Night for Day

by Patrick Flanery

  Where’s Nick Charles? Krug bellowed.

  Nick opened the back door as if he had been listening just outside and light tore across the screen for an instant, whiting out half the image. John and I slumped lower in our seats, trying to make ourselves invisible as Nick darted down the aisle to take his place in the row behind Krug.

  Take a memo, Nick. Addressed to all producers, directors, cinematographers, writers, costumers… Strike that, address it to the whole studio. Title of the memo: Shooting Pretty. No – Shooting Patriotic. No, strike that, Shooting Pretty and Patriotic. Got that?

  Shooting Pretty and Patriotic, yes, sir, Mr. Krug.

  Once upon a time this studio made beautiful pictures. Now and then, too rarely these days, we still make a beautiful picture. I’m talking about movies full of magnificent ladies in well-appointed rooms and lavish gardens pursued by handsome men in Savile Row suits who aren’t strangers to a razor and comb, who rise to the occasion and never wait for the girl to make the first move. Over the course of the last several years, however – and I, Leo Krug, date this development to the period immediately following the end of the war – an ugly new species of picture has been made on this lot which must now be eradicated. I’m talking about movies where everyone looks like they haven’t had a square meal in a week and only bathe once a month and mend their clothes when they wear out instead of buying new ones. This is not a Poverty Row studio. We are not grubbing for the dirty dimes of the down-and-out. If John Q. Public can afford to see one of our pictures after he’s paid his rent and fed his kids and made sure none of them is running around buck naked then of course we would not turn him away from the door, but we are not making movies for him, and we are not making movies that show him how miserable his life already is. We are making pictures that give him a vision of the life that could be his if only he worked a little harder and had not been stupid enough to bite the first fat tart who wandered past his porch and had six gimping kids before he was twenty-five. You got that, NC?

  Six gimping kids before he was twenty-five, said Nick. Got it.

  You take shorthand?

  Gregg method. Self-taught.

  You some kind of faggot, NC?

  No, sir, Mr. Krug. Think of me as a court stenographer.

  Never tell me what to think. Where were we?

  Six gimping kids before he was twenty-five.

  Bingo. Mostly we’re making pictures for people like us, and unless poor people are funny, noble, patriotic, or devout, people like us do not want to see them unless they happen to be wearing a uniform. The rich mostly want pictures about other rich people facing small hurdles but ending up happy in the end. Happiness is reassuring. Happy stories make audiences go home and try to live happier lives, which means they work harder to make more money, to spend more, to contribute to the economy, to pay admission to see our pictures. Poor people, on the other hand, have a crisis and first thing they stop doing is going to the pictures. But poor people only have a crisis if the rich have a crisis, which is why you have to look after the rich first. It is in our interest to keep the rich audiences happy and motivated to work harder, because then everyone benefits. Got it, NC?

  Everyone benefits.

  Your hand isn’t sore?

  No, Mr. Krug.

  I can tell from the way you write, your hand gets a daily workout. No girlfriend yet?

  No girlfriend, Mr. Krug.

  Keep giving that hand a workout. Get a girlfriend next year. I’ll rent you one. Where were we?

  Everyone benefits.

  They should make me head of the Federal Reserve. Strike that, they should make me President. This country would never have a crisis again if I made the decisions. I’d make it what it was before the Great Depression! America first! Just like Lindbergh said. That should be the ethos of this studio, which I don’t have to remind you is an American motion picture studio, founded in America by Americans, employing Americans. We believe in the American way! In liberty, equality, fraternity! Indivisible and inseparable! Independence or death, from sea to shining sea, under God our vindicator! Work, family, fatherland! One, great and free! All for one and one for all, In God We Trust, E Pluribus Unum! Freedom or Death! Since the Waldorf Agreement, to which this studio is a proud signatory, we have made it our policy not to employ known Communists. This continues now and will forever be our policy, throughout the universe and until the end of time. Effective immediately all employees of the studio, contract and non-contract, are required to sign a loyalty oath to retain employment. All pictures currently in development, pre-production, production, and postproduction will undergo review for subversive content. Any project found to be employing or asserting anti-American sentiments will have to be revised or canceled…

  Krug was still talking but listening to his nonsense over the footage of you made me sick. I whispered to John that I would see him later and crept out the back door. Then, just as I turned towards the front gate, every light in the studio went dark. A scream tore the air. Men began shouting. I heard Krug thundering from inside the screening room. Doors swung open and slammed shut again. People bumped into one another and I tried to steer clear of the dark passing shapes. In the blackout the world dissolved into violet grays. There should have been a waning crescent moon but in the canyon of sound stages I could not see it.

