“I’m sure you look good in them,” Sparks noted as his eyes slowly drifted from the woman’s shapely legs to her face. “You can call me Flynn.”
“I’m Agnes Sharp. All I’ve always been was an extra until Friday. Then my agent got a call for this picture.”
Sparks grinned, “Miss Sharp, if you have any questions, please feel free to ask me. Maybe we can discuss things over dinner. I’d love giving you a more detailed view of the ins and outs of this business.”
“Maybe we can,” she smiled. She turned her deep green eyes on the other man and said, “And you are Dalton Andrews.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I hope this is my big break,” she said wishfully. “Been treading water out here for a long time.”
“Maybe that’s why they cast you as a swimmer,” Andrews wryly cracked. “Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to go over and grab a cup of coffee.”
The actor left the hopeful actress and hopeless egotist to get to know each other, walked quickly across the stage to the exit and stepped out in the morning sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he noted a woman carrying a half dozen dresses over her arm.
“You going my way?” she asked.
“Where are you headed, Shelby?”
“Stage 10. These are for a tea party that’s filming later this morning. I met the extras playing the parts on Friday. They’re all over seventy and having the time of their lives. It seems they took this up when they retired from teaching grade school.”
“They’ll find the learning curve here much shorter,” Andrews noted. “And if you let me carry those, I’ll walk with you.” After he took the costumes, they both headed south.
“Shelby, I wanted to apologize for the way I raved on the other night. I must have sounded like a real tried-and-true cynic.”
“You didn’t scare me,” she replied, “if that’s what you were wanting to know. Besides, even before the Depression almost every farmer in Oklahoma was likely a cynic unless he discovered oil on his land.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Do you find it funny,” she asked, “that you, Dalton Andrews, big-time cinema star, can’t walk down a single street in this whole country without people stopping you, asking for your autograph, or gawking at your face, but here on the lot no one even notices you?”
“In truth, I like that. But, even on this lot, the men sure notice you.”
“Oh, Dalton, quit it. Flynn’s lines don’t sound good coming from your mouth.”
“They don’t sound good on him either,” he shrugged, “but they seem to work anyway. Have you seen today’s newspapers?”
“I can’t afford to read,” Shelby explained with a grin, “don’t have the time or the money.”
“Well, your picture is all over them,” he teased. “It seems the newspapers sent their photographers to catch Flynn going to church, and you were on his arm as he came out. Did you manage to introduce him to Jesus?”
She waited until a noisy truck filled with spotlights passed before noting, “Flynn’s not on speaking terms with God. I’m not sure why anyone gives him the time of day.”
“Well,” the actor suggested, “you should come back to our soundstage and talk to a new actress who’s hovering all around the guy right now.” He waved at Sally Glenn as she rode by on a bicycle before continuing, “You don’t bite on Flynn’s tired lines because you aren’t caught up in trying to be something you’re not.”
“I wouldn’t be good at being anyone else,” Shelby assured him. “I don’t have enough tact to plunge into another role and make it convincing.”
He nodded, “In a world filled with those pretending to be who they aren’t, you are one of the rare ones who plays it straight. I like that.”
“You should try it,” she suggested, “though I guess you did at the diner the other night.” She moved a few steps to her right to allow a group of Civil War soldiers to pass before sidling back up to her escort. “This is where I need to go. Why don’t you hand me those dresses, and I’ll take them in. And thanks for the help and the conversation.”
“How about going out tonight?” he suggested as he passed the costumes to Shelby.
“No place fancy, I hope,” she replied.
“How about a sandwich at Schwab’s Drug Store, and then we can catch a movie?”
“One of your films?” she asked.
“Anything but that,” he quipped. “I haven’t had the chance to see Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.”
“With Gary Cooper? That sounds like a winner. I haven’t been to a movie in years. That was another thing we cut out when the farm went bad. What time?”
“How about seven?”
“You remember where I live?”
“I dropped you off there last week,” he assured her.
“OK, I’ve got to run, see you then.” She smiled before adding, “and having music in my life is nice. But you shouldn’t have.”
He grinned and watched Shelby disappear through the soundstage door before happily spinning on his heels and studying the workings of Hollywood magic that surrounded him. Men were carrying everything from Revolutionary War muskets to machine guns, trucks rumbled by filled with extras dressed as medieval knights and ladies, and strolling down the streets of this massive lot were soldiers from the Great War, along with cowboys, Indians, and even English royalty. To his right, Abraham Lincoln was telling a joke to George Washington, and two women in form-fitting bathing suits were running their lines. In the distance, he could see New York City, or at least Hollywood’s version of it, and to his right was Chinatown. As amazing and fascinating as it was, none of it was real. The buildings and even the people were all wearing false fronts that could be changed on a moment’s notice. And he was a part of this illusion on a grand scale.
For the next few weeks, he’d be playing a cop looking for the murderer of a woman who thought her dreams had come true when she’d walked onto this lot and seen the things he was seeing right now. If Leslie Bryant had made a different choice, if she hadn’t been at the wrong place at the wrong time, she would have likely had a career that would have lasted long enough for her to die a dozen times on film. She never got that chance because instead she died in real life. Now the actress who would play her in the film about her murder would likely be more famous than Leslie. He jammed his hands into his pockets and sadly shook his head; that was the paradox that defined Hollywood, and he owed his sorry existence to it. It seemed the only real thing on this lot was the poor girl from Oklahoma.
