‘Dave Shandwick!’ Abner cried and wrung the man’s hand as though he would never stop. ‘Dave goddamned Shandwick, what in hell are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, pal, shaking hands with a right bastard — say, it’s good to see you! How long’s it been? Ten years, eleven?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Abner said. ‘Too long altogether. How are you doing these days?’
‘Very nicely, old friend, very nicely indeed.’ Shandwick winked, and Abner grinned indulgently. He was remembering more now; Dave had been the sound man in his best camera crew, but also an incorrigible wheeler-dealer. He’d learned how to be that in the army, he’d told them all blithely, when he presented the crew with a free crate of beer or offered brand new Swiss watches for sale at crazy prices. ‘In Korea, who asks where it comes from, baby, who wants to know? Take it an’ be grateful for the gifts life has to offer!’
Looking at him now in a London street in 1989 Abner could see the way he had been in 1979 in the Bronx and how he must have looked in 1951 as a perky young soldier in battledress with a gift for liberating useful items; a crew-cut scalp, round face split into a permanent grin, and the big cheek muscles that came from his interminable gum chewing. He was still the same man, even now in his well-cut English suit and aged — what? It must be close on sixty, though the crew-cut head was now covered in a greyish stubble and the cheek muscles had sagged a good deal.
‘Still making movies, you old devil?’ Shandwick said then. ‘That was a great job you did on those street kids. I knew when we were making it you were on to something big, but you edited that film like a dream, take it from me, like a dream. I saw it in Cannes, you know, when you got the award? Cheered you to the roof I did and knocked back a pint of champagne to you. And now to run into you here! It’s crazy. So what are you doing?’
Abner laughed. ‘What do you think I’m doing? What do I spend most of my goddamned life doing? Setting up a film deal is what.’
The other nodded sagely. ‘There’s money here for your sort of stuff. They got taste here, and don’t get so frantic over big bucks. What’s the movie, then?’
Caution slid into Abner like a worm. He’d been so delighted to see this memory of his past that he’d forgotten for a moment just how tense and threatened he’d felt, and now it all came back to him and he stared at Shandwick for a moment and said nothing.
The man grinned. ‘So, listen, do I look like the sort who’d try to rip you off? It’s me, old Dave Shandwick, for Chrissakes! I wouldn’t even go after you for a job on it. I got myself too nicely set up, believe me, to go around with a box of mikes and permanent cans on my head ever again!’
Abner relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, Dave. It’s just that I’ve been having a few problems with people here.’
Dave raised both hands in a gesture of despair. ‘You don’t have to tell me. Dealing with these Brits is like swimming in horse shit. I’ve been in business here long enough to know.’
Abner sharpened. ‘You’re in business here? What business?’
Dave tucked a hand into his elbow, ‘Listen, come and see, if you’ve got the time. My place is only just over there, round the corner — in Bateman Street, see? I can get you a sandwich or somethin’ if you ain’t eaten. I’ve just come from lunch or I’d say let’s go eat some place and — ’
‘Me too,’ Abner said hastily. ‘I’d be glad to see your place. Time we got out of this anyway.’ The wind was colder than ever. ‘Lead the way, friend.’
Shandwick’s office was small and cluttered, with a desk dominated by a personal computer screen and its assorted attachments and Dave patted it affectionately as he pulled a chair up to the desk for Abner to sit down.
‘This little beauty was the start of it all. Won it, you know?’ He winked heavily. ‘I was over here working on a Superman movie, and this sort’a fell into my hands and just to make use of it, I started listing the names and the addresses of the guys I was working with — sound men and camera guys and props, the whole crews. Met a lot, too. That movie went on and on. And then I started hearing about jobs and those I couldn’t do I passed on to the guys on my list — for a small consideration, you know what I mean? — and then I thought, hell, I’m not here on this earth for my health. There’s a living to be made outa this! So I really got to work on it and here we are. The best agency for top crew on the patch!’
