With a casual motion Sherman turned off the first light.
"But why?" said Martin. "Why are you doing this?"
Sherman shuffled to the next light.
"Who knows why anything ends up the way it does, Jack? If I'd never met you. If I'd never met Chris. If I'd never gone to work where I did. A whole lot of ifs. If you hadn't treated her like you did.”
He switched off another lamp.
"If you hadn't let me marry her."
Click.
Martin strained against the straps. The leather cut into his wrists.
Click.
"You might say those are the mystery parts, I guess. But I know one thing. I'm going to start living in my own house justified. And that's a fact."
Click.
A growing darkness spread as Sherman spoke from the shrinking, impenetrable depths of the room. Martin was nearly blind, the ghosts of the lamps burned into the backs of his eyes. He arched his body and slammed his head into the backboard. But the straps held.
Sherman hesitated by the last lamp. His silhouette blazed in bas-relief.
Then he reached into a fuse box by the door.
Martin's heart was ready to burst out of his chest.
Sherman lowered his hand. He relaxed and slumped against the white wall. His eyes twinkled out of the shadows.
"Anyway. You get the picture. That's the way it'll happen. When it happens."
He wheezed, his body rocking with compressed laughter.
"See how easy it is? No matter what time of the day or night they come for me, I won't have anything to worry about. Will I, Jack?"
He lumbered back toward Martin.
With a flick of his fingers he released Martin's arms. As he knelt before the chair and unstrapped the legs, he raised his chalky face.
"Well," he asked, "what did you think of my little demonstration?"
Slowly, very slowly Martin raised himself. Though his legs would not work properly, he dragged himself to the door. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
One by one Sherman switched the lights back on. The bulbs shivered to life with a faint high-frequency whine.
Martin swung one foot over the threshold behind him, into the waiting blackness of the hallway.
Sherman collapsed wearily into the big chair. It was larger than Martin had realized, made of heavy boards bolted together in a grotesque, inhuman design. The weight of it, the edges and the extreme angles gave it the appearance of a malevolent throne.
Sherman rested easily in it. As if his body had molded itself to the rigid contours, the unyielding angles with years of practice. As if he belonged there.
"Anyway," he said. "It was nice to see you. Jack."
Already his voice was withdrawing, slipping away.
"Stop by again. Anytime. Bring a friend. I don't go out much anymore. Inside, outside. What's the difference? It's all the same. Isn't it."
He sighed, his cracking voice barely audible.
"They should have finished me off," he added, "when they had the chance."
On the wall, close to the door jamb, was the power box. The cover was open, a gleaming switch inside waiting to be thrown. Martin measured its proximity to his hand.
Maybe I'd be doing him a favor, he thought. Maybe I'd be doing us all a favor. I couldn't have known that until I saw. For one shining moment I actually thought that I could forgive him and everything would be right. But now that's asking too much. How can there be forgiveness for the unforgiving? His judgment will have to come from someone stronger than myself.
There was a movement behind him.
“You can do it.”
The words were whispered directly into his ear by a voice at least as detached and bloodless as Sherman's.
"You know you can!" she hissed. "You've always hated him. Admit it! It will make you free. It will make us both free. You'll see! It will—"
Her tone was seductive, excessively reasonable. The sound of it was almost cruel. The words were almost kind.
Martin met her eyes.
Her face was no more than an inch away. It glimmered there, half in darkness and half in the synthetic light, a film of excitation giving off an unnatural redolence. Her breath was hot, passionate at last. A rising pulse raced through the vein at her throat.
It was, he decided, a face he no longer knew.
"I—I can't do it myself. I'm not strong enough. But you! You can. You know you can. And then—"
He lurched past her and plunged into total darkness.
As Martin stepped out of the cab, an enclosed boarding ramp pointed the way up to the Queen Mary’s foredecks and tiered rooms like a tunnel leading him back into the heart of a sleeping juggernaut.
