by Bill Moody
“This is Evan.”
“Evan, Grant Robbins. Glad to hear you’re back. Simmons wants to block the opening scene as soon as possible. How’s the music coming?”
“The opening is written, and I met with Skip Porter, the music editor. We just have to record the music and show Ryan the sequence.”
“Good, he’s ready. Let’s get together tomorrow. We can record right on the set, get a feel for the scene.”
“Sounds good. What about a bass player and drummer? This is a trio scene.”
“I’ve tentatively scheduled a couple of actors that can go through the motions. You have a better idea?”
“I do.” Coop slips back into his chair, watching me. I tell Robbins my idea and he agrees.
“Great. Makes it all the more authentic. Tomorrow then. Ten o’clock.”
I close my phone and look at Coop. “On the set tomorrow morning. You’ll be there, too?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Except for the harsh lights, and the camera pointed at the keyboard, it almost feels like I’m in a jazz club. Looking up at Buster Browne and Gene Sherman, both in dark sweaters and jeans on bass and drums, makes it even more real. Buster had been shocked to receive Robbins’ call but once on the set, he had warmed to the idea.
“This is very cool, man. I always thought I’d be good in a movie.” Gene Sherman is his usual calm self as we take our places. I glance at Ryan just off to the side, next to Sandy Simmons, seated in a tall canvas-back chair. Ryan and I are dressed identically. I’d gone over the sequence with him several times and he seemed fine although, I thought, a little more nervous than usual.
“All right, quiet everybody. Let’s try it,” Simmons says. “Roll sound. Action.”
I play the first chord and try to forget the crew watching and listening. After only a few bars, Simmons yells cut and is out of his chair. “Bass player, don’t look at Evan. Just play your bass.”
Buster holds up his hand. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Let’s try again.”
We go through it four times before finally getting a complete take, and I hit the ending chord. “Okay, that’s it. Good. We got it,” Simmons says. He motions Ryan and me to the monitor. We both watch my hands on the piano, occasionally with a glimpse of Buster and Gene in the background. “Looks good. Now we’ll cut in Ryan.”
With Ryan seated at the piano, the camera rolls, focusing on Ryan’s face. His head bent slightly, his eyes half-closed in concentration, he looks for all the world as if he’s playing. “Cut,” Simmons says again. He turns to me. “Look okay to you?”
“Yeah, perfect.”
“Good. Okay, to start the end of the scene, we need your bass player to say a line. It’s not in the script. Think he can handle it?”
Buster and Gene are talking quietly as Simmons, Ryan, and I go to the piano. Simmons explains what he wants from Buster. The heavy bassist looks panic-stricken for a moment, then nods. “You’ll be fine,” Simmons says. “Let’s try it. This is just a rehearsal, so no pressure.”
Ryan sits at the piano as Simmons backs up. “Do your closing set lines, Ryan. Buster, I’ll cue you.”
Ryan turns slightly so he’s facing the now-empty tables and chairs. “Thanks for coming. We’ll be right back after a short break.” He stands and starts off. Simmons points at Buster who leans forward and says, “Ryan, I need to talk to you.”
“Chance,” Simmons says. “His character’s name is Chance. Let’s do it again.”
They go through it again several times until everybody is comfortable. Only Ryan seems irritated and short with everyone. “Come on Sandy, let’s not make it a big deal.” The two men look at each other for a long moment, then it’s Ryan who shrugs as the crew waits and watches. “Whatever.”
“Okay, that’s it. Break for lunch. Back here at one o’clock.”
Buster comes over to me. “How was I?” His voice is just above a whisper.
I smile. “An Oscar performance.”
“Cool. Did he say lunch?”
“Yeah, just go with the crew.”
Ryan stops me. “How about lunch in my trailer? I need to talk to you.”
“Sure.” We walk out of the studio to Ryan’s trailer. Inside, a table is already set with sandwiches, potato salad, and two large bottles of mineral water. Ryan drops in one of the chairs and looks at me.
