Black Is the Fashion for Dying

by Jonathan Latimer

  He took a cigar from the humidor. He could see himself coming out on the platform to accept the Oscar, could see the faces of those who’d whispered the first win was a fluke. He chuckled. Half the dress shirts in Hollywood would be stained with blood from cut throats.

  He was looking at the other Oscar, a gleaming gold figure standing on a shelf under a jewel-encrusted dagger, when T. J. burst into the office.

  “Have you seen Variety, Karl?”

  He nodded noncommittally.

  “Sky Without Stars,” T. J. said in an awed voice. “And now Fox in the Vineyard!”

  “You got a good memory for titles.”

  T. J. stared wonderingly. “How do you stay so calm?”

  “What’s two Oscars? You can’t breed ’em.”

  Whatever further inanity T. J. was going to voice was silenced by a buzz from the communication box. Fabro flipped the key and Miss Earnshaw said, “Mr. Selig.”

  “Who?”

  “The head carpenter, Mr. Fabro.”

  “Send him in.”

  Selig came in, an angular, red-faced man in white coveralls. “Ya want me?” he demanded around a nail he was chewing.

  Fabro thrust the package at him. “You put that dagger on the wall for me, didn’t you?”

  Selig eyed the dagger, said, “What’s wrong with it?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Fabro said. “I just want a couple of things put up. Open the package.”

  Selig opened the package. “Guns,” he said in an aggrieved voice.

  “Pistols.”

  “And ya want ’em on the wall?”

  “Next to the dagger.”

  Lorrance picked up one of the pistols, examined it admiringly. “Beautiful!”

  “Have to drill some holes,” Selig said.

  “Recognize them, T. J.?” Fabro asked.

  Lorrance studied the weapons, then brightened. “The dueling pistols from Fox in the Vineyard.”

  Nodding, Fabro said, “Bought them at Orthman’s this morning.”

  “What a splendid idea!” Lorrance turned to the other Oscar. “The dagger from Sky Without Stars … and now the pistols. But is the shelf big enough?”

  “Big enough for what?” Selig asked suspiciously.

  “The new Oscar.”

  “What new Oscar?”

  “Never mind, never mind,” Fabro growled. He took the pistol from Lorrance, thrust both weapons at Selig. “Next to the dagger. Barrels crossed. Do it Thursday morning before I come in. And,” he let his voice rise in a shout, “get the hell out of here!”

  “Me?” a voice said near the doorway. It came from Jenkins, confusedly trying to back through the already closed door. “I’m sorry. I thought the girl said—”

  “Come in,” Fabro said.

  “He meant me to get the hell out,” Selig said. He winked at Jenkins, went out with the pistols.

  “Have a seat, Jenkins,” Fabro said. “How’s it going?” He offered the humidor. “Cigar?”

  Still confused, Jenkins said, “No, thank you, it’s going fine, I don’t smoke.”

  “I want to hear all about it.” Fabro turned to Lorrance. “Find out if Remigen has gone back to New York. And set up a production meeting on Dark Circle.”

  “What time?”

  “In about …” Fabro hesitated, then swung to Jenkins. “What’s this morning’s schedule?”

  It was a simple enough question, but Jenkins’ answer made it sound as though he’d asked for an explanation of Einstein’s unified field theory. First he tried to synopsize Tiger in the Night and then, headed off, launched into a complex description of closed-circuit television. Finally, a few pertinent facts, drawn one by one like impacted wisdom teeth, were wrenched from him.

  Yes, Mr. Gordon was just starting to film the tiger hunt when he left the set. How long would that take? Why, Mr. Gordon should be done by now. Or nearly done, give or take five minutes. Then the scene by the pool, with Miss Garnet and the litter bearers. Where Miss Garnet hears the shots. How long? Twenty minutes, perhaps, provided Mr. Gordon rehearsed again. Less if he didn’t. Give or take five minutes. Then the camp scene where Ahri, Miss Carson, tells of the plot and Miss Garnet is brought in by the litter bearers and Miss Carson wounds her and the hunters come and Miss Gamet begins her big speech.

  “‘Black’s the fashion for dying …’” Jenkins quoted, carried away.

  “The time, Jenkins!” Fabro said impatiently. “How long for the scene?”