‘You’re an agent?’ Abner said slowly, staring at him. ‘For films?’
‘And TV,’ Shandwick said happily. ‘Cover Britain and big chunks of Europe too. All that cable and satellite, believe you me, there’s plenty of meat and gravy for everyone. I got the best freelances anywhere this side of Vladivostok, so when you’re ready to start shooting, give me a whistle. I’ll see you get the best, and check the prices.’ Again he gave one of his outrageous winks. ‘For you there’s no padding the pay sheet, you know what I mean? I got arrangements with a few of the production managers, and one way and another — a bit of back scratching here, a bit there, and one hand washes another. But for you, none of that. You’d get a straight deal.’
‘Could you get me some freelance work?’ Abner said baldly, not even realising he was going to say it till he did.
Shandwick stared and sat down. Now he was watchful behind the bonhomie, though he still looked friendly.
‘I thought you were setting up a movie of your own?’
‘I am. But it’s not as easy as it ought to be. Things fall through.’ Abner shrugged. ‘You know the way it is, better than most.’
‘Not for you, pal,’ Shandwick said bluntly. ‘You’ve got a track record and — ’
Abner sighed. ‘For art house movies, Dave. Not for money spinners.’
The other pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Just shows you, don’t it? Here there are people getting money thrown at ’em, one way and another, and you can’t get what you want. Even though there’s a lot of Middle East oil cash going begging and venture capital from the City and — ’
‘If I hear any more about Arab money I’ll spit,’ Abner said. ‘Take it from me, Dave, this idea isn’t the kind the Arabs like, and I seem to be barking my shins on some sort of — ’ Again he shrugged. ‘I can’t explain. Just believe me I’m having trouble and could do with a job. Of course I’ve no work permit.’
‘Oh, that.’ Shandwick leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t worry about things like that. It’s not so difficult these days, with so many European crews working here.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘A lot. Who can check who’s working for British companies, and who’s working for European networks? And there’s plenty of Europeans — they come here to make commercials for TV because they like London locations. You know the kinda thing — the Japanese make whisky, the Germans bottle it and label it as Scotch and they come and film a French guy jabbering about it in front of the Houses of Parliament or Buckingham Palace so they can sell it in Indonesia. They’re doing that sort of thing three times a week, and I find the crews for ’em. To drop in a few guys who’ve left their work permits back home in Minnesota or Alaska’s no big deal.’
‘I could do with a couple of jobs to tide me over,’ Abner said, thinking of the rent he’d paid for his apartment. ‘This is one expensive town. Almost worse than Manhattan in some ways. I’ve got this one room apartment and they pulled my teeth for it.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Shandwick said feelingly. ‘I’ve got this place over in Docklands — very classy, by the river, but I had to print money to get it.’ He laughed then. ‘Kinda print it. You know me, Abner!’
‘Listen, I want work, but I can’t risk getting into any shit,’ Abner said sharply. ‘I do want to do a film here myself, eventually — when I get the goddammed funding right — and if I fall over the law or the unions before I start it could really screw things up.’
‘Trust me,’ Shandwick said. ‘I’ve got my own interests to think of and there’s no way I’d drop you in it. On account I’d fall in too. I’ll g
et you work.’
He leaned across to his computer and began to hit buttons with great gusto. Clearly this was the part of the operation that pleased him most and Abner watched him, amused, enjoying the memories of the old days the sight of this pug-faced, sixty-year-old, eager kid brought back. He hasn’t changed at all, he thought. Me, I know I’m older, know I look different, but he’s still the same way he was in high school. He’s that sort.
‘OK,’ Shandwick said at length. ‘I can get you out on a shoot for dog food at Battersea Dogs’ Home — just down the other side of the river, no travel costs, so that’s OK — for two days next week, Thursday and Friday. It’s a black one — no names, no pack drill, you get my drift? So I can’t get you the rate for the job, but there’ll be two hundred and fifty in a brown envelope at the end of the week. I know the union rates are way over that, but that’s the size of it, pal. Take it or leave it.’