Despite the hour, the parking lot contained the cars of several hundred late visitors, scattered in irregular rows beneath the mercury vapor security lamps. Surely at least some of the cars belonged to diehard members of the reunion party.
He mounted the ramp and headed for the escalators.
The Windsor Room was deserted, the celebration's tattered paper decorations fluttering in the updraft of an unseen air conditioner. The foyer was still furnished with a makeshift horseshoe of card tables draped in white linen and marked by hand-drawn arrows and directions for registration. On the table labeled “J thru N,” a stack of unclaimed name badges reclined among pencils and straight pins, already gathering dust.
A reflection of the bay outside rippled across the ornate ceiling, creating an impression that the entire deck lay submerged beneath the waters of the harbor. At the end of one of the connecting corridors an electric floor polisher whirred on through the night; the sound seemed to be coming from more than one direction at once.
Martin walked through the hall to the damp Promenade Deck, but there was no one in sight.
He turned up his collar and left the area.
He searched long passageways of locked staterooms from which no sound could be heard. An occasional room service tray blocked his path, littered with half-eaten snacks or the remains of party set-ups. Once he saw a cart loaded with dirty glasses and buckets of drained champagne bottles. He hesitated by the door. There was a DO NOT DISTURB warning hung on the knob and no light or movement was detectable within, only the low drone of a fitful snoring.
He moved on.
As he approached the lounge at the end of the ship, he heard the cacophony of cheap disco music overlaid with raucous voices and the chiming of glasses raised in desperate celebration.
He rounded the last corner and stood watching. Inside, men in wrinkle-proof suits and women in stiff gowns and uncomfortable shoes lifted a last round under the patient eyes of a half-dozen weary cocktail waitresses.
He came to the carpeted entrance.
"I'm sorry, sir," said a young woman, "but we've already had last call. The coffee shop is still open if you'd care to—"
"Hey, Macklin!"
"That's fine," said Martin. "It's all right. I'm looking for someone."
"Jim Macklin!" A man with a loose tie tipped his glass from a table by the window.
"Excuse me," Martin told the waitress. "I think I see him now."
He dodged barstools. As he neared the window, a hand from an adjoining table clamped over his wrist.
"Where you goin', Jer?" It was Crabbe, the baseball star. "Take a load off and pull up a chair."
"Thanks, I…"
"Bill, I think you've had one too many," said the woman with a beehive hairdo. "This here's Dave McClay. I'd know him anywhere."
The man at the window table leaned close. "Aren't you Jim Macklin? I could've sworn—"
"What are you talking about?" said a man with thinning hair. "I’d know my old friend Marston anywhere! Remember how we used to go toolin' around at night, up by the graveyard where—"
"Hello," said Martin. "I don't mean to intrude on your party."
A waitress appeared carrying the bar tab on a platter.
"What are you drinkin'?" asked Crabbe.
"Boo…!"
"What time is it? It can't be that—"
"Come up to my room," said the man at the window table. "I got a suite for the weekend. Had to fly all the way from Salt Lake City and—"
"And boy are your arms tired!" said the woman with the beehive hairdo.
They all had a good laugh over that.
On the way out, Martin said to the baseball player, "Do you remember a guy in our class named Sherman?"
"Sherman," said Crabbe. He navigated the barstools uncertainly. "Oh, sure! That jack-off? Everybody on the team hated his guts. Aw, is he here tonight?"
"Not exactly," said Martin.
They arrived at the elevator.
"Let's have a real party," said one of the women. She tried to punch the call button and missed.
"Old Sherman," said Crabbe thoughtfully. "Christ, the only party he ever got invited to was on April Fool's Day." He shook his head. "What a dork!"
"Where?" said the woman.
"He couldn't make it tonight," said Martin.
The elevator opened and the others maneuvered to find places inside. Martin took Crabbe's arm and held him aside.
"He wanted to come," said Martin, "but he's got a bit of a problem. At home. You know? I was thinking. You might be able to do something for him. Kind of lend him a hand, so to speak."
