by Ava Barry
“Just tell me if you’re interested in the project. I’ve already decided to make it.”
“I stayed up all night, reading your script,” he said. “It’s probably the best thing you’ve ever written. But I noticed a few problems.”
“Tell me.”
John shook his head and gave me a weary smile. “You lack finesse,” he said. “You’re young. Subversion is all about subtlety.”
“I’m the highest grossing director at MGM, John.”
“For the moment, you are,” he agreed. “But don’t you remember all those silent stars who couldn’t get a script after films went to sound? All those empty houses up in the hills? They thought they were gods.”
“The studios think they’re too big to fail,” I said. “They’re run by the most egotistical men in Los Angeles. If we don’t say something against them, we’re only part of the problem.”
“You can’t mock them outright, you know,” he said. “Unless you’re going to fund the entire picture yourself.”
“It can’t be too subversive, or the audience won’t understand.”
John looked at me. “Even if you do decide to go forth with this script, labeling all your collaborators ingrates and cannibals, you can’t expect to find a cast willing to put their own careers on the line. The Sophia character is a strong role, but what actress would be willing to put her life on the line?”
“I will,” Nora said. “I’ll play the part.”
“You haven’t read the script yet.”
Nora shrugged. “I’m not afraid to be controversial.”
John steepled his fingers and thought for a moment. “I’ll help you make this movie,” he said. “We’ll make Los Angeles a mythic city. We’ll call it Avalon. Travelers and tourists have to arrive by train, and there’s nothing but desert for a hundred miles in each direction.”
“The desert,” I echoed. “Okay.”
“Your main character,” he said. “This Jody. He comes out west, hoping to make it big, but instead of movies, let’s say he works at a newspaper…”
“And Sophia?” Nora spoke up again.
“A talented journalist,” John said. “This Manfred character is a bit on the nose, don’t you think? A character everyone will completely hate, but perhaps too obvious.”
“It’s apt.”
John gave me a curious look. “Was he inspired by someone?”
“Can’t say.”
John looked at the script, flipping through the pages. “Don’t make the parallels between the newspaper and MGM too obvious,” he said.
“I’ll try to be more subtle.”
“The studios won’t make a film that mocks them,” he said. “And listen to me carefully, Theo. This is about more than your career. If you piss off the wrong people, they’ll come for your head.”
As the script progresses, so does Windhall. My manager thinks that having a big house will be good for business. He’s already hired a small army of gardeners and cleaning people. He’s a bit too excited about the whole thing, but he’s hired a good staff. He’s found a Swiss German woman to run my household, and from our initial meeting, she seems to have a good head on her shoulders. She’s a pretty little thing, but she seems very serious. I don’t know if we’ll have much of a relationship outside our professional capacities, but I don’t mind that. I need someone I can trust more than anything else.
September 27, 1947—
Nora keeps refusing to film. Poor darling. She’s taken it harder than most, and it’s lasted longer than I thought it would. Trying to figure out how we might skip out on our contracts. Also wondering who might be willing to show Last Train once we’re done filming.
October 12, 1947—
That monkey came to visit me on set today. He hasn’t been around much, but then again, most producers are only good for the wet bar at the premiere. He won’t be the first one who’s surprised when they announce that a movie has finished filming, because he hasn’t shown up on set once.
Today, he wasn’t happy.
“I read the script,” he said.
“Congratulations, we’ve only been filming it for six weeks.”
His next move caught me off guard. He threw a fist so quickly that I didn’t have time to defend myself, and I staggered backward. But the fist didn’t connect. He laughed while I recovered, and I realized that he must have been drinking.
“Just fooling around,” he said. “Can’t you take a joke? You’re known for your sense of humor, Theo.”
I tried to keep my voice even. “Is there something you wanted? I’m in the middle of editing.”
“This script,” he said. He took a folded packet of papers from his pocket and waved it at me. “Is this meant to be funny?”
He was still laughing, but his eyes were red. He was clenching a fist, and I knew that in his state of inebriation, he was liable to be dangerous.
“Talk it over with Mayer,” I said. “I don’t have time for this.”
I started to walk away, but the monkey reached out and grabbed my shoulder. He’s known as studio muscle, but his grip surprised me.
“You think you can get away with this? You think I wouldn’t find out what you’d done?” He moved closer, and I smelled whiskey. His proximity was alarming, but I managed to hold my ground. “You’re finished, Langley.”
I laughed the comment off. “Thanks for the warning.”
“You should watch out for your friends,” he called after me, as I walked away. “Have you seen Eleanor lately? You think she can take care of herself?”
October 15, 1947—
Well, it’s over now. John came to see me this morning with bad news. I was surprised to see him show up at my house, since we had plans to see each other later in the day, when we were going to start looking at the reels together.
“They’re cutting us off.”
The full weight of the statement didn’t sink in right away.
“What do you mean?”
“The studio wants us to stop working on Last Train to Avalon,” he said. “No more editing, no more stills. It’s finished.”
“But we’ve already finished filming,” I argued. “All the scenes are done, and we’ll be done editing in a few weeks. We’re doing fine on budget.”