‘That’s one hell of a choice,’ Abner said a little bitterly, knowing perfectly well how much more a fully fledged director, even of a lousy dog food commercial, should get. ‘When you’re as strapped for cash as I am, it’s no choice. Do I have to work with live dogs?’
‘Only in cages in the background. No shots of the bastards actually choosing to eat the stuff. Just a girl with a lot of hair and a low blouse spouting how great the stuff is. In Icelandic.’
‘Icelandic? Christ! I don’t speak a word of it!’
‘Neither do the dogs, but they manage. It’s OK. The girl’s experienced. She does a lot of naughty stuff for me, too, you know? Not the hard core, just a bit of nice and naughty — and she speaks top rate English. She’ll take care of you. Believe me, it’s an easy two and a half.’
‘You’re on, Dave,’ Abner said. ‘Like I said, I need the money. Got the script?’
Dave shook his head at him amused. ‘What do you think this is, War and Peace? It’s a lousy two bit commercial, sweetheart, just a lousy commercial. The client’ll turn up on site with it. He’s putting it together now. All you need worry about is camera angles and the sound levels. I’m sending a good couple of guys as crew who’ll do a great job, you have my word for it. The client’ll stay till around twelve the first day, and then he has to go off to a meeting in Reykjavík or somewhere, so you’ll be on your own after that. If you get on with it you should be able to clear that evening and put in a half day in the editing suite over at Charlotte Street. I’ll give you the address. Get on with it and you can be out of the job in a day and a half for two days’ pay.’
‘Half day’s pay, Dave, if that,’ Abner said and Shandwick grinned unrepentantly.
‘So what do you expect, working illegally? I’ve got to get my share of the ante. And because I do I get you more work when you want it. Believe me, I can keep you in rent the whole time you’re here. One promise though. When you start shooting your own movie, I expect to be there on the ground floor, looking after your crewing.’
‘You’re on, friend.’ Abner got to his feet. ‘How do I contact these people, then, for next Thursday?’
Shandwick scribbled on a piece of paper and pushed it over the desk at him. ‘Here’s the place. I’ll mark it on a map for you, too.’ He busied himself at the photocopier for a while, using one of the maps of London that Abner himself carried and then shoved the marked page at him. ‘See? Just turn up there and you’ll see the crew van. It’s marked “Shandwicks”, very tasteful, in a blue and white logo. None of your garbage around me these days, eh, pal? The real stuff. I got six of those vans and they all work all the time.’
‘Sounds like an unnecessary trimming, if you’re a crews’ agent,’ Abner said, tucking the map away carefully. ‘Why give yourself the trouble?’
‘To keep ’em moving,’ Shandwick said promptly. ‘I really hustle for my dough, and that means making the sons of bitches work. No charging me hours of travelling when they’ve been playing pinochle. The van drives ’em, and I lay on flasks of coffee and sandwiches. It’s called enlightened self-interest.’ Again the gargantuan wink. ‘The crews like it, on account it’s different from the treatment they usually get and most of ’em don’t see what’s in it for me. You’re unusual. You saw it right away. But then you always were a smart bastard.’ He slapped Abner across the back affectionately. ‘It sure is good to know you’re in London, fella. I’ve been working here seven years now and still not got that many real buddies around. We must see more of each other.’
‘Sure, Dave,’ Abner said, and got to his feet. ‘When I have time. I’m here to work too, remember. I’ll take all the work from you I can have to keep the ice box full of beer, but after that I’m hustling too. But where can I get you? Got a phone number for that Docklands place? What’s special about Docklands, by the way?’
‘Only a quarter of a million for an apartment is all,’ Shandwick said with studied casualness. ‘It’s the place to live, where the money goes. And I’m making it — OK, Abner. Here you go. Great to have run into you, and enjoy the job!’
