Frames

by Loren D. Estleman

  “I keep thinking about those reels,” he said as they entered the Santa Monica Freeway. “Not so much why they were divided between the projection booth and the basement, but where. The four-hour cut Thalberg released originally ran twenty-four reels. That was exactly as many as there were in the booth.”

  Valentino sat up. “Do you think it isn’t a complete print?”

  “No. Twenty-five picks up where twenty-four left off, long before Pitts’s murder. I couldn’t resist peeking. It’s just a strange coincidence that whoever went out of his way to store the rest in the basement should choose the very reels that would indicate it ran the full eight hours.”

  “Or ten,” Fanta said. “I wonder if we’ll ever know for sure just how long it is.”

  “We may, if Val doesn’t forget himself and start channeling Colonel Klink.”

  A familiar tune played inside the car. Valentino fumbled at his pockets, then remembered his street clothes in the bundle on the front passenger’s seat. “That’s my cell.”

  Fanta found it and handed it to him over the back of the seat.

  Broadhead said, “You downloaded the theme to Gone With the Wind?”

  “The soundtrack selection was thin.” He looked at the LED. “It’s Sergeant Clifford’s number in West Hollywood.” He tugged up the antenna.

  The professor tore the phone out of his hand and threw it out the window. A car coming up on the outside lane chirped its brakes and swerved to avoid the unidentified flying object. Fanta took evasive measures, cutting off a mini-van on the inside and starting a chain reaction of screeching brakes and furious horns.

  Valentino stared at Broadhead. “That was unexpected.”

  “Yes, she’s a more accomplished driver than I thought.”

  “Kyle, I have a stick.” He lifted the malacca cane by its crook. The tag tied to it with string read PROPERTY OF UNIVERSAL PICTURES.

  “These days the police can trace you through your cell phone signal,” Broadhead said. “I doubt they’d offer us an escort to the Country Home.”

  “We don’t know that was a hostile call.”

  “Have you ever received any other kind from that number?”

  “It’s early for them to have made it past those first three reels of film. Especially if they’re examining it frame by frame.”

  “Unlike archivists and academics, not all cops are obsessive-compulsive. They might be perverse enough to inspect them out of order. I barely had time to change the labels on the cans, and none at all to edit out the title sequences.”

  “So now we’re fugitives from justice.”

  “I prefer to think of it as ‘fugitives for justice.’ I’m beginning to believe that Rin-Tin-Tin was an appropriate choice.”

  “Stop the car,” Valentino told Fanta.

  She met his gaze in the mirror. “In the middle of the Santa Monica Freeway?”

  “Find an exit with a telephone. It’s not always easy to tell when things have gone too far, but when you’re running away from the law dressed like a dead Austrian movie director, it’s clear you’ve crossed the line.”

  “All the more reason to keep going,” Broadhead said.

  “That’s what Bonnie told Clyde.”

  “If she hadn’t, the movie would have been shorter, but the ending wouldn’t have changed. This isn’t George Washington and the cherry tree. Clifford won’t reward your honesty by returning the film. She’ll hang it up that much longer to use as evidence in our prosecution, and this time she won’t be disposed to observe the niceties of cold storage. We passed the point of no return the moment you put on that monocle.”

  “Believe it or not, there are more important things than rescuing a movie. Fanta belongs in that category. How’s she going to practice law with a felony on her record?”

  “She’s a minor. I’ll say I took her hostage.”

  She spoke up. “That’s bogus. I turn twenty-one next month. I’m old enough to know what I’m getting into.”

  “Then you must be older than I am,” Valentino said. “At least I’ve got a good chance of pleading insanity in this outfit.”

  Broadhead said, “We’re already turning on each other, and we’re not even in custody yet. Whatever happened to honor among thieves?”

  Valentino started laughing.

  He laughed so hard the monocle flew out of his eye and landed somewhere on the floor. Tears formed and he hiked up the sleeve of his slicker and dragged a tweed cuff across his eyes. “Ouch. What’d they weave this from, barbed wire?”