"That creep." Crabbe spat on the floor. "I always wanted to kick that son of a bitch's ass around the corner."
"Believe me," said Martin, "I know what you mean."
The elevator door was closing.
"Are you guys coming with us or not?" asked the drunken woman.
"We'll be up later," said Martin, "to celebrate."
"Don't start without me!" yelled Crabbe.
He was too far gone to resist. Martin steered him toward the lobby, measuring his words.
"It's not far," he said. "I stopped by myself a little while ago."
They were coming up on the main exit, the ramp to the parking lot and the profound darkness outside.
"He's just the same as he used to be," Martin was saying, "only worse. If you know what I mean."
They stood together on the doormat and the panels slid away before them onto the waiting night.
"Say, listen, Bill. I really think you might be able to do him a big favor. Not to mention me. And yourself. If you've got a few minutes. I can show you the way."
A line of cabs hovered at the curb.
"I was wondering. Do you feel like driving? Or," suggested Martin, "would it be quicker to take a cab?"
Crabbe regained his footing and weaved forward, allowing Martin to let him continue.
A moment later they were speeding away, red taillights disappearing in the mist, and the fog settled like rain all around where they had been, closing over the lot and the ship and the rest of the world.
NOT FROM AROUND HERE
ON
(Black)
(Sound: Clatter)
10
9
8
7
6…
There was a restless passage of footsteps on the other side of the wall as Joe Ivy peeled off his white gloves and leaned forward over the console—expectantly, even after so long. They actually pay me for this? Then he remembered: They don't, really. Still. It was worth it, wasn't it? All he needed to make the moment perfect was a tub of popcorn and some Junior Mints. Did they even make Junior Mints anymore?
5
4
3
2
1…
The old tingle started. I hope I never lose that, he thought. Then what would be the point? Without the tingle you might as well lie down and begin clawing the dirt in on top of you.
The first frames steadied in the ground glass: the old UA logo, scratched but unbroken. Could this be the film he'd been looking for? If he could find the scene…
The image was nostalgic, warm—and getting warmer. Too warm. Orange and puce with an overlay of magenta. He groaned.
Well, what else could you expect? It was nearly all Eastman negative film back then, whether they called it Warner or Metro or Pathe or "blazing" or "gorgeous" or "fiery" color: dye-coupled stock, the cheapest way for the studios to go, from the mid-fifties through the sixties and seventies, even most of the way through the eighties. Prints and negatives alike guaranteed to fade before you could see a kid through grade school, and what of it? Color was color, right? That was what they thought.
The clatter of the Moviola seemed to recede as the opening measures of a waltz tilted out of the tiny speaker.
FADE IN:
Robert Mitchum
in…
The door opened behind him.
"Joe," said Roger. Joe did not look up. "Guess what the old Jumping Bean's 'gramming for lunch? All the nachos you can stomach for nine ninety-nine! Is that radical? 'Course, if Rose Marie's coming by……What's this one?"
Roger leaned over Joe's shoulder as the title came up.
THE WONDERFUL COUNTRY
"Never heard of it," said Roger.
Joe laughed shortly. "What does that prove? You ought to—
"How old is this flick, anyway?"
"Here comes the copyright. You ought to check—"
Roger squinted into the viewer. “‘M-C-M-L-V-I-X.' That really tells me a lot. Hmm, let's see…"
"Hear that score? It's by Alex North."
"Who?"
"Ask Tom and Denny," Joe snapped. "They're selling a used copy of the soundtrack album. For six hundred dollars."
Give the guy a break, Joe reminded himself. He's your friend. More than that. Without him you wouldn't be able to do any of this, and we'd all be stuck sucking the Big Tube night and day. And then you'd never find your precious scene. You'd have to give it up. Anyway. Not everybody grew up in a movie theater. Maybe he's better off, who knows?
