Stardust

by Kanon, Joseph

  “And now what? You want to shoot me for that? A man who was unfaithful to you?”

  She shook her head. “That? Little lies. But for you, big lies. To everyone. He didn’t betray me with her—with you.” She nodded at Ben. “Let him go.”

  “I can’t do that,” Dieter said calmly. “What do you think this is? It’s real now, not acting.”

  But for a second Ben felt, the gun still pointed at him, that they had merged. She was still moving, glancing up quickly as if she were hitting marks, positioning them for a take, under her key.

  “Go. You don’t want to see this.” Dieter raised the gun higher, to Ben’s head.

  “I’ll shoot,” she said, her voice not as steady, still moving.

  “No. Shall I tell you what will happen? I have to shoot him. It’s not so nice, to see that. It’s better to leave now. You won’t shoot me.”

  “My father was right. You never listen.”

  “Now,” he said, then clicked back the hammer on his gun.

  “Go!” she yelled to Ben, but all he heard was the explosion in his ear as his body jerked. For a second he wasn’t sure whether he had ducked or whether this is what it felt like to be shot, pushed away by the blast. But it was Dieter who was staggering, the gun no longer at Ben’s head, his hand clutching his chest. “Get away!” Liesl yelled. Ben dived to the floor, rolling to the side.

  Dieter stood holding himself, his eyes disbelieving, and turned the gun toward Ben again, determined to finish. Ben saw the hand come up, the red patch on the chest, a sheen of sweat, still not dead. They stared at each other, the only people there. Then suddenly, with a whoosh of air, Dieter was crumpling, one of the overhead lights smashing down on him, a terrible thud as the heavy weight hit his body, pinning it to the floor. Ben heard footsteps running on the catwalk, Liesl’s name being shouted, but his eyes were fixed on Dieter, gun hand sprawling on the floor, the heavy block of metal sliding halfway off his chest, his head already open, leaking blood. He bent over and took the gun from Dieter’s hand, not yet trusting death, then looked up at Liesl. She was still holding the gun, her hand shaking now, eyes blinking. Behind her, someone was climbing down the catwalk ladder.

  “Is he—?”

  Ben said nothing, his head still pounding, everything around him slow.

  She looked up to the empty spot in the rigging. “I tried to move him faster,” she said vaguely, to no one in particular.

  “Darling, you got there,” Bunny said, visible now, a soft reassurance. “Are you all right?”

  She handed him the gun. “So now I’ve done this.”

  Bunny took the gun, looking at it, suddenly queasy. He put one hand to his mouth, collecting himself, seeing Dieter’s head in the pool of blood, then the gun again, his eyes darting. He breathed out. “Whose?” he said to Ben. “Yours?”

  Ben nodded. “From the Bureau.”

  Bunny began wiping it with a handkerchief. “So it’ll want explaining. You must have left it lying around. On your desk. So he—” He turned to Liesl. “Go and change. Before anyone comes. You were doing lines in your trailer, waiting for him. You know how people wander. When they visit.” He held her arms. “All right? I’m sorry you had to—”

  She was staring at Dieter’s body. “We were fond of each other,” she said quietly. “All my life.”

  Bunny glanced at her, alarmed at the trance quality of her voice, then held her arms tighter, almost a shake. “Well, that’s what makes it worse, isn’t it? These accidents—”

  “Accidents?” Ben said.

  “Darling, now,” Bunny said to her. “Before the Keystones. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just stay calm. It’s over.” He looked at Ben. “Giving orders to the gate. Nobody gives the gate orders. Was that supposed to be a signal? Never mind. Off you go,” he said to Liesl. “It’ll hit you now, so be careful.” He looked at her gown. “Something simple. A blouse and a skirt. All right?” He was moving to Dieter, placing Liesl’s gun in his hand.

  She came over to Ben, touching his bloody hand, then moving hers up to his forehead, brushing it. “So,” she said, a whole conversation.

  “Please,” Bunny said.

  “Come with him. I can’t do this alone,” she said to Ben, then left, slipping out onto the dark lot.

  “Get rid of that,” Bunny said, nodding to Dieter’s gun, still in Ben’s hand. He looked down at Dieter’s body. “Are you finished now?”