‘I’ll try. But not as much as you will, you old devil. You and your quarter million dollar apartment!’
‘Dollars nothing.’ Dave beamed broadly. ‘Pounds, old pal, pounds. Come by again soon now, promise me. And I’ll give you cash in hand on that job this time next week, OK? Bring the edited tape with you from Charlotte Street — that’s the second address on that sheet I gave you — and make it look good, baby. These Icelanders got a lot more work they could put your way if they’re happy.’
‘I will,’ Abner said and went clattering out to the street again, feeling better than he had an hour or so ago. He might have lost out on his high hopes for financing his film just yet, but at least he could now see a way of keeping himself above water on a personal level. Even if he had to do it illegally. And he wondered uneasily for a moment just how stringent the British authorities were in the matter of work permits, and then shrugged it away. That was Dave Shandwick’s problem and it certainly didn’t seem to make him lose any sleep. That’s one hell of a successful set-up Dave has there, he told himself as he went on down the street back to the tube station to get a train back to Camden Town. There can’t be many people in this business he doesn’t know a good deal about, after so many years supplying crews for so many projects.
It wasn’t until he was in the shower that he thought of it. If Shandwick knew people in the film business in this town then maybe he’d be able to give him some information about the people Abner had already been dealing with. Perhaps he could help find out more about Nagel and Heller and Venables? And — the thought drifted unbidden to his mind — the man called Mayer. He still puzzled Abner more than a little.
But by the time he’d got out of the shower and dressed and made for the phone he was too late. The office number Shandwick had given him didn’t answer and neither did the home one. Well, there was always tomorrow. He’d call him over the weekend and really get the lowdown on some of these people. And he put on a heavy sweater and went out again to find a movie house showing something he’d enjoy, feeling rather better than he could have hoped he would at lunchtime.
Fifteen
Saturday was a frustrating day and yet ultimately he enjoyed it. Frustrating because he failed to reach Dave Shandwick; there was no reply from either his Bateman Street office or his apartment in Docklands, and not even an answerphone, which surprised him, and he frowned, all his suspicions surging up again. No way was he going to do that job at Battersea until he’d spoken to the guy again, he told himself. Now Abner needed more than just to pick Dave’s brains about the people that he, Abner, had been dealing with; he needed more reassurance that Shandwick himself wasn’t going to screw him. He’d always seemed a decent enough guy to deal with, totally honest about his dishonesty in a very disarming way, but you never knew; maybe he’d turned into a complete crook now and would let Abner do the work for him and then not pay up?
And as that thought shaped itself into words in his head he made a grimace at his own stupidity. Christ, he rea
lly was getting ridiculous. There’d be no percentage in Dave trying that. Of course there wouldn’t. He’d made it very clear to Abner he’d get his money in exchange for the edited film, so no money for Abner, no film for Dave. There was no need to get so suspicious, and he let his shoulders relax and set out to make the most of the weekend that he could.
And did well. He left his apartment after breakfast to walk around his new neighbourhood and when after wandering in increasing gloom down one dreary street after another he suddenly found himself in a wildly busy street market, where bunches of silver balloons bounced over the heads of itinerant sellers, and stalls full of plants and clothes and antiques and sculpture were set hugger-mugger amid the reek of doner kebabs and falaffel frying which filled the air with hunger, while the water from the canal glittered in the afternoon sunshine as faces of every colour and type and voices of every pitch drifted by, his mood lifted to a crazy degree. This, he was told when he asked a passer-by, was Dingwall’s, also known as Camden Lock, and as he stared around he felt a rich and agreeable vein of nostalgia open up inside him. This was life, this was fun, this was terrific; and he plunged into the hubbub, wandering from stall to stall and through the crowded alleys in a state of beatitude. For the first time since he had arrived in this town he was living for the here and now; he wasn’t bedevilled by memories of the past and anxieties about the future. There was just the impact on his senses of the sounds and sights and smells of the place, and he loved it all.
Postscripts Page 16