28
June 22, 1936
Back on the set Dalton Andrews went through the lines that were literally hot off the typewriter. After studying them for a few moments, he set them to one side and took a seat behind Bill Barrister’s desk . . . or at least Hollywood’s version of it. Leaning back in his chair he propped his feet up, crossed his arms, and pretended to be napping. A few seconds later, Vic Melton barked, “Action.”
The overhead camera captured Flynn Sparks hurrying past a dozen desks and more than twenty uniformed cops and up to a door marked “Bill Barrister—Homicide.” Sparks, playing Barry Jenkins, didn’t bother knocking, and instead, just barged in. He paused at the door and studied his boss.
“You sleeping, Cap?” he asked.
Opening his eyes, Andrews casually evaluated his uninvited guest before pulling his feet from his desk, leaning forward in his chair and crossing his arms. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
“I’ve got something hot,” he explained. “They just found a dead girl and there’s no doubt she’s been murdered.”
“Where is she?”
“Malibu, on the beach.”
Andrews pushed out of his chair, strolled over to a coat rack, and pulled off his gray fedora hat. He dusted the top with his left hand before placing it on his head at a slight angle to the left. His fingers lingered on the brim before looking back to his partner and grittily speaking the hokey lines he’d been given by the wri
ters.
“Barry, murder’s a dirty game, especially when it involves a woman. Any man who’d sink so low as to take the life of a lady is the kind of scum that I hate. I live to take that kind of creep out of the world. I hope, when we find him, he puts up a fight because I’d love to save the state the cost of a trial and keep the hangman’s rope stored in the closet on death row.”
“I’m with you, partner.”
Andrews smiled grimly and walked toward the open door, “Let’s go. We have a dirty job to do.” As the actors retraced the steps previously taken by Sparks, the camera followed.
Only when they’d exited the entry to the station set did Melton cry, “Cut!” After the two reappeared the director announced, “That was good, now let’s reset the scene and catch it with a camera at ground level. After that, we’ll shoot it once from Dalton’s perspective and another time from Flynn’s point of view.”
It took just over an hour to complete all four shooting angles, and when Melton was finally satisfied, he gave the crew a ten-minute break. Andrews spent it at the desk that would serve as Barrister’s for the next few weeks.
“I think they got the roles reversed,” Sparks suggested as he took a seat in a hard wooden chair opposite his costar.
“What difference does it make?” Andrews asked. “I mean, they will probably find a way for your character to get the credit for bagging the killer. They always make sure you come out looking good in the end.”
“That’s in my contract,” Sparks explained. “And I have to OK any script that has my character dying. I just couldn’t break all those hearts.”
Andrews looked into the overhead lights and bit his lip. He watched a man on a small catwalk adjust the angle of a spot before looking back at his costar. “Flynn, do you actually buy into what you say, or do you just spout out stuff that makes it appear you are the most egotistical jerk on the planet?”
“You’re starting to sound like that tomato in wardrobe,” Sparks jibed. “She’s always trying to find something worth saving in me. But I can tell you this for sure, she’s got it for me, she just won’t admit it.”
Andrews wryly smiled, “Did you drive the Packard to work today?”
“Of course,” Sparks assured him. “I rather enjoy explaining how I won your car.”
Andrews leaned forward and asked, “You think Shelby really does carry a torch for you?”
“No doubt.”
“Do you believe that strongly enough to be sure she’d go out with you, if you asked?”
“Dalton, she owes me. I took her someplace she wanted to go, and now she will go where I ask her to go.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Because,” Sparks explained, “that’s the way those kind are. You take them to church and after that, they’ll let you take them anywhere. You need to study my technique and learn.”
Andrews shrugged, “Maybe I do. In fact, I might be up for some education right now. Shelby just walked in with some wardrobe.” He pointed to a point by the outside wall, “She’s right over there.”
Sparks’s head spun like a freshly wound top until he spotted the woman in question. “So you want me to land a date with her?”
“That’s not specific enough; let’s make it a bit more interesting.”
“Dalton, now you’re starting to sound like me.”
“Flynn, I’ve a thousand dollars in my dressing room. My wager is this: I’ll give you all ten one-hundred dollar bills if you can land a date with Shelby for tonight.”
Sparks caught Shelby’s attention and waved. She immediately smiled and waved back. “Can you imagine what she’d look like in an evening gown?” He turned back to the other actor, “Ah, the grand is all but in my pocket, but just in case things don’t go my way, what happens?”