  “Maybe thirty minutes—”

  “Give or take five minutes.”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Fabro. Just what I was going to say.”

  Adding the figures he had jotted down, Fabro mumbled, “Five for hunt … twenty for pool … thirty for camp. Fifty-five minutes.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Nine twenty-five now. Should be done around ten fifteen.” He eyed Lorrance. “Production meeting at ten. Have them wait if I’m not here. I’m going over to the set.”

  Jenkins coughed.

  “Well?”

  “Mr. Gordon said no visitors.”

  “Let me worry about Mr. Gordon, Jenkins.” Fabro came around the desk clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve done a fine job, and Mr. Standish will hear about it. Now get the—run along. They’ll be needing you.”

  He gave Jenkins a shove towards the door, picked raincoat and homburg off the chair. “Meeting and Remigen, T. J.,” he said. “And stay out of my cigars.”

  In the studio quadrangle, grass and cement walk were still wet, but the morning drizzle was merely fog now. He slung the raincoat, cape fashion, over his shoulders and cut across the quadrangle past the Directors’ Building to the row of stages at the back of the lot. He went past 17, noting over the door the red light which meant Gordon was shooting, went through the double doors of 19 and found, back of some scenery piled against a wall, the emergency fire door.

  As he entered 17, walking softly now, he heard the shots that meant the end of the tiger hunt, two loud reports followed, after a long interval, by three more. A moment later Gordon’s voice came from the loudspeakers. “Cut! And thank you. Good scene.” A babble of voices rose from various parts of the stage. Fabro looked at his wrist watch. Nine thirty. Gordon was right on schedule.

  He moved from the fire door to the shelter of some exotic flowering bushes and paused there to orient himself. Directly ahead was the camp, three tents set on a grassy clearing in the jungle, and past it was the pool, dark water leaden under the masked overhead lights, and the embankment where Caresse would be left while the bearers drank. He saw people nearing the pool, Billings and his camera crew, already dispersing around the Mitchell attached to the big crane; the head soundman and his assistants carrying a tangle of wires and earphones, and a third group composed of Josh Gordon, Herbie Adams, Jenkins, the script girl, and a couple of crew members. He looked for Caresse, but he couldn’t find her.

  Footsteps sounded behind him and he drew further back into the bushes. A small, elderly woman in a black dress, obviously coming from the fire door, went by with her head down, weirdly clenching and unclenching her fists and mumbling quite distinctly, “Forgive me, Al. Forgive. Forgive.” He stared after her until she went into one of the tents and then, seeing everyone’s attention was centered on the pool, cautiously moved forward.

  At the far side of the camp, near one wall of the sound stage, he caught sight of the big wardrobe cabinet the property men were using as a gun rack and storage case. He saw from there he would have a shelter, a clear view of the scene at the pool and a quick avenue of retreat when he decided to leave. He worked his way through trees and underbrush until he came to the wall, then went along the wall until he reached the wardrobe. He was stepping out from behind it when someone said, “Hey! Wassa big idea?”

  Approaching the cabinet were the property man and his assistant, each carrying a hunting rifle. “Getta hell away—” the property man began, and then his face changed. “Mister Fabro!”

  “That’s
all right—” The man’s name flashed into his mind. “—all right, Alf. Just looking for a place where I can watch.”

  Alf nodded. “Is good place.” He took the rifle from his assistant. “Getta chair Mister Fabro, Gus.”

  “I’ll only be a minute or two.”

  “No bother us.” Alf put the rifles on racks. “Is all yours, Mister Fabro.” He opened a drawer, took out two revolvers and a handful of blank cartridges.

  The loudspeaker said: “Miss Garnet. On the set, please.”

  “Gordon,” Fabro said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention—”

  “We don’ say nothin’,” Alf assured him, loading blanks into one of the revolvers. “Got trouble enough now.”

  “Tiger hunters,” the assistant volunteered. “Me and Alf.”

  “Tiger hunters?”

  “Sound effects for pool scene.” The assistant took the revolver from Alf. “Distant rifle shots.”

  “For timing,” Alf said.

  The pair hurried away, Alf still loading the second revolver, and at the same time the loudspeaker spoke again, sharply: “Miss Garnet. Come to the set at once, please! Miss Garnet …”

  Caresse Garnet

  “All right.” she said aloud. “I’m coming.”

