Brooks was talking rapidly, giving someone an ultimatum on a delivery date.
“If those materials aren’t here by this afternoon, you’re not getting one more piece of business from us. Is that clear?” She raised the phone over her head, not bothering to listen to the response. “Marty and Nancy are in a conference room on the second floor. It’s the door opposite the balcony.” She turned to the man beside her. “They’re giving me the runaround, Raymond. Nancy wants you to hold up any payments.”
We left Camille Brooks and the crisis of the moment and retraced the way we’d gone with Arnold Osteen the day before. The door was closed, so Nakayla knocked gently.
“Come in,” came the sharp reply. I recognized Osteen’s voice.
He, Marty Kolsrud, Nancy Pellegatti, Nicole Madison, and Grayson Beckner were seated around a long folding table. Yellow script pages littered its surface.
“Please have a seat.” Marty gestured to two empty chairs close to the door.
Nakayla and I sat and said nothing. It wasn’t our meeting.
Marty gathered the yellow pages into a stack. “Sam, I want you to know you kept me up all night.”
“And then Marty dragged the rest of us here at five-thirty,” Osteen complained.
“So…I’m guilty of what?”
Grayson Beckner sat opposite me. The actor leaned across the table. “Creating conflict. Developing character. One fuels the story, the other drives the performance.”
I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
“You put flesh on the bones of Robbie Oakley. Added dimension to the role, which, frankly, I was struggling to infuse with life.”
I saw where Grayson was headed. “You’re making your character an amputee?”
Marty Kolsrud beamed. “Exactly. When I heard your story yesterday, I thought, ‘Now that’s what this script lacks. A layer of inner conflict, the challenge to become whole in body and soul.’ It’s The Best Years of Our Lives for this generation.”
“Is that a soap opera?”
Kolsrud looked at me like I was insane. “Hell, no. It’s a cinema classic. Fredric March, Dana Andrews, seven Academy Awards. Three servicemen return from World War II. But the drama isn’t about the war, it’s about the aftermath. And one of them is a double amputee with hooks for hands.”
I shook my head. “I’m not a poster child.”
“No, you’re not.” Nancy Pellegatti focused her fierce eyes on me. “You’re a veteran whose life was altered by war. You’re not a poster child. You’re a successful man who happens to be an amputee. But you’re not going to sit there and tell me you haven’t gone through a struggle. Maybe you still are.”
“I deal with it.”
“And there are men, hell, boys really, coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan today who are maimed and facing a future of pain and hardship. Is that your advice? Deal with it? War doesn’t create victors. It creates wounds and scars, widows and orphans, victims on all sides. I don’t want people to forget that. I want them to see courage after the battle, a battle that never really ends for so many. A past that haunts their present.”
So we beat on, I thought. Fitzgerald’s boat against the current. Like it or not, I was pulling one of the oars, and this little obnoxious woman had forced me to see it.
“What do you want from me?”
“We want you to work with Grayson,” Marty said. “Tell him your story. He’s not going to play you, but he can take your emotions, your experiences, and incorporate them into his character.”
“All right, if it doesn’t interfere with my casework.”
Marty patted the pile of yellow pages. “Good. We need to start immediately. We have a few scenes we’ll need to re-shoot.” He looked at Osteen. “Not that many, Arnold. Just enough to create the continuity of Grayson’s body movement. Fortunately, we’re not that far into filming.”
“What does Roland Cassidy think of these changes?” Nakayla asked.
With synchronized motion, all heads turned to Osteen.
“I’ll handle Roland. I paid for rights to the book and I can alter it any way I want. Marty’s sold me on this new approach or else I wouldn’t approve a nickel be spent on re-dos.” He looked at Pellegatti beside him. “But it’s not carte blanche, Nancy. Understand?”
“Of course. And we’ll save money on visual effects.”
Marty gave his producer a sideways glance and slight shake of his head.
“What visual effects?” I asked.
“Well, what would be really helpful…” Marty hesitated as if groping for the right word.