“It’s done, Theo.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Look, is it because of the script? Did Mayer read it? I don’t understand.”
He shook his head, holding up a hand to stop me. “The funding’s gone. It’s over. These things happen all the time, you know. Accept it. We gave it our best shot.”
“I’ll pay for it myself,” I said quickly, and John gave me a long, cold stare.
“Even if you could pay for every single person on that set, you’re forgetting the One Rule,” he said. “Thou Shalt Not Piss on the Studio’s Feet. We tried, and we failed. The studios are everything in this town. Everything. They own the film-editing labs. We finished filming, but your story will sit undeveloped on some shelf, rotting away in the darkness, with no eyes to see it, because the studios own all the movie theaters, too. They own the audiences, whether the audiences know it or not. They own all the equipment you’ve been using these past few weeks, and, hell, Theo, they own all the roads and buildings we’ve been using as locations. As long as they’re paying you a salary, they own you, too.”
I must have looked shocked, because John patted my shoulder.
“Better you should hear it from a friend,” he said. “You’ll move on from this.”
“Is there anything they don’t own?”
“The desert,” he said thoughtfully. “No one owns the desert. I suppose that’s why I wanted to set your story out there, come to think of it. Cheer up, old boy. You’ll get over this.”
October 21, 1947—
I’ve never seen her like this. She came over last night when I was asleep, and I found I had to talk her down.
“I’m going to tell everyone,” she said.
“They’ll kill
you if you do.”
“I don’t care anymore, Theo! I don’t care about anything. We’re living in a cage, can’t you see that?”
FIFTEEN
I woke up early Sunday morning. My head was still buzzing from reading Theo’s last journal, and I was lost in my thoughts as I made myself coffee. I had completely forgotten my plans for the day, which is why I didn’t hear the doorbell at first.
When I opened the door, I found Petra. “You forgot, didn’t you?” she accused.
“Forgot what?”
She brushed past me. “Are you making coffee?”
“Yeah, do you want some?”
“We’re supposed to head to Eagle Rock in twenty minutes,” she said. “He’s a busy man.”
It took me a moment to put the pieces together. “Avalon!” I said. “You’re right, I did forget!”
She gave me a strange look. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine, it’s nothing.”
“Are you ready to leave?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute to get dressed,” I said.
* * *
I was a bit of a snob, so I didn’t admit it easily, but I secretly loved Eagle Rock. It had the faded ’70s vibe that Los Angeles was famous for, and on a clear, hot day, when the pavement was singing and there wasn’t a hint of haze in the air, you could almost forget you were living in a modern city. There had been a bit of modernization in the last few years, but since Glendale and the eastern suburbs were still considered pretty uncool, the surrounding neighborhoods like Eagle Rock had been largely ignored. You could still find quaint little diners and bizarre antiques shops on every corner.
We took Petra’s car, and I looked out the window. Even though I loved East Los Angeles, I hadn’t been past Silver Lake in the last year, except to visit Heather in Pasadena.
“What’s his name again?” I asked.
“J. Montgomery Dean,” she said. “He goes by Monty.”
“Is he a porn star?”
“He collects antiques.”
“What sort of shop is it?”
“You’ll see.”
We turned down Colorado, onto Eagle Rock Boulevard. “You know you can get some of the best food in Los Angeles in this neighborhood?” I said.
“Yes, I did know that.”
Petra turned down a little side street lined with a mix of Craftsman and cinder-block houses. We parked, and I followed her down the street. We stopped outside a quaint old sandstone building that looked like it might have been built in the early 1900s.
“It was an old bank,” Petra said. “I thought you might appreciate that.”
I looked up at the sign. ‘The Last American Trading Post,’ I read.
“Come on,” Petra said, then opened the door and stepped into the cool interior of the shop.
It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, but once they did, I took an appreciative look around. The shop had a square, blocky feeling, appropriate for an old bank. The ceilings were lofty, and light filtered down from high windows. Against one wall of the shop were the old teller windows, with wooden slats and iron rungs. CASHIER was painted in blocky gold letters above the till.
Two wide, wooden tables were set up in the middle of the room, and they were stacked with an array of old books. Stock shelves along the sides of the shop boasted every manner of antique oddity, from apothecary jars and glass lamps to fur-trapping materials. I paused before an unidentified skull, preserved beneath a glass dome.
“It’s an Eskimo skull,” came a voice.
I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a young woman with black and purple hair. It was pinned in a lazy knot on top of her head, and the bottom half of her head was shaved. She wore old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses, but her face was decorated with several intricate piercings. She blinked at me.
“I think you’re supposed to say Inuit,” I said. “Eskimo is racist. Besides, it looks more like a mountain lion.”
“Bravo, gold star,” she said. “You looking for something in particular?”
“We’re here to see Monty,” Petra spoke up. “Are you Raquel?”
“That’s me,” the young woman said. “Monty know you’re coming?”
“Yes,” Petra said, then hesitated. “It’s about old Los Angeles.”
Raquel narrowed her eyes. “Are you Petra?”