  Three Caresse Garnets glowered at her from the winged mirror above the white dressing table. She leaned forward to examine the full-faced Caresse in the center. The eyes were too bright, feverish, almost; and the skin was taut over cheekbones and jaw. Caresse looked old and vindictive. Yes, old. Even under the heavy make-up, crow’s feet showed at the corners of eyes and lips. That would never do. She brought the lips up in a smile, made the face friendly, blandly welcoming.

  Come in, Hedda darling! Come in!

  What a lovely dressing room! Those walls—real leather?

  Yes, white calfskin. I had it done over when the picture started.

  Scrumptious!

  Hedda, my contract’s been renewed for another year.

  That’s not news, Caresse. We all expected that.

  I know, but I thought my public (such as it is) would be interested.

  Of course, darling. But an item like that, all alone. Pretty bald. If we had some sort of a story to tie in with—

  Well, something funny happened last night, at a weird party I gave to celebrate the option. It makes rather a fool of poor Ashton Graves—you know how sensitive he is about his legs—but it’s amusing …

  Yes, she thought. That was it. No matter what Ashton said, they’d believe the story in the papers. Believe that it was a macabre joke rather than—

  “Miss Garnet,” Herbie Adams spoke urgently from the dressing room door. “Mr. Gordon says—”

  “I’m coming!”

  She followed Herbie across the camp set, circling to avoid tractor and workers hauling a camera into place, and found Josh Gordon waiting with the litter bearers by the pool. His face was flushed.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “On the can,” she said. This caught him off balance and before he could recover she demanded, “How long will this take?”

  “Thirty, forty minutes.”

  “Just one scene?”

  “We’re going right on into the camp. They’re setting up now.”

  “No.”

  “No? Well, well. That’s interesting.” The flush deepened. “Why do you think we just rehearsed it? So as not to do it?”

  “In fifteen minutes I have a date with Hedda.”

  “You can see her at lunch.”

  “I’m going to see her in fifteen minutes.”

  “With a black eye!” He advanced on her, crimson with rage. “So help me, if you don’t climb onto that litter—”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She smiled coolly. “Go ahead, Josh. See what it gets you.”

  For a second she really thought he was going to hit her. Then he turned to Herbie, watching open-mouthed. “Get a whip from that guy with the tiger,” he said. “And Ashton Graves.”

  “Ashton!” she exclaimed.

  “He’s just drunk enough to do it, Caresse. And, besides, I hear you like it.”

  “You bastard!”

  “It’ll make a nice story for Hedda. Go ahead, Herbie. I mean it.”

  “I’ll remember this,” she said.

  “Are you going to get in the litter?”

  She glared at him, hating the implacable, hawklike face. In front of everyone on the set, too. She’d get him for it, if it was the last thing she did.

  “All right, Josh.” She moved to the litter, held by the two half-naked bearers, and sat on it. “You win.”

  “Now stay put,” he said. “Until they move you onto the cot in your tent. You understand?”

  “I’ll stay.”

  He eyed her suspiciously, then turned to the bearers. “After the pool scene, when you drink and then pick her up again, hang on to the litter. Don’t put it down. I want you to bring it into camp when I give the signal. Got it?”

  “Got it, Mr. Gordon,” one of the bearers said.

  Gordon stared down at her. “If I have to chase you again—”

  “I told you I understood,” she said sweetly. He started to turn away, and she added, “Josh …”

  “Yes?”

  “Does Agnes know about that redhead you’ve been keeping on Miller Place?”

  She stretched out on the litter and pulled up the blanket, loving the image of Josh’s face, teeth clenched, jaws rigid, eyes suddenly baleful; that lingered in her mind. It was a start. Clever Caresse. He wouldn’t have any teeth to clench when she got through. She smiled up at the lights glowing on the metal scaffolding above the set, let herself relax in the familiar warmth.

  The litter joggled unevenly as the bearers hoisted her higher, started along the jungle path toward the place where they would start the scene. A branch slapped at her face and she said, “Goddamn it! Look where you’re going!”

  “Sorry, Miss Garnet,” the bearer in front said.