I suddenly understood why he’d been measuring me against his star yesterday. “You want my leg, don’t you? For close-ups?”
“If you would. We really can’t do it otherwise. Painting out Grayson’s leg in special effects is cost-prohibitive. It would just be a few scenes. You’re a great stand-in physique wise.”
“No nudity. I don’t want to upstage Grayson.”
Everyone laughed.
“Marty, you included Nakayla in last night’s phone message,” I said. “What’s that about?” And it had better not be nudity, I thought.
“Right,” Marty said. “Nakayla, I’d like you to be one of our extras. You can pass for a college student, you represent the diversity of Black Mountain College, and you have the natural movements of a dancer. We’ll have some rehearsal scenes and a performance, but nothing complicated and you’ll be part of a group.”
Nakayla’s lips tightened, a sign that she resisted the idea. “I told you I haven’t danced since I was twelve.”
“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Marty argued.
“Fine. Let me ride a bicycle.”
Again, Nancy Pellegatti spoke up. “How about you agree to be an extra. And when our choreographer rehearses the dance scenes, you rehearse with the troupe, but if you’re uncomfortable, or she doesn’t feel like you’re a believable student, then you’re not in the scene.”
I nudged Nakayla with my elbow. “If I can be in it, you can be in it. You can’t be any worse.”
“That’s true,” she conceded too quickly.
“It’s settled then.” Nancy slid back her chair and stood. “Grayson, why don’t you and Sam find some place quiet to talk? Nakayla, go with Nicole. She can introduce you to wardrobe and makeup. Marty might want you for a scene later.”
“Time out.” I made the signal with my hands. “Nakayla and I aren’t doing anything till we follow up on our case.”
“How long’s that going to take?” Nancy asked.
“If Harlan Beale’s here, then maybe thirty minutes.”
“Why him?” Osteen asked.
“I need him to identify some pictures from 1948. He’s the only one here who goes back that far, right?”
“You think Harlan can shed some light on your suspicious death?”
“We won’t know till he sees the photographs.” I turned to Grayson. “I’ll look for you when I finish with Beale.”
“And I’ll play it by ear,” Nakayla told Nicole. “If I can’t find you, I’ll check in with Camille.”
Nancy Pellegatti picked up a backpack. “Then let’s go, people. We’ve got a movie to make.”
Nakayla and I found Harlan Beale on the lawn near the lakeshore. He was laying out thin, narrow strips of white metal that looked to be a good ten or fifteen feet in length. The old mountaineer was being assisted by a man I took to be in his fifties. His white hair was close-cropped in contrast to Beale’s ponytail, and instead of bib overalls, he wore a white shirt and gray pants. Both men stopped their work and turned to face us.
I started to speak, but the words froze in my throat. The man was Dustin Henry, an actor I recognized. He’d played Captain Jefferson in Star Fleet Commander, a sci-fi TV series and movie franchise that I’d watched religiously as a
boy. He was clearly more than twenty years older than when he’d roamed the galaxy, and his loose shirt and baggy trousers appeared more suited to the nineteen-forties than the twenty-third century.
“Can we help you?” Dustin Henry’s baritone voice held such familiarity that the wrinkles and gray hair became some sort of disguise concealing the hero of my childhood.
“Captain Jefferson,” I managed to blurt out.
Nakayla looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
Beale shook his head. “No, this here’s Dustin Henry, though we’re all callin’ him Bucky.”
“I’m playing Buckminster Fuller,” the actor explained. “The first man to call this world Spaceship Earth. Captain Jefferson couldn’t hold a candle to him.”
“I’m Sam Blackman.” I started to say that I watched him as a kid, but that was obvious from my star-struck paralysis.
“And I’m Nakayla Robertson.” She had the presence of mind to offer her hand.
I wanted to give the intergalactic sign of a raised palm with splayed fingers, but I retreated to the protocol of a firm handshake.