  Ben didn’t answer, staring, seeing the police photo again. The same twisted body, same dark blood around the head, soon even a crowd around it. Finished. What had he expected to feel? This void? I found him. I know. But now there was not even that to keep Danny with him, no hold.

  Bunny twisted something on the metal frame, his hand still wrapped in a handkerchief. “I had a hell of a time with these bolts.”

  “Accident,” Ben said.

  “Just what we’re always afraid of,” Bunny said coolly, arranging Dieter’s body. “You should see the insurance premiums.” He looked up, gauging the fall’s trajectory. “People don’t know. They think the equipment— Of course, visitors.”

  “He’s shot. He has a bullet in him.”

  “Freakish, wasn’t it? The crash, setting that off. People who carry guns should keep the safety on.”

  “You think they’ll believe that?”

  “Why not?” Bunny said. “It’s what happened.” He looked at Ben. “Isn’t it?”

  “You’re covering up a—”

  “Now you listen to me. Liesl’s not going to be explaining anything. Is that understood? I mean really understood this time? She was never here. You came looking. People get lost on the lot at night. When they don’t know where they’re going.” He paused. “You might thank me. The gun was pointing at you. And here we are—”

  “I have to tell the Bureau. About Dieter. It can lead them to the next.”

  “I don’t care what you tell them as long as nothing leads here. It’s an accident in tomorrow’s papers. They’ll have to live with that. Make them,” he said, looking at Ben, then away. “She’s valuable to the studio. Anything else here needs taking care of?”

  “Some blood under the Japan map. A camera got loose down the ramp.”

  “I saw. Naturally one of the new ones.”

  “Did she come to find you? Liesl? She was worried?”

  “We found each other. Carl called. To check on the orders.” He gave Ben another look. “Your hand,” he said noticing it. “You better get over to the infirmary. Patch it up. Think how you got it, will you? That makes sense? Maybe you cut it trying to get the light off him. In your haste.”

  “It’s got a bullet in it. How do we explain that? The doctor—”

  “It’s the studio infirmary,” Bunny said, then held his look. “I’ll fix it.”

  SUNSET

  THEY HAD SET up bleachers for fans down one side of the long temple entrance to the Egyptian and put the cameras and reporters behind a rope down the other, the red carpet between. The line of studio cars seemed to stretch all the way back to Highland, the spillover crowd craning necks to look into back windows, hoping for glimpses. There were searchlights and live radio feeds and an a party scheduled at the Grove, signs that the premiere itself marked a shift at Continental, the old modest openings something now out of the Gower Gulch era.

  Ben looked at the giant posters behind the floodlit palms—Liesl with her head tilted up, her eyes fixed on the GI who was taking her home. The real Liesl was in a soft off-white gown and a fox cape, and her appearance had drawn oohs from the kids on the sidewalk. He watched her on the red carpet, surrounded by studio people, first greeting the audience, waving, then turning to tell the reporters how thrilling it all was. And wasn’t it? The air was bright with flashing lights, something new, the rhythm built up, car after car, gown after gown, heady just to be part of it. Her escorts were in uniform to represent all the forces—everyone’s dream war bride. Dick would follow later, another squealing entrance and another inte
rview.

  “The soldiers were a nice touch,” Bunny said as they watched from the side. “You can feel it, can’t you? It’s going to happen. Look at them.”

  He nodded to the reporters, surging around her but keeping a distance, some invisible royal line, not pushing microphones in her face. Even Polly, speaking to her now on the radio, seemed respectful, paying court. Ben thought of Rosemary at Lasner’s party, surrounded, everyone smiling. Her moment.

  “What’s it costing you?” Ben said.

  “Don’t keep books. How much is air time worth? Mr. L never understood that, either. These people haven’t even seen the picture and look at them,” he said, still fixed on the reception. “It just comes to her. They all have it, that instinct.”

  “Did you?”

  Bunny didn’t answer.

  “You don’t know her. She could walk away from it tomorrow.”

  “No one ever does,” Bunny said, turning. “No one.” He took out a cigarette. “You’ve been scarce. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Come have a smoke.” He drew them away from the temple courtyard into the lobby, waving away some ushers who darted over. “I wanted you to hear it from me. We’re not picking up Rosemary’s option.”