“I get my Packard back,” he replied, as he stuck out his hand. After the two men shook, Andrews leaned back in his chair and watched Sparks saunter across the set. He got to the woman just before she walked out the door. Though he couldn’t hear the conversation, Andrews had no problem imagining the dialogue as Sparks lightly touched Shelby’s hair and then dropped the same hand down to her shoulder. Finally, using a technique he employed countless times on film, the actor leaned closely, saying something that caused the woman to shake her head, and then, based on the body language, popped the question. Andrews could read lips well enough to know that Shelby answered with a simple, “I’m sorry.” That is when things started to really get amusing. Like a politician debating a bill, Sparks used his whole body to make his case. It did no good. Shelby just patted the man’s cheek, turned, and walked out the door. Seemingly in shock, the defeated actor dug his hands into his pockets and dejectedly walked back toward the studio’s version of Barrister’s office.
“I take it that it didn’t go as well as you would have liked,” Andrews noted with a smile.
Sparks reached into his pocket, “Here are your keys,” after tossing them across the desk, he added, “but it’s not that she didn’t want to go out with me, it’s just that she had another date. Can you imagine that country bumpkin having . . .” As if a light had just been turned on, Sparks looked at Andrews, “Dalton, you already made a date with her. You conned me.”
“Flynn, you suggested I start playing things your way, and I did.”
Rather than get angry, Sparks laughed, “You took me in hook, line, and sinker. I never thought you had it in you. I’m kind of proud of you. Besides, that car of yours is really too heavy to drive hard. My Auburn’s got a lot more kick.”
“Glad you’re taking it so well,” Andrews chided, basking in the glory of finally beating Sparks at something.
“It’s OK, Dalton, I haven’t lost anything that I paid for. And I have no doubt I can convince that new actress . . . what was her name?”
“You mean the girl we met this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Agnes Sharp.”
“I can convince Miss Sharp to go out with me. I can take her to a nice romantic dinner and then drive her up to my place.”
“Sounds fine, Flynn, I just hope she has a car.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have a way to get home from the studio.”
As Sparks’s face deflated, Melton cried out, “OK, we need to move over to soundstage 13. We are going to film the beach scene next.”
As he would not need a change in wardrobe, Andrews pushed away from the desk and stood. Grabbing the fedora, he waltzed toward the exit leaving the other actor in a state of shock. Knowing he had some time to kill, he strolled over to the parking area to the Packard convertible that was once again his. After running his hand along the fender, he glanced inside. Except for a newspaper, there was nothing in the front. His eyes moved to the large, cream-colored leather back seat, and he smiled. It was empty as well. It looked like Sparks had done a good job taking care of the car. Satisfied and relieved, he was about to leave when he noted something on the far side of the rear cushion. Quickly walking around the to the passenger side of the vehicle, Andrews opened the rear door. There was a dark stain about the size of a half dollar on the seat. Sparks must have spilled something. What was it? Leaning closer he dabbed it with his finger. It had been there for a while; it was dry. His eyes moved from the seat to the floor. All but hidden under the car’s front seat was a handkerchief. Andrews retrieved it and held it up in the sunlight. In one corner, embroidered in light blue thread, were the initials L.B.
29
June 22, 1936
In truth, in spite of the tons of sand they’d brought in, the soundstage looked very little like the beach at Malibu or anywhere else. To Dalton Andrews it more closely resembled a sand box for a kid about the size of King Kong. But thanks to shooting angles, lighting, and some rear projection, those who gathered in theaters and watched this scene would likely be completely fooled. They’d hear the waves crashing, see some actual footage of the ocean dropped in, and actually believe the scene had been
shot outdoors. When it came to deception, Washington D.C. had nothing on Hollywood.
Andrews, his coat unbuttoned and his hands in his pocket, looked down at Agnes Sharp. The young woman who, only this morning, had hoped this part would be her breakthrough role was laying on the sand in a blue bathing suit, her open eyes staring toward the point where the ocean should have been. The way her face was turned it was likely the audience would never see just how cute she was.
“You doing OK down there?” Andrews asked.
“I’m going to melt,” Sharp announced, “if we don’t start shooting soon. The lights are cooking me.”
The actor leaned closer, “It has to look like the sun is shining. It could be worse, the woman might have been found in a swamp.”
It was a bizarre experience to shoot scenes based on something that had really happened. The actress was playing a real woman who died. Vic Melton had allowed Andrews to read the police files over lunch, and seeing this woman’s real name brought the crime into a new light. Maggie Reason was just twenty-three when someone dumped her on a beach. Unlike Sharp, the temperature didn’t bother her. In fact, nothing bothered her now. She was a kid from Illinois who had dreams and then someone snuffed them out. And, rather than let her sad life just fade away, Andrews was a part of exploiting her sad demise. No one around him, not the director, the crew, or even the actress playing Maggie Reason cared enough to even offer a prayer. To them, she hadn’t ever laughed or cried or even breathed.
As he imagined what the woman’s life must have been like before she ended up alone and dead on a beach, Andrews fiddled with the handkerchief hidden in the left pocket of his pants. Just touching the small piece of cloth pushed his mind in a new direction. Now his thoughts were focused not on someone he didn’t know, but on a person he’d met. Sparks had likely used the Packard to take Leslie Bryant home that last day of her life. So there were several logical explanations about how the small piece of embroidered cloth ended up in the car, but then there was that stain. Was it somehow tied to Leslie Bryant’s disappearance? Was her first ride in the Packard also her last? And, if that was so, had his car been used as a hearse?
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