“Sam and Nakayla are detectives,” Beale announced. “But they need you to invent a dome that’s a time machine, cause they’re lookin’ into a death back in 1948.”
“Really? During Bucky’s time here?”
“In the fall,” Nakayla said. “I believe Buckminster Fuller was only here during the summers.”
Dustin Henry nodded. “That’s right. But Harlan was here. He’s helping me get the feel for what happened.” The actor slowly spun in a circle, pointing at the metal strips as he did so. “Harlan says these were Venetian blinds, longer strips before the finishing factory cut them to an ordered size. He and the students bolted overlapping segments together, but the dome just lay there, sagging like a partially deflated ball.”
“We know,” Nakayla said. “We have a picture.”
She reached in her purse and retrieved the book we’d shown Violet Baker the previous evening. She flipped it open to the first of two bookmarked pages. “Here’s one of the students and Fuller working on this dome.”
Dustin examined the photo. “Yes, I saw this one in a research packet. That’s the scene we’re going to re-create.”
Nakayla angled the book toward Beale. “This is Paul Weaver.” She tapped the boy with a forefinger. “Do you recognize him?”
Beale cocked his head. “Yep. He looks familiar, but I wouldn’t have been able to recall his name. He wasn’t around that long.”
“Because in a few months, he’d be dead,” I said. “How about the other students in the photo? Ever see him hanging out with any of them?”
Beale tried to focus on the small faces. “I need my magnifying glass. If I could borrow this book, I’ll give it a good goin’ over.”
Nakayla flipped the pages to the second bookmark. “How about these women? Remember them?”
“Oh,” Beale said with a low whisper. “There’s trouble in the makin’.”
“Because he’s swimming with the black woman?” Nakayla asked.
“It wouldn’t have set well in some parts, that’s for damn sure. Don’t make me no never mind nor anyone else at the college.” He looked to the edge of the water. “I reckon from the looks of the background, they were sittin’ right over there.” He pointed to a spot about twenty yards away.
We stood in silence for a few seconds, as if the three students might materialize in front of us.
“Show me that picture again?” Beale asked.
Nakayla let him take the book.
He studied it and nodded to himself. “The colored girl was a dancer, just like it says. But we didn’t call her Eleanor. She was Ellie. And when she danced, it was like she was about to break loose off the ground. If she wanted to float like a dandelion seed, she’d just need a breeze.”
“And the other girl?” Nakayla prompted.
“Yep. I seen her around.” He looked across the lake, eyes blinking rapidly as if clearing some blur. “She was here that summer, but she weren’t here at Christmas.”
“How do you know?” Nakayla asked.
“Because we had a holiday social. Didn’t call it Christmas ’cause we had a lot of Jews. Not that they bothered me none. I was invited and got to dance with all the girls. This girl weren’t one of them.”
“Did you dance with Ellie?” I asked.
“Yep. Though I was afraid I’d break her. If I’d told my Pa I danced with a colored, he’d a probably whupped me.” Beale looked at Nakayla and then shrugged. “But it would have been worth it.” He tucked the book under his arm. “I’ll take this book, Missy, and give it some thought.” He turned to Dustin Henry. “Let me run this to my truck. I’ll be right back.”
He’d taken only a few steps when a voice bellowed across the lawn.
“Hey, Harlan, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
We turned to see Roland Cassidy storming across the lawn. He’d traded his tweed sport coat for a stiffly starched denim shirt that made him look like a first-day tourist at a dude ranch.
“Takin’ a book to my truck. What’s it to you?”
Cassidy ignored Nakayla, Dustin, and me and zeroed in on the old man. “I paid you for research, and this movie continues to pay you. You have no business talking to Sam Blackman about Black Mountain College or any of your experiences.”
Between the white beard and bushy eyebrows, Beale’s wrinkled skin flushed crimson. “You little piss-ant. I’ll talk to whoever I want about whatever I want.”
I heard Dustin Henry chuckle. Cassidy must have heard the actor as well because he glared at the man.