Joe kicked back from the machine, eased his neck muscles. "I was seventeen when I saw it. Drove my Ford Fairlane down to Long Beach, caught it on a triple bill at the old Art Theater. Remember the Art, Rog? It was on Cherry, I think, just south of—"
"Looks older," said Roger with the authority of the casually informed. "What'd they shoot it on, infrared film?"
"Yeah, well, I have to take what I can get. It's from another private collection. Where else? This one's seen some heat and humidity, all right. But it's the only thirty-five millimeter I can find. For Larry's Mitchum festival."
"Don't tell me. It was Yaeger. You got this one from Yaeger, didn't you? The guy who stores his prints in the back of a Laundromat?"
"Actually it's his mother's garage in the Valley."
"Uh, maybe you should tell him about refrigeration."
"He'd have to rent a meat locker. You see the size of these cans? His 'comb's full. He sleeps in his car." God help him, thought Joe. And God bless him.
"Can you do anything with it?"
"I've seen worse," said Joe bravely. "Remember Johnny Guitar? Or An Affair to Remember, with Cary Grant and—?"
"No."
Joe sighed. "Well, it's the same process. Tape transfer, computer enhancement."
"What's left to enhance?"
"I can restore it if the emulsion's intact. Then UCLA runs off a 'gram from our tape, same as always, charges it to the copyright owner—MGM now; I looked it up. They'll pay for the thirty-five print back, too, as long as they get to keep it. There's an AFI tribute to Mitchum coming up, which ought to make it worth something. Anyway, Larry should have it in plenty of time for his festival."
Roger smiled down indulgently at his partner. "Guess what? We're out of blank tape."
"Then open a factory cassette. One of those Betas that never sold. A Chorus Line, Thirty Years of the Tonight Show, Stallone in Streetcar—you know, dust collectors. I'll erase it and—"
"Then we won't be able to return it for credit."
"Screw the credit."
"It takes money to run a business," said Ro
ger slowly, as if explaining to a child. "It takes inventory on the shelves to generate cash flow, to balance our expenses, Joey, our hobbies. You understand that, do you?"
Joe swiveled his chair around. The film continued to clatter through the Moviola, Alex North's theme to The Wonderful Country continued to lilt sweetly out of the speaker at his back, violins trilling through the distortion like drowning canaries.
"Do you understand, Roger? This is not anybody's God damned hobby. Let's not even talk art. Let's talk money. You want to talk money? I have a deal with the Twenty-in-One. We have a deal. We split fifty cents on every dollar that comes through the box-office, after they make back their nut. No distributor fees to pay, as long as it's a one-shot and the studio gets back a new print. That means—"
He cut himself off. He listened to what he was spouting; it grabbed him by the short hairs.
So this is how it started for Mayer and Cohn, he thought, for Jack Warner and Adolph Zukor and Dino De Laurentiis. One upon a time they were probably in love with movies too, with the way it feels to be part of a light show séance in an auditorium full of buttered popcorn dreamers. Until the day somebody gave them a long, cold look at the ledger. A wave of self-loathing passed through him. He shook his head and shuddered.
He shut off the film transport. The strings wound down and died on an extended chord. Let it go, he thought, as the sound of footsteps began again on the other side of the wall.
"Sorry," he said.
"Forget it," said Roger, vaguely embarrassed. "We've had this conversation before. I know what you're saying. Don't worry about it." Roger stopped in the doorway. "Anyhow, let me know about lunch. This might be a good time. There's nobody up front. But," he added gently, "it'll pick up this afternoon. You'll see." He winked.
With great care he closed the door behind him.
My God, thought Joe. The way he respects something that doesn't even matter to him personally; if that isn't a virtue I don't know what is.
He deserves better from this business. He's put a hell of a lot more into the Video Pit than I have. I'm pulling him down—pulling us both down. But my part of it will pay off, I swear it will. I'll put in more hours, find some killer prints nobody's seen in forty years, not even on TV. There have got to be enough people who care out there to support what I'm doing. It's just a matter of reaching them.
Red Dreams Page 18