  That brought on a new fit. His chest ached and his throat was raw, a symptom of his allergy to wool and the harsh German gutturals that had rasped through it. Bad acting was funny. He guffawed. When at last he grew too exhausted to raise even a giggle, he realized they were no longer moving. Fanta had pulled off onto the shoulder of the exit to Woodland Hills and sat with one elbow over the back of the seat, watching him with brow puckered. He was aware too of Broadhead’s scrutiny.

  “A little hysteria is refreshing,” his friend said then. “Cracking apart like Bette Davis on the stand is a tad over the top.”

  “I’m not crazy.” Valentino caught his breath. His side hurt. “I thought I was all week, but I know now I’m the only sane member of the cast. Every good Mack Sennett short needs a straight man. Anytime now I expect to look out the back window and see an army of cops with clubs and Chester Conklin moustaches swarming up from the Valley.”

  Broadhead rumpled his hair. “You never called Kym Trujillo in Admissions. Why don’t we find a phone, and if she says it isn’t a good time to visit Pegler, we’ll go home. This may not be your night to perform.”

  “It’s my only night. Help me find Sister Agnes’ right eye, will you? I think it rolled under Fanta’s seat.”

  The professor found it and wiped it on his trousers. He examined both sides. “You were right. This wouldn’t fool a baby.”

  “Babies are easier to fool than Clifford. If her people haven’t spotted the switch by now, they’re sure to before we get another chance. They won’t stop to listen to our theories while they’re booking us.” He took the monocle and stuck it in his eye socket. “I may be going out there a kid from the chorus, but I’ve got to come back a star.”

  “Ew,” Fanta said.

  **

  CHAPTER

  22

  NO ONE STOPPED them to ask for ID on their way through the Motion Picture Country Home. There were no passes, no barred doors, no visible security personnel. In the huge foyer, a three-time Oscar nominee for Best Original Soundtrack played “Chopsticks” on a white baby grand that had once belonged to George Gershwin. His fingering was flawless.

  “All these famous old people,” said Fanta. “Aren’t they at risk too?”

  Broadhead grunted. “Not as much as Charlize Theron’s underwear at Universal. This town has the long-term memory of a fruit fly.”

  Valentino demurred. He crowded close to his companions, self-conscious of his oversize slicker and walking stick. He’d rolled the hat into a tube and put it in a slash pocket. “No other business in the world treats its veterans so well. In Russia they’d be shot the moment they had trouble remembering their lines.”

  “Not always a bad policy,” Broadhead said. “It would have spared us Brando in Last Tango.”

  The chubby young man was not at the desk in the office. Behind the trivet that read ASSISTANT ACTIVITIES DIRECTOR sat an equally heavyset young woman in a USC sweatshirt, and her differing approach to the work showed in the rubble that had already accumulated on the glass desktop. Paperwork, loose-leaf fillers filled with loose leaves, and boxes and boxes of board games built a retaining wall with TRIVIAL PURSUIT: MOVIE EDITION balanced on top.

  Broadhead pointed to the last. “That must end in a bloody draw every time.”

  She made no response. The stockade of clutter seemed to represent a shield between her and the professor’s disarming brand of charm. She held up a sheet of names she’d managed to extract f
rom the pile. “You’re not on the list. I’ll need to check with Ms. Trujillo.” She launched an expedition for the telephone.

  “We’ll wait.” He looked around for a seat.

  “Visitor’s room’s down the hall on the left.”

  This was a well-lighted area with comfortable-looking chairs and sofas and a plasma TV, before which crouched a couple of former character actors with hearing aids, shouting answers at the screen. The plastic sleeve on the coffee table identified the game they were playing as Scene It?, an interactive DVD about the history of film.

  “Allen Jenkins!” cried one.

  “Roscoe Karns, you idiot,” said the other.

  The answer was Joe Sawyer.

  “Who in thunder’s Joe Sawyer?” asked the first.

  “Not Allen Jenkins, that’s for sure.”

  “You thought he was Roscoe Karns.”

