“And how do we explain them?” I asked.
“A welcoming committee,” Ranger answered.
“Even if Mother throws her arms around him and waters his collar with her tears?”
Ranger frowned. “You think she will?”
My mother wasn’t given to flamboyant behavior, but she had surprised me rather often lately. “Probably not. But—”
“Sam can cut it, if she does.”
“Can I throw my arms around him, and water his collar and all that?” asked Sylvie, bouncing up and down on the mattress as she’d been told many times not to.
“Absolutely!” Ranger grinned. “Tears and cheers, thrills and chills, the more the better. Dauntless Youth clasps Father’s hand. The girls clutch him to their bosoms, and all’s well at last. The End.”
By then I was sold. Whatever it took, this was a scene that must be shot.
• • •
By the next day most preparations had been made, but Mother and Aunt Buzzy were as tense and fidgety as though a hundred things remained to do. Sylvie made such a nuisance of herself asking about shell shock (which to her impervious mind had something to do with seashells) that Mother finally threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Children! Please go out to play!” That, of course, is exactly what we were hoping for, and as a bonus she didn’t even notice when all three of us left the house in our second-best clothes—that is, the clothes we intended to wear when welcoming Father’s train on the morrow.
We met Sam at the station and got our establishing shots: the three of us waiting on the platform, the train’s arrival in a veil of smoke and sparks, and Ranger and Sylvie and I plunging into the crowd, eager to greet the returning hero. Sam said he got it all and seemed anxious to be on his way.
When Ranger asked about the close-up lens, he said it was in the bag, just before hefting the tripod to his shoulder and setting off for home.
“What bag?” I asked as we walked back to our streetcar stop.
“That’s just a figure of speech,” Ranger said. “It means—”
“I know what it means. I’m also using a figure of speech to ask who this lens belongs to and how Sam intends to borrow it.”
A little crease appeared between Ranger’s eyebrows. “Sam was pretty dodgy about that. Must belong to somebody he knows. Or somebody who promised to borrow it for him.”
One thing our endeavor did not need was the element of surprise. I was keyed up enough already, and the merest suggestion of something awry with our best-laid plan made me even jumpier. Still, my keyed-upness was nothing compared to Mother’s. She came to tuck us in as usual that night but ended up reading the same Bobbsey Twins paragraph twice. I didn’t notice; Sylvie did.
“Oh well.” Mother sighed and closed the book. “That’s enough for tonight anyway.”
“Aren’t you excited?” Sylvie asked in her demanding way.
“Of course, darling,” Mother replied.
“But you’re worried too, aren’t you?” I asked. Mother was not uncomplicatedly happy, for sure.
“Worried?” I thought she was going to flat-out deny it, but to my surprise she said, “Well, perhaps a little.”
“About what?” Sylvie asked, catching worry like a cold. “We prayed for his safety every night and he didn’t get killed. So God listened.”
“Yes, dear.” Mother stood up, hands clutched together. “It’s just that…your father’s letter was not entirely reassuring. It appears some men come home more damaged than they let on—”
“Damaged?” Sylvie and I exclaimed together.
“Inside, I mean… Oh, never mind. I’m sure he’s fine, or will be, but we may have to give him time. Now good night, sleep tight, and all that.”
Give him time for what? I suspect Mother slept no better than I did.
• • •
Next morning the household was already in a tizzy when the telephone rang, and Solomon came to fetch Ranger. Ten minutes later, Ranger searched me out in our room as I was braiding Sylvie’s hair. “Sam.”
“Saying what?”
“He doesn’t have the lens.” I yanked a little too hard, and Sylvie yelped. “He had a deal with a guy at Vitagraph who was going to let him borrow it. Supposed to meet him this morning. But the guy didn’t show. Sam thinks the lens might have been needed, or else the guy forgot.”