“I need you to be straight with me.”
“About what?” I can already tell I’m not going to enjoy this lunch.
“Your guy Cooper tell you about the calls, the e-mails?”
“Yeah, he did. We talked last night.” I sit down and take a bite of my sandwich, trying to keep it casual.
“Any ideas?”
“About who it is? Why would I know?”
Ryan doesn’t touch his lunch. “Let’s get real. The only person who knows the whole story is my mother, and I know she talked to you, so that just leaves you as a potential source.”
I put my sandwich down and take a drink of water. “And you think I leaked information to this anonymous caller, that I know who he is?” I look right into Ryan’s eyes.
He holds my look for a moment then turns away. “Oh fuck, I don’t know. This thing just won’t go away. It’s got me crazy.”
“Why would I do that, Ryan? What’s in it for me? I don’t want the movie disrupted anymore than you do. I’m being well paid, I’m getting to score the film.” I see the tension in his face as he watches me.
“But you still have doubts, don’t you? You checked out the car at Manny’s. You talked to my mother, and I bet Cooper and Andie both checked out the police reports, did a little sleuthing on their own, right?”
“That’s what they do. Don’t forget, your mother called me. I didn’t call her.”
Ryan slumps back in his chair and heaves a big sigh. “I know. I’m just paranoid I guess. I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“Is there anything to go wrong? Something else you want to tell me?”
He slams his fist down on the table, shaking the water bottles. “No, nothing. My mother should never have come to see you.”
“Get mad at her then, not me.”
He gets to his feet and paces around. He stops, facing me. “Look, I’m sorry, I really am. You’ve been a good friend to me, and you’re right. I’m way out of line.”
“Okay, forget it. Sit down, eat your lunch, and stop acting like a movie star.”
Ryan stops, stares at me, then breaks into a huge laugh. “Sometimes I don’t know how to do that.”
Chapter Twenty-two
When we get back to the sound stage, there’s a CLOSED SET sign hung on the door and two security guards, who nod and let us in. Inside, on the set, the tables and chairs are fully occupied by extras in various modes of dress listening intently to Sandy Simmons giving them final instructions. “You’re all jazz fans so look like you’re into it.” He points to one couple near the front. “Lose the shades,” he says to the man. “We don’t want to go over the top.”
They all turn as Ryan walks in, oozing charm and waving with that megawatt smile. He seems more calm now and ready to work. “Okay everybody. Make me look good. Ready when you are,” he tells Sandy.
Sandy nods and motions me to stand with him at the monitor. Ryan takes his place at the piano with Buster and Gene. The lighting dims to nightclub level, a soft glow, heightened only by the spotlights centered on the piano. A technician steps forward and holds the electronic board with the scene and take number in front of the camera. Sandy scans everything once more until he’s satisfied. “Quiet everybody. Roll sound. Action.”
I watch as the camera, on a dolly, gradually pulls back until the trio and most of the audience of extras is on full view. On the monitor, it’s a real jazz club. As the opening music ends, Simmons cues to the audience for applause and the camera moves in closer on Ryan for his set closing lines. He stands, and Buster leans o
ver and says his line without a hitch.
“Cut,” Simmons says. “That was fine everybody, but let’s do it again.”
The entire sequence is repeated and Simmons cuts again. He looks at me. “Look okay to you?”
“Fine. Looks like the Village Vanguard.”
The extras get up and mill about until they’re released by Simmons, as are Gene Sherman and Buster Browne. Buster stops by me, carrying his bass. “Tell Mr. Simmons I’m ready for my close-up.”
“I’ll call you,” I say. “Thanks for doing this.”
Simmons gathers me and Ryan around the monitor, and we watch the sequence one more time. Halfway through, Ryan’s cell phone rings. He looks at the screen and frowns.
“Who is this?” He listens for a moment, his face contorting in anger. “Fuck you!” He closes the phone and whirls around to look at me.
“What?”
“It’s the asshole again. He said, ‘I know what you did.’”