  She went over the scene in her mind. Nothing to do but react to the rifle shots, and she had practiced that look of orgiastic satisfaction and triumph in her mirror. In fart, she thought, amused, she had practiced it two-thirds of her life, in various and sundry beds. No trouble there.

  As the men turned on the path, the litter swayed.

  “Watch it,” she said.

  “Fear not, memsahib,” the bearer in back said. “We answer to the rajah if you are hurt.”

  She lifted her head. “You being paid for a bit part?”

  “Why, no.”

  “Then knock off the gab.”

  The bearer grinned uncertainly, then turned away. Over his bare shoulder, not ten feet off, she saw a face peering at her through the jungle. She saw it was Fabro, half-hidden by underbrush and a huge wardrobe cabinet, and almost laughed aloud. Checking to see if she’d really lost her buttons. She raised her hand, waved languidly, would have spoken if he hadn’t brought a finger to his lips. Shaking his head, black homburg pulled down over his brow, raincoat hung cloak-wise over thick shoulders, a squat bomb-thrower from the East bank of the Danube, he let his eyes roll towards the camera platform and Josh Gordon.

  For a second she was tempted to call to him anyway, knowing he would be promptly thrown off the set by Josh, but then she remembered she was mad at Josh. And there was no special reason to annoy Fabro, now her contract was safe. Lifting a finger to her lips, she nodded. Fellow conspirators. Then, smiling to herself, she leaned back on the litter.

  She thought about her last scene, the big speech in the tent. Gordon didn’t like what Blake had written, but it really wasn’t bad. Poetic, yes, but what was wrong with that? From a woman who believed she was dying? “Black’s the fashion …” she repeated to herself. Why wouldn’t Barbara Phelps say something like that? Well, it didn’t matter. If Blake came up with something better before lunch, she’d use it. If not, the old speech would do. With a few cuts.

  She thought about Blake, wondering h
ow she had deluded herself into believing he was anything like Edgar. A pleasant hack with a certain amount of talent, she knew now, but with no real fire. She had reached out for him at the start of the picture, she supposed, because of the emptiness, more than emptiness, the hollowness that came when Edgar died. Six years, and it had never left. She was still a hollow woman, a part of her insides, or brain, or soul, even, gone, as though removed by an inept abortionist. She grimaced, remembering that night in her house when driven by the pain that was part of the hollowness, by the capsules that gave her no sleep, by the liquor that deadened nothing, she had actually believed for an insane moment that Blake was Edgar, had clung to him, sobbing and pulling at his clothes.

  Oh, Edgar! she thought, feeling the tears start. What have we done to each other?

  The loudspeakers asked for quiet on the set, and she made the tears stop. It was too late for them anyway. Six years too late. The last time for tears was the day she had watched them put the white cross on the grave she had never visited since. Yet she could see the words as clearly as if it had been yesterday: EDGAR ALLAN PIXLEY POET 1911—1953. And already she was planning the betrayal, already fixing in her mind the terms she would demand that evening at the meeting in the empty house.

  “Roll ’em,” said the loudspeakers.

  The bearers shifted the litter, preparing to start with it along the path. She felt for tears under her eyes, found there were none, and composed her face. You are Barbara Phelps, she told herself. You are pretending to be unconscious. Your husband is about to be killed by Masterson, the man you love. She closed her eyes.

  “Action!” said the loudspeakers.

  The litter bearers began to march up the trail. Everything was quiet now, except for their bare feet padding on the soft earth. It was stifling under the blanket, but there was nothing she could do about it. The litter tilted a little as they climbed the embankment by the pool, became horizontal again when they reached the top. They halted and lowered her gently to the ground. She could hear their breathing, and then she couldn’t. They were moving away, down the embankment to drink at the pool. Now was the time to open her eyes.

  She saw the camera, a dark, heavy rectangle on the end of the long boom, moving in for the close-up, saw back of the camera the intent faces of Tom Billings and Josh Gordon. The camera drew closer in the noiseless arc described by the boom. Then tilted by Billings during the last few feet of motion, it peered directly down at her face. As she was wondering where the shots were, they came; two sharp reports from the right, and she let the faint smile, the sexually satisfied, cruelly triumphant, cat-ate-the-eanary smile she had practiced so many years, curl her lips.