One of the infirmary nurses, rushing to the gate, intercepted him, making him sit.
“You know the good part?” Hal said. “I’m on their side.” He looked at the clotted handkerchief. “We never get blood right. It processes too red.”
“You dizzy, anything like that?”
“No, the posse got there in time.” He looked over at Ben. “Thanks. Where’d that come from?”
The police were wading in with clubs, swinging indiscriminately at everyone. Bodies in the way. Even the studio cops were shrinking back, out of range. Some press had arrived, trailing after the squad cars, and more flashbulbs went off around the edges of the fight. Tomorrow the picture would be a mob out of control, a breakdown, not a confused, spontaneous fight, overwhelmed by police clubs. People were falling down, crawling away before they could be trampled. One of the cops bent over to hit a striker again, not finished, drawing some blood before they began the arrests.
“Jesus Christ. Hal,” Lasner said, his voice shaking. Most of the other producers had followed, drawn like gawkers at a highway wreck.
“I’m okay.”
“What the hell is happening?” Lasner said, not really a question, looking out through the gate, his face bewildered.
Some press photographers raced past. Out to the left, two cops had zeroed in on Howard Stein, who had begun with his hands outstretched in a stop signal but now had thrown them on top of his head, trying to wrench himself away as the cops grabbed his shirt, dragging him. A flashbulb. A club whacked his arm. Another striker came to help but the police ignored him, interested only in Stein, pummeling him now.
“Do you need help to the infirmary?” Bunny was saying to Hal.
“Our own people,” Lasner said to himself, still looking out.
They hit Stein again, this time in the head, and he staggered, falling as a second blow got him on the neck, and Ben saw that they weren’t going to stop, a storm trooper kind of frenzy. Another club, raised high, then swung hard. He glanced quickly at Hal, now being swabbed by a nurse, and rushed through the gate again, grabbing some of the others.
“Get Stein! They’ll kill him.”
At first no one seemed to have heard, then one of them looked toward Stein, the swinging clubs.
“Fuck,” he said, dragging another picket and racing over with Ben.
They came up behind the police, jabbing at them with picket sticks, a quick thrust to the knee that brought one down. The other swung around, his club whacking Ben on the arm. Ben lunged for his throat, a surprise, the cop’s face drawn back in a snarl. Then one of th
e pickets threw a kidney punch and the cop teetered backward, falling against the strikers. More men came over, blocking the cops from Stein. Ben looked down, winded for a second. Stein was lying on the pavement, a pool of blood spreading under his head, Danny in the police photo, his body flung in the same angle. Or did all bodies fall that way, arms awkward, twisted? He knelt down and felt his neck. Not dead. But now the police would have him, resisting arrest the least of it. Legal clubs this time.
“Help me,” he said to one of the pickets. “We have to get him out of here.”
“You shouldn’t move him.”
“Just fucking give me a hand,” he said, a command, lifting Stein from underneath and waiting for the picket to take the other side.
“Fuck,” the man said, grunting as he lifted.
“Howard, can you walk at all? We can’t do deadweight.”
“Not dead.” Almost indistinct, a growl.
“Just try to walk. We’ve got you. Put your arm there. Hold on.”
They went a few steps, Stein dragging, then pulling himself up, putting weight on his feet. Blood was still running from his head, staining Ben’s shoulders.
“Who called the cops?” Stein said, another mumble.
“Just keep walking. There’s a doctor. Not far.”
Stein opened his eyes, squinting at the Continental gate.
“A doctor,” he said, trying to make sense of this.
“Just inside. Keep moving.”
He swiveled his head to check on the two cops, still down, the others not near enough to help. The crowd was a blur of hand fighting. Some people had begun to run away, yelling curses, but retreating. A flashbulb went off in front of them, the photographer probably recognizing Stein. Another siren. Reinforcements. Ben was straining under the weight, sweaty now, his shirt bloody.
“Almost there. Not far,” he said again, trying to move faster, before the police noticed and could cut them off.
At the gate the crowd of employees were still watching, looking dazed. A battle scene on Gower Street. Casualties. Real blood. Ben realized then that they were looking at him, wet with it. But he’d made it to Carl’s booth.
“You can’t bring him in here,” Bunny said. “Do you know who that is?”