“Yes, and this is Max Hailey.”
“Avalon.” Raquel nodded. She took out her cell phone and dialed, then spoke into the phone. “Yeah, they’re here. Should I send them down?”
She hung up the phone and then turned around. “Right,” she said. “I’m going to need to take your cell phones. You can leave them up here with me; it’s perfectly safe. Literally. We have a nineteenth-century safe behind the till.”
I rolled my eyes, but Petra laughed.
“Do you have cameras or any other kind of recording device?” Raquel asked.
“Nothing.”
“I’m going to need your bags and jackets,” she said. “Put your stuff down here, and then I’ll give you a little pat down.”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable with that,” I said.
Raquel gave me a hard look. “You’re about to step into one of the most elusive properties in Los Angeles,” she said. “Most people don’t even know this place still exists. You don’t have to submit to any of our security measures, but if you don’t, I’ll direct you toward the exit.”
I gave her a wary look, then stripped off my light jacket and handed her my satchel. “I have some confidential writing in there,” I said. “Don’t go through it.”
“Relax, Hemingway, I’ve got plenty of reading material to pass the time.” She stepped toward me and gave me a quick, efficient pat. Petra stepped forward and got the same treatment, then Raquel put our bags behind the counter. She glanced around the store and looked up at a clock on the wall, then crossed the room and flipped the OPEN sign around to CLOSED.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s go meet Monty.”
We followed her through a door at the back of the bank. I expected a dank basement but was surprised to see that the stairs led down into a well-lit room filled with cool, clean air. There were no windows, since we were underground, but the room had the efficient, pleasing light of a museum. Various pieces of art hung on the wall at even intervals, each one bearing a plaque beneath it. As with the room above, this underground chamber held plenty of bizarre artifacts, from Victorian vascula to musical instruments that looked about two hundred years old.
A man emerged from a corridor at the back of the room. My first thought was that we had come to Eagle Rock and somehow wound up standing in Stanley Tucci’s basement, that’s how close the resemblance was. Unlike Stanley Tucci, however, this man was missing all of his top teeth.
“Welcome. My name is Monty,” he said, adjusting his glasses. I was surprised that the missing teeth had very little effect on his speech. “I see you’ve been deemed worthy by my lovely assistant.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Raquel said. “I’d better go back upstairs. Oh, Tim called. He found that skeleton you were looking for.”
“Are they willing to sell?”
“It’s stuck in Yuma,” she said. “Looks like a ton of paperwork to get it across the border. You’ll have to call him yourself.”
“Is he wearing the original clothing?”
“Yeah.” Raquel saluted us, then retreated back upstairs.
“So, where were we?” Monty said, rubbing his hands together. “Petra, lovely to see you again.”
“Wait, you’ve already met?” I glanced between them.
“We’ve done business together,” Monty said, raising an eyebrow. “When was that—last year?”
“July.”
“I’m confused,” I said.
“I used to run a catering company,” Petra said. “The event was at Heritage Square, and it was small, so I got the chance to talk to a lot of people.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “
I had no idea you ran a company.”
She gave me a wry smile. “Everyone has a backstory, don’t they? You shouldn’t make assumptions about unpaid interns.”
I knew that I was being rude, but I was starting to feel anxious. “You said you’d show Avalon to us?”
Petra and Monty exchanged a look.
“Come with me,” Monty said. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
We followed him through the basement, toward a reinforced steel door. Monty entered a code into a number pad and the door gave a satisfied beep, then released with a compressed whoosh. Monty gave us one final look, then stepped inside.
The room was steeped in darkness, but Monty flipped on the light. I gasped.
The second room was about the size of the first, which was slightly smaller than my living room. The walls were bare and freshly painted, and there was a wide walkway around each of the walls. In the center of the room, lit up by six stage lights hung from the ceiling, was Avalon.
“Before you approach, let me tell you the rules,” Monty said. “First of all, no touching. That should go without saying. I know that Raquel took your phones, but if you have some hidden cameras, you’re not allowed to use them. You can get close enough to see the buildings, but you must be extremely careful.” He frowned. “You haven’t been drinking alcohol today, have you?”
“No,” I said, my eyes focused on the miniature city.
“Just covering my bases,” Monty said. “I don’t want you to stumble or vomit on it. Go ahead, you can take a closer look.”
Petra and I walked toward the miniature set, both of us taking extreme caution not to make sudden movements. The buildings came up to our waists, and The streets were wide, so that a movie camera could move between them. Some of the streets had camera trolley tracks laid into them.
“Is this the original setup?” I asked, turning to look at Monty.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “I bought up all the pieces separately, but I took painstaking efforts to make it just the way that Theo intended.”
It was surreal to stand and look at a set that I had imagined for most of my life. It was more beautiful than I had imagined it to be, and I could see that an extraordinary amount of work had gone into it. Each detail was perfectly crafted, from the tiny Victorian mansions on Bunker Hill to the glittering palace in the center of the set. The light glinted off the domed windows and the curving spires, and despite Monty’s warning, I longed to touch it.