  At the gate it became apparent that the electricity failure was the studio’s alone – the neighboring houses were bright, street lights all burning. I began looking for a cab but as I turned north, rounding a corner, a red-headed kid in jeans and T-shirt came tearing along the sidewalk, nearly throwing me to the ground before glancing back for an instant, then running faster again as a gang of older and bigger boys arrived in pursuit, some reaching down for stones in the road and flinging them in the running boy’s direction. ‘Hey faggot!’ one shouted, and a fist-sized rock hit the red-headed boy square in the back. I tried to shout Stop but nothing came out. The boy flinched as other stones caught him, one grazing his shoulder, but he kept running, panting, until a rock the size of a baseball smashed into the back of his head. Mute, I watched as he faltered, stumbled, and then dropped to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

  I couldn’t move my feet. The flash of a switchblade cut the voice from my throat. No sound would come out. My heart was racing. I smelled the sourness of my own sweat. It all happened in less than a minute. The red-headed boy lay dark and torn on the pavement, the gang staring at his unmoving body, their black denim legs shining in lamplight. The shortest of the gang members laughed with the wild-dog cackle of a child horrified by his power. Then the others started laughing, kicking at the red-headed boy as if they were trying to wake him, and I could see that they didn’t realize what they had done until one of them leaned over to flip the body and the fallen boy’s face stared sightless into the night. A gasp went up and the gang looked at one another as if already trying to apportion blame, to judge who might be held responsible. Someone was going to snitch.

  When I made the mistake of shifting my weight in the shadows the short kid noticed me, and then, coalescing into a single malevolent beast, the gang began inching across the pavement in my direction, leaning over to pick up stones in their path. I started running, screaming for the cops, reaching out to balance myself as I skidded around corners, the sound of the gang’s footsteps following, blocka blocka blocka, flying down streets until I was deep at the end of an alley surrounded by smoke swirling in acrid clouds from a burning pile of trash. Behind me the gang shouted threats and kept moving closer until I could see their faces just as clearly as they could see mine. I imagined bargaining for my life, telling them I would say nothing, I would never snitch, they could count on me, all the inanities of the cornered and cowardly. Just as they raised their hands, rocks gripped and ready to throw, the shriek of a police siren sent them scattering into the night.

  I know that I should have waited for the police to find me, but I ran, stumbling from the alley and into a str
eet bright with traffic, jumping clear as a taxi screeched to a stop at my feet.

  Night was down as the cabbie sped from the city’s flatlands and into the hills. He followed Westwood to Wilshire, made the gradual rise along Bundy to Sunset. I knew it was the last time I would ever travel that route so I watched the houses pass, the dark palms above them quaking like idiot giants out for an evening stroll, heads lolling on limbless bodies, waiting to be cut down, felled on the pavement. The cab was hot and every bump juddered through my spine. I wanted to forget the day, forget what I had just seen, forget that I had only told you half the truth, Myles, that there was still the worse truth to come.

  You look like you just got canned, said the cabbie, peering at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

  Nope. I quit. First time in my life.

  Bosses!

  Got that right.

  Be your own boss. Like me.

  That’s what I aim to do, I told him.

  Only way to be free. The Reds want to put men like me out of business, take away our freedom, regulate every goddamn step we take, the cabbie continued, hectoring me as I stared out the window in silence.

  When I got home I phoned the police to report what I had witnessed and they said they would send someone the next day to take a statement.

  There was no point in telling them I would already be gone.

  SHE TURNED AWAY

  Part Four

  EXT. MALAVITA – NIGHT

  An oily Los Angeles evening has fallen but Sunset is ablaze with the gaudy street-life of neon lights as Ursula’s car pulls into the Malavita parking lot.

  Orph slips out, shuts the door, and glances around as if expecting to be jumped. The day’s fever is turning to night sweats as he hunches inside his jacket. A thought stops him and he skulks back into the car, locking himself inside.

  ORPH (V.O.)

  I’d been avoiding the club all afternoon, finding any excuse I could not to look my brother in the face. I went to the library, as though I’d find any truth in books. I found plenty, but not in books...

  FLASHBACK TO:

  EXT. LOS ANGELES CENTRAL LIBRARY - DAY

  Orph hurries along the walkway to the Central Library entrance, sky clear above the pyramid at the top of the tower, statues of Phosphorus and Hesperus looking down upon him.

  INT. CENTRAL LIBRARY - DAY

  Beneath the high dome of the Rotunda, a LIBRARIAN helps Orph search back issues of newspapers.

  ORPH (V.O.) (CONT’D)

  Not three months old, right in the pages of the Times, I found all I needed to know about Ralph Wesley, the dead guy from Pasadena in the house Faye told me belonged to Rose Zapatero. Only there was no Rose Zapatero, and I was sure there never had been.

  A headline in bold type shouts across the lower right-hand corner of the front page: PASADENA MURDER TIED TO SUNSET CLUB. The byline, as with the article Ursula was reading in Union Station, belongs to Noah Roy.

  ORPH (V.O.) (CONT’D)

  I knew what I’d find even before I read the story. The Wesley stiff had been working at Malavita and someone put lead in his nut while he was home watching boxing one Tuesday evening. First house on the street with a television, easy to find the window from the flicker outside, but he was that kind of guy, fast car, sharp clothes, always the showboat. You could tell from the quotes the reporter had wrung from the neighbors no one was sorry to see Wesley gone.