  “Why?”

  “The picture’s doing nothing.”

  “You dumped it.”

  “Now you’re an expert on distribution, too. We didn’t dump it. It’s last year.”

  “So put her in something this year.”

  Bunny took a drag on his cigarette. “Look, I don’t know what she is to you. But you’re a big boy now. That’s the way it is.”

  “You know what this is all about. You’re going to let him tell you who to hire? He’s finished.”

  “He’s embarrassed. He’s calling off the hearings. For now. He may even be in a little trouble next election. But he’s still in office. He’ll regroup. When this starts up again, Continental’s going to be absolutely clean. No associations, not even relatives.”

  “Or close friends. If they’re alive.”

  Bunny said nothing at first, squinting through the smoke, reluctant to cross a line. “That’s right. If they’re alive.”

  They looked at each other for a minute with the weary familiarity of an old couple, stuck together by everything that had happened, too tired to untangle it.

  “Hal tells me the picture’s finished.”

  “Some dubbing.”

  “You’ll be thinking, what next? They were wondering at Fort Roach.”

  “They called you all by themselves.”

  Bunny stuck the cigarette into the sand of the standing ashtray. “They’re winding down. The exhibitors don’t want any more information films. The training films—”

  Ben shrugged. “My separation papers’ll come through any day.”

  But Bunny was going somewhere else. “They’ve agreed to a limited distribution. The Nuremberg picture didn’t do what they hoped. This would be the last anyway.”

  “How limited,” Ben said, alert, listening to code.

  “Limited. Strictly speaking, we don’t have to distribute at all. There’s no agreement.”

  “Sol agreed.”

  “Well, Mr. L—”

  “Is still head of the studio.”

  Bunny looked up. “Keep your socks on.”

  “You can’t do this,” Ben said, his throat suddenly tight. “Dump it. Not this one.”

  He saw the pan shot of the guards’ faces, the slow walk into the camp, evidence.

  “I’m not dumping it. And you’re leading with your chin. Anybody ever tell you not to do that here?”

  Lasner on the train, clutching himself, never weak.

  “Show them what you really want?” Bunny finished.

  “I really want this,” Ben said, his voice steady. “It’s important.”

  To whom? The dead, the survivors? It occurred to Ben that he had become a believer in images, their power to change things, even though of course they didn’t. Show the faces. Maybe that’s all it was, a record too late, but at least it was there. The dead are never avenged. All we can do is leave markers.

  “I said limited. Major cities. After Christmas. Don’t worry, you’ll get your credit.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  Bunny raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “Sol wants this picture.”

  “So you keep saying. And I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. He knows what the exhibitors are like, but if we can sell it as—”

  “What do you want?”

  “Want?” Bunny said, raising both eyebrows now. “I’m not a pawnshop. It’s a picture, not a watch. I said I’d do what I could.” He paused. “What I’d like, though, is a little favor from you.”

  Ben waited.

  “I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time at Cedars. Little chats.”

  “He likes to tell stories,” Ben said carefully, wondering where this was going. “The old days. My father.”

  “Funny how that happens. He never used to dwell on the past.” He looked up at Ben. “I know Mr. L pretty well. He gets—enthusiastic. He’s likely to think things can happen that can’t happen. That people can do things—and they can’t, really. They don’t know enough. They’d be in over their heads.”

  “They could learn.”

  “Not on this job.”

  “You’re ahead of yourself. Sol hasn’t offered me anything.”

  “Then it’s a good time to move along, before it comes up. Fort Roach. Wherever. You don’t want to disappoint Mr. L, either.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “By having to say no. The job’s filled.”

  Ben gave a quick half smile. “You really want this,” he said, an echo.

  Bunny looked up at him. “I already have it. Now take yourself out of it.”

  “That’s not up to me. Or you. Sol’s still head of the studio.”

  Bunny shook his head. “Not anymore. But that’s something we’ll keep to ourselves, shall we? Feelings being what they are. Acting Head is fine with me. Mr. L can live with that. As long as he does. Let’s make it easier on everybody.”