I signal Coop, who’s been hovering nearby. He comes over and takes the phone from Ryan. “Don’t bother looking,” Ryan says. “There’s no number.”
“Any idea what he’s talking about?” Coop asks.
Ryan doesn’t answer. He just stomps off, headed, I assume, for his trailer.
Coop shrugs. “Nothing much we can do. The caller is probably using a disposable cell phone. No way to trace it.”
Simmons looks concerned. “What’s this all about, anyway? That paparazzo guy’s death again?”
Coop looks at me, then back to Simmons. “That’s my guess.”
Simmons pulls off his headset in frustration. “I don’t need this shit on my set. Somebody get Ryan back here and let’s talk about it.” He points to one of his many assistants and sends him off, but he’s back in a couple of minutes.
“He’s not in his trailer, Mr. Simmons. The security guard at the trailer said he saw him get in his car and leave the lot.”
“Great. Now we’ve got a missing star. He grabs a clipboard from the script girl, and shuffles through some pages. We’ve got two more scenes to shoot today. How the fuck are we going to stay on schedule with phone calls, e-mails, and missing stars?”
Nobody has an answer for him. Everybody still on the set tries to look busy, but they’re all listening. Finally, Simmons points to Coop.
“You’re head of security aren’t you? Will you please try to find him?” He turns and walks away and out of the sound stage.
I feel Coop tense, but he lets it go. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I’ve had enough Hollywood for today.” We walk outside to Coop’s car. “Any ideas?”
“Maybe he went to the Malibu house, or his folks. Let’s start there.” I call the Malibu house and get Emillio and tell him to call me the minute he hears anything from Ryan.
“Anything wrong?”
“No, just one of Ryan’s moods. He left the set. Would you call his mother for me?”
“Of course. What should I say?”
“Keep it low key. I don’t want to alarm her.”
“I understand.”
I close my phone and look at Coop. He seems preoccupied, distracted. “What now?”
“Let’s get some coffee and brainstorm a bit.”
We leave the lot and drive west, stopping at the first coffee shop, a Denny’s on Washington Boulevard. We take a booth in the back and both order coffee.
“I’ll have some pie, too,” Coop says to the waitress. “Apple if you have it.”
“You bet,” she says, and hurries off.
“Okay,” Coop says. “Any ideas on who the anonymous caller is?”
“None, except…”
“What?”
“I may be reading this wrong, but I think Ryan knows who it is. He was extra nervous at lunch. It was just something about the way he handled the call, like it wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Coop nods. “I thought so, too. The only remote lead is the guy in the green van we talked about. Everything else has been covered. The police reports, his mother, the car. It’s all been covered and Stiles was cleared. But there’s a string hanging out there somehow. Something we’re missing.”
I think about that for a moment, trying to remember Ryan’s reaction when I told him about the guy stopping me on Broad Beach Road. “This may sound far-fetched, but what if that was a setup, a test Ryan was running on me? He was so paranoid. What if he promised that guy a payment of some kind and then reneged on it?”
“What kind of payment?”
“I don’t know. Money, an exclusive story, photos.”
“I like it. You think this guy is a paparazzo too?”
“He had all the equipment in that van. What if he was a friend of McElroy’s? What if he knew what happened in Malibu Canyon and now is coming to collect?”
“Slow down. How would he know—”
“Unless he was there.”
“Exactly.”
The waitress brings our coffee and Coop’s pie. He digs in, takes a big bite, then points his fork at me. “Okay, first we need to track this guy down. I’ll have to check around and see if any of these paparazzi know of a freelancer with a van. That at least is a place to start.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, I wish that photo of the van was more tightly focused.”
Ryan turns up the next morning after spending the night with Melanie at the Malibu house. Emillio had called Grant Robbins, who said to let it go, but apparently gave Ryan a good talking to and ordered him back to the set.
“Simmons is ready to walk if there are any more of these disruptions,” Robbins tells me. “I can’t say I blame him. He’s a good director and is trying to stay on schedule. Has Cooper come up with anything?”