  Before closing the Times, Orph’s finger travels down the second column of the article, landing on the final line: ‘deceased man is survived by his wife, Lillian Wesley, and a daughter, Nancy Jean Wesley.’

  ORPH (V.O.) (CONT’D)

  After everything Woody Montez said I didn’t see how I could go to the cops. Even if they weren’t crooked I knew they’d never do anything to help me. Sure, I was a chump. Someone had been dragging me on a string ever since I got off that train. The reporter seemed like a better stake. From the tone of the story I guessed there was something he wasn’t saying, or didn’t think he could say, and that got me thinking maybe the right questions would start him talking.

  INT. LOS ANGELES TIMES LOBBY - DAY

  A giant globe spins in the middle of the lobby as Orph approaches the GUARD at the reception desk.

  ORPH (V.O.) (CONT’D)

  I told the mug at the front desk I had a hot tip but I’d only talk to the reporter, Noah Roy.

  GUARD

  Everybody’s got a hot tip, buddy. Sell it somewheres else.

  ORPH

  It’s about that living room murder in Pasadena. Roy wrote the story but it’s a bigger bomb than he knows. And I’ve got a match to light the fuse.

  The guard stares at Orph as though he’s heard it enough times to write the authoritative guide to fast-talkers but something about Orph’s face makes him pick up the phone.

  ORPH (V.O.)

  It was a bluff, but I didn’t have time to lose.

  Orph waits in the lobby and then the elevator doors open and NOAH ROY, too young to have been in the war, smart and good looking and hungry for opportunity, crosses the floor and takes Orph’s hand.

  NOAH

  What’s your name, sailor?

  ORPH

  I’m Army for one thing, kid.

  NOAH

  Oh, pardon me.

  ORPH

  I’m Jack Plutone’s brother.

  Noah’s face swings a hard right to caution.

  NOAH

  I didn’t know Jack had a brother.

  Orph looks suspiciously at the Guard.

  ORPH

  Maybe we should go somewhere more private.

  EXT. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES - DAY

  Noah leads them around the corner and a few blocks away to a dive on Broadway.

  INT. DOWNTOWN DINER – DAY

  The diner WAITRESSES are all younger and tougher than the men on the other side of the counter. Noah and Orph each take a stool.

  NOAH

  Two coffees, Maggie.

  WAITRESS

  Wid or widout slugs?

  NOAH

  (to Orph)

  Drinking?

  ORPH

  Too early for me.

  NOAH

  (to Waitress)

  We’ll take ’em unleaded.

  WAITRESS

  (shaking her head, disgusted)

  What a coupla pups.

  Noah raises the back of his hand as though he might strike her if he didn’t know better, but the waitress makes a fist to show him just how stupid that would be. She pours two cups of coffee and slams them down on the counter.

  NOAH

  (to Orph)

  I take it you’re not here to walk me down a dark alley.

  ORPH

  I don’t work for my brother, but I got an idea you might know some people who do.

  NOAH

  You mean the Wesley case.

  ORPH

  That’s the one. Jack’s wife drove me out to the house and showed off a dame I come to discover doesn’t exist. No relation to Wesley or his wife but I’d bet money she works for my brother.

  NOAH

  Shade’s all over this case. Just printing that story nearly got me killed. Someone cut my brakes but I jumped clear before the car crashed off Mulholland. Went over a cliff.

  Noah demonstrates with his hand, drawing an arc in the air and whistling.

  ORPH

  You know where to find Wesley’s widow?

  Noah studies Orph as though deciding whether he can trust him. He takes a slurp of his coffee and turns to the waitress as if to ask her opinion. She leans across the counter, stares openly at Orph, looks back at Noah and gives him a nod.

  WAITRESS

  I reckon this sprout’s too green to lie. I’d almost trust him with my kid sister. Almost.

  NOAH

  Promise you don’t work for your brother?

  ORPH

  I play piano at Malavita only that’s not going so well since a guy named Montez left me for dead on the
desert.

  NOAH

  Montez is one of Shade’s goons. Bet you didn’t know that. Pretends to work for himself but all the numbers rackets he runs belong to your brother. Montez is just the enforcer.

  ORPH

  I’m guessing one of them did away with my wife – maybe Montez, maybe Jack himself – only I don’t have it all figured out. I need to know for sure Jack’s behind the Wesley case. If he is, that’ll mean I can’t trust him – not him, and not his wife either.

  As Orph starts to tell his story, Noah pulls out a reporter’s notebook and begins furiously writing.

  ORPH (V.O.)

  It was a relief to tell someone all about Jack and me as kids, everything I knew about Jack’s business, about Ursula and Faye and the way Ursula disappeared in the mountains. Roy knew where to find Wesley’s widow, and I convinced him to take me there, a few blocks away, to a hotel where they rent by the week and you’d be wise to bring your own sheets.

  INT. FLEABAG HOTEL - DAY

  Noah shows Orph into the dingy lobby of a residential hotel on East 5th. They take the rickety elevator up to the seventh floor.