“Can’t he get one somewhere else?” I asked in a desperate tone. “What about at Keystone? He works there, after all—”
“That’s just the problem. Everybody knows him there, and if he borrows anything like that, it’s bound to get back to his dad.” He shrugged sorrowfully. It was the most defeated I’d ever seen him.
But my mind was rolling like a Model T without brakes on a hill. “Is the supply room at Keystone locked?”
“Not usually. But there’s a requisition man—nobody can just walk in and take stuff.”
“What if the requisition man was distracted for a few minutes by one or two of us, and the other of us slipped in to secure the item. Is that possible?”
“It’s possible, but… What’s gotten into you, Iz? It wasn’t but a month ago that you were crabbing at me about maybe kidnapping a camera. Now you’re all game for whatever it takes.”
“Nothing got into me,” Sylvie offered. “I was always game.”
“It doesn’t matter what got into who—or whom,” I said. “We must have that lens.” We were down to the final shot, my last chance to make the story come out right.
“Must?” Ranger looked perplexed. “I thought this was my picture.”
“It’s our picture,” I said. “And I have an idea.”
• • •
My idea was not nearly as fleshed out as one of Ranger’s, as he saw fit to mention. But soon the old gleam was back in his eye, and after thrashing out some details, he rang up Sam while we stood watch, ready to distract any passersby.
“I know… Yeah, but we’ll take the blame. Cross my heart and hope to… Sure it’s tricky, so what? Look, it’s the last shot. Once it’s in the can we’ll clean up the mess… Of course it’ll all be worth it.”
He signed off with, “Meet you at the station.”
Then we had to come up with a story for Mother and Aunt Buzzy as to why we wouldn’t accompany them to that destination. “We’ll meet you there at ten ’til,” Ranger improvised. “We have to get flowers.”
“Flowers? The house is full of them.” Aunt Buzzy waved a hand to indicate the bounteous blooms.
“But these are special,” I insisted. “Just from us.”
“Let them go, Bea,” Mother said in the abrupt way she was wont to lately.
And so we went—straight for the Keystone Studios in Edendale.
With so much ground to cover in less than three hours, I was never so grateful for the punctuality of the Los Angeles public transportation system. On the way we discussed how to go about our heist, and I was only fleetingly surprised at how easy it was to slide into a life of crime with the proper motivation. Though we were only borrowing the lens, not stealing, the powers that be were not likely to grasp that fine distinction if they caught us. To make sure they didn’t, the distraction we created had better be good.
“I could throw myself off something, like I did at the parade,” Sylvie suggested.
“No,” I said firmly. “We only want to distract one person, not the whole studio.” That limited our possibilities, and we arrived at Keystone in an uncertain state.
The gates on Glendale Avenue were closed. On the other side of the street, a small crowd gathered about the fabulous panorama. Ranger grinned. “Looks like they won’t be shooting anywhere close to the buildings today. All the attention will be over here. In fact—” His eyes lingered on the panorama. “I wish we could have used that in the picture somehow.”
Several of the streetcar pa
ssengers joined the sightseers near the film crew, while we went in the opposite direction. A guard stood watch over the gate, but Ranger simply nodded to him and led us down the sidewalk to a loose plank in the fence where we could slip in. He still had the instincts of a lot lizard.
“Look like extras,” he told us, after we had turned two corners and ended up on a narrow street lined with small adobe structures. We certainly looked “extra”—the street was almost deserted except for we three sore thumbs sticking out in the middle. Most of the buildings were labeled—Prop 1, Prop 2, Prop 3, Wardrobe, Developing, Projection, and finally Technical.
“This is it,” Ranger announced.
“Now what?”
“I’ll scope it out. You can pretend to tie your shoes”—he looked down at our tie-less Mary Janes—“or something.”
He slipped away, and I pretended Sylvie had a rock in her shoe: kneeling to unbuckle it, shaking elaborately to discharge the imaginary rock, and carefully re-buckling. Ranger reappeared before I had to do it all with the other shoe.