  “I did not.”

  “You said Roscoe Karns.”

  “Your battery’s dead.”

  “You’d think they’d know more,” Broadhead muttered.

  Valentino approached a familiar figure reading a tattered script by the rain-streaked window, a slender man in his sixties in slacks and a pullover sweater with a silk scarf knotted around his throat. He’d played a juvenile well into his forties, and nothing since he’d begun to show his age. He smiled when he recognized Valentino and shook his hand without getting up.

  “How are you?” asked the visitor.

  “If you’d asked me last week, I’d have had to say not so good.” He slapped the script. “They’re remaking the first thing I ever got credit for, over at Fox. This time they want me to read for the character’s grandfather. Rob Reiner’s directing.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “There might be a nomination in it. Look at Gloria Stuart.”

  Valentino introduced Broadhead and Fanta. They chatted, wished him luck, and drifted away as he returned to his lines.

  “That’s cool,” Fanta said.

  Valentino said, “Don’t believe everything you hear under this roof. There’s usually a man behind the curtain.”

  Broadhead said, “Did you see how old that script was?”

  “It’s probably the same one he had when he was seventeen.”

  “You mean he dreamed up the audition? That’s whack.”

  “Oh, some assistant at Fox might have made a courtesy call, but that’s probably the end of it,” Valentino said. “His last chance for a comeback blew up when some sleaze journalist outed him on the set of The Edge of Night. The blacklist never really went away; it just changes its targets with the fashion.”

  “But it’s okay to be gay now,” she said.

  “It wasn’t then. In the end all they remember is you’re some kind of damaged goods.”

  “But no other business in the world treats its veterans so well,” said Broadhead.

  “I said it didn’t shoot them. Everyone’s afraid of losing the job he’s got.”

  Kym Trujillo joined them, carrying file folders as usual. She acknowledged Valentino’s introductions with a preoccupied air.

  “You usually call,” she said.

  “I meant to, but I lost my cell phone.”

  She noticed the slicker. “Are you expecting a hurricane?”

  “I may be coming down with a cold.”

  “Where’s your straw hat?” She pointed at the cane with the corner of a folder.

  “I threw my back out.”

  She freed a hand to reach down and turn the paper tag so she could read it.

  “I threw it out at Universal,” he said.

  “You’re just falling apart, aren’t you? Should I get a room ready?”

  “I take back what I said before,” Broadhead said. “I’m not your only friend.”

  “Is Warren Pegler in his room?” Valentino asked.

  “I saw his nurse going into the break room. I’ll check. It’s not as if I have a department to run or anything like that.” She strode out the door.

  “Attractive woman,” Broadhead said.

  “Tough customer,” said Fanta. “What did you say her name was?”

  “Greer Garson!”

  This was one of the game players huddled in front of the TV.

  “It’s Shelley Winters, you moron,” said the other. “Don’t you know the difference between Mrs. Miniver and Lolita?”

  “Shelley Winters wasn’t Lolita. That was Sandra Dee.”

  “Sandra Dee was Gidget.”

  “Then who in thunder was Lolita?”

  “Search me, but it sure wasn’t Greer Garson.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “Did too.”

  “Didn’t.”

  Broadhead said, “I’d swear I was at a meeting of the university faculty.”

  “You haven’t been to one in years,” Valentino said.

  “I wonder why,” Fanta said.

  Kym returned, worry lines on her forehead. “He’s in the solarium, with an attendant. He’s not having a good day. I wish you’d called. In his condition he’s easily agitated.”

  “A little agitation might do him some good,” Broadhead suggested. “Increase the blood flow to his brain.”

  She asked him if he was a medical doctor.

  He shook his head. “History and Humanities. I can prescribe a course of study, but that’s all.”

  “Alzheimer’s is different from simple senility,” she said. “Accelerated circulation can trigger paranoia, even violence. I’m not his physician, so I can’t forbid you to see him if he himself doesn’t object, but I don’t think a visit would do you or him any good in this mood.”