“He has one possible lead.”
“What?” Robbins says. I can hear the urgency in his voice.
“I’d rather not say for now.”
There’s nothing but silence from Robbins for a few moments. “All right, but we have to get this settled. Whoever it is, if it’s money he wants, God knows there’s plenty of that.”
“But if there’s nothing for him to know, if he’s just bluffing, won’t offering money just complicate things further?”
“Let me worry about that, Evan.”
“Gladly.”
“How’s the music coming?”
“It’s coming. I’m going to spend the next few days with Skip Porter working on it.”
“Good. I’ve seen the dailies. If we can keep on schedule, the whole thing should wrap in ten days.”
At Skip Porter’s we work off the film already completed. There’s not as much to do as I originally thought. Some mood cues, short motifs of music to underscore some dialogue, and one obligatory chase scene. Ryan’s character tailing a suspect and trying to keep up. I use an up-tempo bebop line, and with sampling, make it sound like a quintet of rhythm section and two horns, reminiscent of Horace Silver. For a scene in a dark, deserted warehouse, I use a kind of avant-garde effect to make it even more spooky and suspenseful.
“Yeah, man, you’re cookin’ now,” Skip Porter says. He runs the cassette back to the opening sequence. “This is really beautiful. You got the essence of his character. You need something sweet and dreamy for the girl.”
“I know. I was thinking about a ballad based on the original theme, a kind of variation on it.”
“Excellent.” He shuts off the equipment and leans back. “How about a break and a pizza?”
“Great idea.”
Skip calls in our order and leaves to pick it up. Five minutes later, my phone rings. It’s Coop.
“Got him.”
“Who?”
“Jerry Fuller. Freelance photographer, does some paparazzi work, and most important, he owns a late-model van. Want to guess the color?
“Do I need to?
“I’m going to pay him a visit, and I need you to go with me.”
“W
hy?”
“Because you can identify him, see if it’s the same guy you talked to by Stiles’ house. Where are you?” I give him Skip’s address. “That’s close to where we’re going. Pick you up in ten minutes.”
I leave a note for Skip and wait outside for Coop.
Jerry Fuller’s address is a trailer in Reseda. It looks well kept up. We turn in the entrance, past a white stone fountain weakly trickling water, and a sign that reads SHADY REST MOBILE HOME PARK. Coop consults a piece of paper and negotiates the small streets lined with all size and manners of single- and double-wide trailers. Some are on wheels, some are more permanent-looking. At the end of Avenue C, Coop pulls over and parks.
“Bingo.” Parked across the street under a makeshift carport in front of a small trailer is a green Dodge van. “You think that’s it?”
“Could be.”
“Let’s have a look.”
We get out of the car and walk across to the van. I look in the passenger-side window but don’t see anything. “Probably doesn’t leave his gear in the car.”
Coop nods and walks up the few steps to the front door, motioning for me to stay where I am. He knocks several times but there’s no response from inside.
“Maybe he’s out for a walk.”
“Trust me. People who live in trailer parks don’t go for walks.” He knocks again, louder this time. Still no response. He tries the door and finds it open but off-kilter. Coop turns to me. “It’s been forced.” He pushes the door open. “Jerry Fuller? Police. We need to talk to you.”
Coop steps back and draws his gun. “Stay there.” I watch him go inside. A light goes on. It seems longer but in only half a minute or so, Coop comes back out, holstering his gun. “I have to call this in.”
“What?”
“Back bedroom. Just a quick look. See if it’s the same guy.” Coop says as he takes out his phone.
I go past him and walk through the tiny kitchen area, past tripods, light reflectors, and other camera equipment stacked against the wall. There are dishes in the sink, a couple of pizza boxes on the counter.
I walk down a short passageway, past a small bathroom into the tiny bedroom. There’s nothing there but a twin bed and a tall metal filing cabinet. It’s definitely the right guy, the right van, but not the way I expected to find Jerry Fuller.