“We’re in luck,” he said, panting. “The window’s wide open and there’s only one guy in there, Merle Ritter. He’s a regular fellow. Move a little closer and try to get him to step outside. Tell him you’re supposed to be extras in a picture directed by…um… Hampton Del Ruth, and you don’t know where to report. String it out as long as you can—I don’t know how long it’ll take me to find the lens. Once I’ve got it, I’ll give you a high sign behind his back and scoot out through the window. Meetcha at the streetcar stop—got it?”
I barely had time to nod before he squeezed my shoulder and ducked around the corner of the building. I took a deep breath and marched to the door with Sylvie in hand, ready for the scene of my career. “Mister? Oh, mister?”
He was tilted back in a desk chair, reading the Police Gazette. At my voice, the chair creaked mightily as he leaned forward. “Who’s there?”
I launched into a long explanation of how we were reporting in as extras but couldn’t find the lot, and I was afraid we were going to be late and we needed the work, and so on. Finally he got up and came to the little porch outside the door.
“Who’s the director?”
“Mr.…ah… I forgot—no, just a minute. Mr.…” The requisition man was beginning to look a wee bit doubtful. Behind his back, Ranger slipped by like a shadow. “Mr. Ruth?”
“Hampton Del Ruth?”
“That’s it! Can you tell us where he’s shooting?”
“Nowhere today that I know of. No Del Ruth pictures on the docket this week.”
“Oh no!” I turned a look of dismay on Sylvie, which she reflected admirably. “Did we get the date wrong?”
Sylvie whimpered, “But I saw you write it down!”
“Sorry, kids.” Mr. Ritter did indeed look sympathetic. “Check with the shooting schedule on your way out. It’s in the main office, right next to—”
“Our way out?” Sylvie cried. “But we can’t go now! If we don’t get work today, there won’t be anything to eat tonight!”
She had learned her acting lessons well. Mr. Ritter was almost convinced, looking to me for collaboration. With the slightest of nods, I said, “Mother doesn’t like us to talk about it, but times are pretty hard for us right now. Are you sure Mr. Del Ruth isn’t shooting today?” He was shaking his head, while I desperately wished Ranger would pop in view with the much-anticipated high sign. “Is there any other director shooting today? Maybe we could still get a little work in. Just enough for a few potatoes?”
I should have left out the potatoes. The man stuck his hand in his pocket, probably feeling about for spare change we could not in good conscience accept. “There’s a Yukon picture shooting across the street,” he said, “but girls aren’t wanted. If it would help, maybe I can…”
“Oh pleeese!” Sylvie clasped her hands together. “Our stepfather’s gone on another bender, and he promised to beat us if we don’t bring home money for booze. The last time I had bruises for days…” She was trying to fall to her knees, but I got hold of her arm and kept her upright, meanwhile shaking her elbow to make her shut up.
The jingle of Mr. Ritter’s pockets ceased as he looked from me to her. “I’m beginning to think you have a future in the pictures, little girl.”
“She exaggerates,” I hastened to say, “but we do need work. Isn’t there anything we could do? Maybe”—I was improvising desperately—“sweep out your office? Straighten the shelves?”
He’d had enough. “Good night, ladies. I don’t know what you’re selling, but I ain’t buying. If you’re serious about work, go ask ’em at the office. Otherwise—”
Oh joy! Ranger’s hand popped around the doorway, fingers raised in a “victory” salute. Then it disappeared.
“We’ll do that.” I hurried to make amends. “I’m sorry for my sister, sir. She’s seen too much Lillian Gish. Thank you for my time—I mean, your time…”
This was all covering action for Ranger’s retreat. I needn’t have bothered however, for firm footsteps were approaching directly behind us, and a nasally voice called out, “Mornin’, Merle! Would you have a thirty-five millimeter twenty-aught lens lying around?”
Mr. Ritter nodded a brief dismissal to us. “Step in and see what I’ve got, Jimmy.”