  Valentino said, “There’s a time factor involved. I don’t mean to be cold-blooded, but at his age I don’t know how many other chances we’ll have to get answers to the questions we need to ask. Primary sources are crucial.”

  Her expression was unreadable, which he regarded as a bad sign.

  “Unfortunately—fortunately, for you—his doctor is in Cedars of Lebanon this afternoon, attending a patient from this facility. If he were present, I doubt he’d let you see Warren. But our policy is to respect the resident’s wishes in the absence of medical opinion. I’ll take you to him, but I need to ask him if he’ll see you. If he says no, that’s it.”

  Valentino started to thank her.

  “Thank the patients’ bill of rights. This is the first time I’ve known you to put your job ahead of respect for your sources.”

  “This is the first time it’s been this important.”

  She made a slashing gesture with her free hand, severing the discussion. He hoped that was all she’d severed. She turned and broke into a trot. The three followed.

  “Ben-Hur!”

  “The Ten Commandments, you jerk. You can’t even keep your Testaments straight.”

  On his way past the two old character actors, Broadhead stopped to snatch the remote out of the hand holding it, pointed it at the plasma screen, and pushed a button. The screen went black. He smacked the remote down on the coffee table. “Isn’t there a game of checkers going on in the park?”

  The pale, seamed, half-remembered faces stared up at him with injury and indignation.

  “It’s raining,” one said.

  In the hallway, Valentino asked Broadhead what he thought he’d accomplished.

  “Nothing. I saw myself in ten years.”

  Fanta said, “I know the pictures they were talking about.”

  “Forget them,” Broadhead said. “Erase them from your memory. Consider it a step back from the graveyard. The only thing a girl your age should know about is who’s in Air Supply.”

  “Air Supply was my mother’s favorite.”

  He groaned mortally.

  The sun’s access to the solarium was limited that day. The room was in effect a greenhouse, built of glass on a steel frame, with palms and ferns growing in profusion from terra-cotta pots and wicker and rattan all around. But the look that afternoon was film gris.
The persistent rain bled viscuously down the panes, blurring the vista of cul-de-sacs and feral palms and third-generation Spanish Modern housing developments stacked one atop another to the scrub hills and the towering wooden letters of the fabled Hollywood sign staggered across them. It looked like the phoniest process shot from a film made entirely on a sound-stage in Cincinnati. Valentino, Broadhead, and Fanta hung back in the wide sliding-glass doorway while Kym conferred with a blocky attendant in casual dress and the man in the wheelchair at the far end of the room. The three were dwarfed by scenery that Valentino felt would shoot up onto a roller, flapping comically, the moment someone tugged on a cord.

  They were alone in the room, despite abundant seating. A cheerful place when the sun shone, it now wore a sodden air of bleak introspection, with each drop that plunked from a leaky gutter measuring the passage of time like a tick from a clock.

  The man in the wheelchair turned his head to look at the visitors. Valentino recognized the white hair and withered face. At that distance he couldn’t tell if the recognition was mutual. The old man turned back, raised a hand from the arm of the chair, and let it drop. Kym strode back their way, her spine as straight as in her days on the runway.

  “Twenty minutes, with the attendant present,” she said. “If Warren becomes upset, he’ll shut you down.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Valentino said.

  She left without another word.

  Broadhead stopped him before he could take a step inside. The professor reached down and jerked loose the wardrobe-department tag from his walking stick. “No reshoots on this set,” he said. “You’ve got to get it right on the first take.”

  Valentino thrust the stick at him and held it until Broadhead took it. Then he fastened the snaps on the slicker to the neck, concealing completely what he wore beneath. “Let’s give honesty a chance. If it doesn’t work, we’ll try it your way.”

  “I’ll distract the guard.” Broadhead spoke out of the side of his mouth.

  “Let me.” Fanta wound an arm inside his, as she had once before with Valentino. “Lean on that cane, and follow my lead.”

  The attendant was fortyish, powerfully built, with broad, honest features, a receding hairline, and a plastic badge on his shirt that said his name was Todd. His expression was polite but wary.