  “And what’s the favor? Go away? Why?”

  “For Fay.”

  “Fay?” Ben said, surprised.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about running a studio. The first thing—I’ll bet it’s never even occurred to you—is who owns it.”

  “Sol owns it,” Ben said, suddenly not sure.

  “Not all of it. Not enough. You know that Rex still has his original eight percent. He’s very excited about the television deal. Sam owns a piece, too, did you know? And I’m happy to say he feels very confident about the direction we’re taking. So does New York. Very panicky they get when there’s a health problem. They like a certain stability. That leaves Sol. Or, rather, Fay. I have enough voting stock to do it without her—I’m already running the studio, which seems to escape you. But it would be much nicer with. One happy family, not taking sides, squabbling over something that isn’t going to happen anyway.” Another direct look at Ben. “Some deathbed whim. Fay’s been lovely to me. I’d like it to be her idea, too. Sol’s idea. Not something that was forced on them in a proxy fight. And it wouldn’t be, if you weren’t here.”

  “You really want this,” Ben said quietly.

  “It’s not a lot to ask, considering, do you think? Think of all the favors I’ll have to do for Polly now, because of you.”

  “Don’t do me—”

  “Well, it’s not just you, is it? Polly’s a girl who hates being stood up. Vindictive, really. She still thinks you’re holding out on her. But we don’t want her going after you, opening things up. Looking into accidents. I’ve got seventeen writers and I’d still rather just let things lie as they are. Think of all the people involved. Luckily, Polly likes access to studio heads. She’s not one to hold a grudge when there’s so much else she might be doing. And of course, if you’re not here, to put her in a temper—out of sight, out of mind.�
��

  “She won’t be out of Minot’s mind.”

  “Oh, they’ll make up. Well, at least go back to their corners. They need each other, when all’s said and done, always a point. A little go-between work and before you know it, it’s lunch at Chasen’s and off we go. It’s you they won’t forgive. There’s nothing you can do for them.”

  “Only for you.”

  “For Fay, really. No point in having any unpleasantness. Especially when it’s done.”

  “You’re sure. Maybe you underestimate me.”

  “No. I did. Not anymore. Why do you think we’re having this chat at all? This time, we need to understand each other. Lou,” he said, voice raised, eyes over Ben’s shoulders. “Good to see you. You know Lou Katz, from Abe Lastfogel’s office?”

  “Nice to meet you. Jesus, this is some night.”

  “Wait’ll you see it.”

  “I hear, I hear. Listen, we should talk sometime about Julie. Who does a musical for two hundred dollars a week? I mean, it’s wonderful what you’re doing, a production like that at Continental? But she’s wonderful, too.”

  Bunny nodded. “So let’s keep her happy. Monday, okay? We keep the steps, but we can do something on the front end. Just don’t plead poverty. Not the Morris office.”

  “What, it’s for her. She’s still in some crappy efficiency on La Brea.”

  “Not after this.”

  “Zanuck never saw it.”

  “Well, Sam Pilcer. He’s got an eye. You know Ben Collier? He’s producing a documentary for us. The end of the war. Footage you won’t believe.” He looked at Ben. “We think it’s an important picture. San Pietro, in that class. Awards, even.”

  “Jesus, at Continental. How’s Sol? I hear so-so. That was something, though, wasn’t it? What he pulled with that fuck Minot?”

  “Like something out of the movies,” Bunny said flatly.

  The others were moving in now, filling the lobby. Liesl was posing with the servicemen, two on each side. Her father, looking slightly lost, had arrived with Salka. She was beaming, reminded perhaps of the old opening nights at the Ufa Palast, but no one in the bleachers paid any attention. Only Polly recognized them, nodding to Ostermann, her neighbor at the hearing, now someone she mentioned in her columns. The Conscience of Germany. There was talk of a Nobel, she’d heard. Behind her, Kelly was holding her mike, doing a remote check. When he looked up he caught Ben’s eye for a minute, an odd questioning, the sound stage accident mixed up with the Cherokee somehow, a scent nobody was following, Ben an inexplicable connection. But Kelly had moved on to another beat, no longer doing Cagney, and Dick Marshall was getting out of his car, the story he’d come for.