There are a lot of Jimmys in the world, but when I turned, I was face-to-face with the last one it would be advantageous to meet. Not that we had ever met, except on film, but I recognized him. And I could tell that after a second look he recognized me.
“What the Sam Hill…” he began as Sylvie blurted out:
“Papa!”
Talk about getting caught up in a part! She had never even seen Jimmy Service on film but had guessed who he was, and that was the chief relationship she knew him by. But there was no time to marvel over that. I grabbed Sylvie’s hand and took off running, as his voice bellowed after us, “Hey, you—stop!”
Chapter 18
Down at the Station
With a rabbitlike instinct, Sylvie somehow found her way back to the spot where Ranger had earlier led us in. We scurried through the gap in the fence, only to find that our pursuer had taken the more direct route, right through the gate. Once on the sidewalk, our eyes met. Again he bellowed, “Stop!”
Sylvie darted right into the street, and I had no choice but to follow. Behind us Mr. Service was yelling, “I want to talk to you!” Dodging tin lizzies and delivery vans, we safely reached the other side, where a throng of actors, prop men, and musicians provided temporary cover. Looking back, I saw Mr. Service by the curb, prudently waiting for a streetcar to pass. It was, I noticed distractedly, the nine forty-five northbound, meaning we had almost ten whole minutes before our car came by—ten minutes that we could not leisurely kill at the stop with Ranger. We had to keep out of sight at all costs.
Meanwhile, Mr. Service had crossed the street. “Doesn’t he have work to get to?” I fretted.
“Maybe this is it,” Sylvie suggested.
“We’re going to have to lose him so we can slip away to the streetcar stop!”
“I know. Follow me!” While all attention seemed to be on the director, who was now shouting through his megaphone, Sylvie ducked right under the dividing rope and threaded through the musicians who were tuning up.
We edged around the platform of the panorama, hoping its sheer hugeness would give us cover to break across the wide lot behind it. From there we could disappear among the bungalows and cottages and work our way circuitously back to the streetcar stop where Ranger would be waiting. It seemed an excellent plan until I glanced back and met the malevolent glare of Jimmy Service, some yards away but closing fast!
“He’s spotted us!” I gasped.
“Let’s go under!” Sylvie leaped toward the platform of the panorama, but I grabbed a leg before she could get under it.
“T
hat’s the first place anyone would look! This is better—” I jumped up on the platform and darted over to a pile of papier-mâché boulders, placed in what was supposed to look like natural abandon. There was room in the narrow space to hide us, and a bushy cedar tree would give us additional cover. We flattened ourselves against the painted canvas. My pulse was pounding in my ears.
“What if they—” Sylvie began.
“Shhhhhh!” A man had just come around the curve, and though his face couldn’t be made out through the cedar, I knew who it was.
He paused. Then he crouched to peer under the bottom edge of the platform. I nudged Sylvie—didn’t I tell you?
She whispered, “Isobel—we’re about to be in the picture!”
A sudden stillness had fallen, and we heard voices calling for Jimmy Service. Sylvie’s hunch was correct—he was the cameraman for this shooting. That seemed like a lucky break, but before we could make a run for it, a voice shouted, “Go!” and with a lurch the entire monstrous machine began to move.
“Keep still!” I told Sylvie, as the floor rumbled and the panorama crawled. “Stay down, and with luck nobody will notice us back here. As soon as we can, we’ll jump off and make a break for the trees.”
“Now!” she hissed.
“No!” I grabbed her arm and held her down. The little orchestra was coming into view, busily thumping out the storm music from William Tell, and if we jumped, we’d jump right into their laps.
“But we’re almost in front of the camera!”
“I know—keep still!”
Easier said than done, for at that moment a very stiff breeze whipped my hair in my face and tore away Sylvie’s bow, which had become droopy with all the running. We were headed right into a wind machine.
“What was that…?” I heard someone call, as the aforementioned bow sailed in front of the camera—and next, we were in the middle of a raging snowstorm!
I Don't Know How the Story Ends Page 17