“This is between Harlan and me.”
“No, it’s not,” I interjected. “You don’t talk about me. You talk to me. I asked Harlan to identify some students in old college photographs. That’s all.”
“Yeah. And then what? Weasel back to Marty with more ways to get in this film?”
So, Cassidy had heard about the script revisions. With Osteen backing his director and producer, the pompous writer could only vent his wrath at me.
“None of the script changes were my idea,” I shot back. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with the people making the decisions.”
Beale waggled a finger at Cassidy. “And keep your stuck-up nose out of my business or I’ll knock it so flat you’ll be breathin’ through your ears.”
“What script changes?” Dustin asked. For the first time the actor appeared more than bemused by the scene before him.
Cassidy glared at me. “Thanks to Blackman, Marty’s turning Robbie Oakley into a goddamned amputee. If he was supposed to be an amputee, I’d have made him an amputee.”
“That your idea?” Dustin asked me.
“No. But I’m an amputee, and if Grayson’s playing one, I want to help make it real.”
“The thousands of my readers will revolt,” Cassidy warned. “They’re very loyal.”
Dustin Henry walked over and gently placed a hand on Cassidy’s shoulder. “Roland, if they didn’t revolt when they read your drivel, they’re certainly not going to revolt when a character becomes more interesting and sympathetic. Why don’t you run along and pose for an author photo somewhere? Pretend to think deep thoughts.”
Cassidy turned purple. He seemed to have stopped breathing. Then he managed to choke out, “What do you know, you has-been?”
I expected Captain Jefferson, Star Fleet commander, to deck Cassidy.
Instead he nodded and smiled. “Guilty as charged. I’m in your movie. But, thanks to Mr. Blackman, maybe it’s being converted from shit to fertilizer and all our careers will grow, yours included.” Dustin turned away and began placing the Venetian blind strips in crisscrossed patterns.
Cassidy stood there, not sure what to do.
“You heard the man. Shoo.” Harlan
Beale waved the writer away like he was scattering a gaggle of geese. “The rest of us have real work to do.”
“You’re going to regret this, Harlan. All of you will.” And with that toothless threat, Cassidy pivoted and headed for the main building.
Beale laughed. “If I knew this was goin’ to be so damn entertainin’ I would’ve sold tickets.” He raised the book. “It’ll be my pleasure to go through this and recall as many names as I can.”
“Have you still got my card?” Nakayla asked.
Beale patted the top pocket of his overalls. “Yep.”
The thought struck me that if some kind of interracial relationship had been going on between Paul Weaver and Ellie, Beale might be reluctant to discuss it with Nakayla. I pulled out my wallet. “Here’s my card, too, in case you can’t reach her.”
“Okay. But I’m sure I’ll be seein’ ya around, if you’re goin’ to be an advisor like me.” He set off for his truck.
“What now?” Nakayla asked.
“Show biz beckons. I’ll meet with Grayson and you check with Marty if there are any big scenes needing your talents. Between the two of us, we can save this film.”
At five o’clock, after a long afternoon of shooting the collapsed geodesic dome reenactment, Camille Brooks released Nakayla and me for the day. My conversation with Grayson Beckner had gone well, and we’d talked through lunch. I got the sense that he would incorporate his amputee condition in subtle ways and not milk it for overt sympathy.
Nakayla had been used in multiple group shots as the students worked with Bucky. Harlan Beale stayed close to the spot, working with the prop master between shots to make the 1948 event as authentic as possible. Dialogue and close-ups with Grayson and Nicole were scheduled for the next morning, and then Marty hoped to start filming scenes of the students constructing their own classrooms and dormitories, depending upon the delivery of the materials replacing the ones that had been stolen.
As we pulled out onto the main road, a flatbed truck carrying lumber and tarp-covered cargo was turning in. The logo on the driver’s door read “Phillips Building Supplies.”
“Looks like you’ll have another glamorous day of life in front of the camera,” I said.
Hidden Scars Page 7
