Scruples

by Judith Krantz

  “Naturally—it’s too late to do us any good. Sometimes, if I didn’t control myself, I could get to really dislike members of the acting profession, but thank God I’m a tolerant man.”

  “He should drop dead with a hard-on,” Fifi hissed.

  “Nah, all his ejaculations should be premature,” Vito corrected.

  “He should never be able to get it up at all.”

  “No, Fifi, no, that’s not subtle—he should get it up—and no one notices,” rejoined Vito.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Orsini,” said the manager of the hotel, “but there’s a man outside in the lobby who insists on seeing you. He said he was from the Arvey Film Studio.”

  In the lobby Vito found a stranger, dressed in a suit and tie. He quickly introduced himself as being from the studio’s Legal Department and handed Vito a letter, which he opened with an instantaneous apprehension of trouble. No communications from the studio should be arriving in this fashion. He skimmed it rapidly. “Pursuant to paragraph … contract … relating to production of motion picture entitled Mirrors … you are hereby notified that … Studio has exercised its right to take over production by virtue of producer’s failure to maintain the agreed- to budget …”

  Vito looked at the lawyer, the calm of his manner effectively hiding his desire to batter, maim, murder. There was no point in arguing with this man. Vito was, according to his calculations, within the budget. However, it would be months before the business-affairs people and their creative Accounting Department would or could prove whether he was actually over budget. And by that time, it would be too late.

  “So,” said Vito, “would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks. I’ve come to collect all the processed film you have on hand, every foot. Sorry about that, but those are my instructions. And the negative, too, of course. I have a van and a couple of men outside to carry everything. We got lost driving here from San Francisco, that’s why I had to break in on your party like this.”

  “Hey, that’s rough. I’m afraid your trip was wasted. But maybe they can get you a room here for the night.”

  “Wasted?”

  “I don’t have a foot of film. No negative. Nothing. They must be back at the studio.”

  “You know they’re not.” The lawyer was getting angry.

  Vito turned to Fifi Hill and Svenberg, who had followed him out to the lobby. “Fifi, did you do anything with the work print? Do you know where the negative is? Arvey’s taking over the production and this gentleman wants it.”

  Fifi looked amazed. “What the hell would I do a thing like that for? Maybe Svenberg knows. Per?”

  The gaunt Swede shook his head. “I just run the camera, I don’t keep film under my bed.”

  “Sorry,” said Vito, “but it’s probably in transit somewhere—or other. It’ll turn up—films don’t just get lost, you know.”

  The lawyer looked at the three men confronting him so blandly. Monday they’d get a writ and force Orsini to deliver the film, but until then there was nothing more he could do. Life in the studio Legal Department had taught him much basic wisdom.

  “I’ll take that drink. And I missed dinner. Is there any food left?”

  Billy was standing in the corner of a group of openly admiring men when Vito appeared at her elbow and whispered to her that they were leaving. First she thought it was too early to go, then she realized that, now that the picture was finished, Vito must be dying to make love to celebrate.

  She bid her newfound pals a sentimental good-bye and hurried off. Vito found a side door so that they could slip away unnoticed from the crowd, and grasping her by the elbow, broke into a run, racing to the car. Billy’s jubilation was short-lived: Fifi was waiting there for them. They drove back to the house in a silence Billy had the good sense not to break.

  As soon as they got inside the front door, Vito explained to her, as he had to Fifi and Svenberg weeks before, what Arvey’s intentions were. It took Billy a minute to fully understand that the Take-over Provision could be exercised whether Vito was over budget or not.

  “I don’t have the time to show that they’re wrong,” said Vito grimly.

  “But what can they do to it?” Billy asked in baffled, innocent anguish and ignorance. “It’s all on film, the work print’s finished, the whole movie is made—why do they want it now?”

  “If they get their hands on it they’ll give the work print to any one of their regular editors to cut, any way it suits him, butchering it most likely, doing a hack rush job, never letting us see what sort of hash they make out of it. There’ll be nothing to stop them from using the cheapest possible background music. Then, knowing Arvey, and knowing his mood, I’d say that he’ll slap it together as quickly as possible, throw in a few sound effects, and release it, bleeding from every pore. They can take this film and turn it into a movie nobody would believe Fifi had directed or Svenberg had photographed. Post-production is where pictures can be made—or destroyed.”

  “Oh, Vito,” Billy groaned, “I can’t stand it!”

  “I couldn’t either, darling. That’s why I have every foot of film tucked away under lock and key in Fort Bragg. The negative has been removed from the lab in San Francisco and stored under my name. The minute Maggie warned me, I decided to take these precautions.”

  “What about Arvey?” asked Fifi, who had known what Vito was doing all along. “He’s not going to lie down for this.”

  “That stinking turd isn’t going to have any choice,” Vito answered, grim and concentrated. “I’m not turning it over to the studio until the film’s complete, not until it’s edited, scored, and mixed.”

  “Toronto? Is that what you’ve been planning?” Fifi asked.

  “No, we’ll work in Hollywood. You know our technicians are the best in the business. Even if we have to rent hotel rooms it can be done. It’s been done before.”

  Billy interrupted him excitedly, with a rush of joy that at last she had something to contribute.

  “Hotel rooms! When we have the house? Vito, it’s perfect, don’t you see? Private property, all the rooms in the world, and the guards won’t let any strangers through. Oh, Vito, you can’t say no! Please let me,” she pleaded, seeing his uncertain expression.

  “Guards? What guards?” asked Vito.

  Billy blushed slightly. She didn’t realize that he hadn’t known.

  “I’ve always had armed guards twenty-four hours a day since Ellis died. I was sort of afraid of someone trying—oh, I don’t know—to get into the house or steal my jewelry or, well, kidnap me or something. They’re inconspicuous unless you know where to look. And then there’s the gatehouse.”

  Both men were silent with surprise. Mafia capos, rock stars, Sammy Davis, Jr.—they had guards, but Billy? Anyone as rich as Billy would not have thought twice about it. Billy took the guards so much for granted that she never remembered them from one month to the next. They weren’t a major expense. It was like panty hose. Once a year she bought a dozen pairs in every color so that she’d never find herself without the right ones—a simple precaution.

  “The house will never look the same again,” Vito warned her.

  “Accept it, Vito, or I will,” said Fifi. “I imagine you have a spare guest room, Billy love? I’ll be moving in. If I’m going to work eighteen-hour days, it’s going to be in style.”

  “Twenty-four-hour days, Fifi,” Vito answered, “and this one begins now. We’ll take the Winnebago and go to Fort Bragg to pick up the film. I’m not leaving a scrap behind. Billy, pack for us both while Fifi and I load up. We have about twenty big cartons to move—we’ll be back in two hours. If we drive all night we should be home before the lawyer even wakes up.”

  “Yes, darling,” said Billy with well-hidden resignation. It didn’t seem the best of times to suggest making love—one for the road as it were.

  During the weeks that followed, Billy found a few spare seconds to wonder if she had ever really thought it might be something of a lark to edit a fi
lm in her house. Nothing in her history could have prepared her for the almost-never-ending days and nights of singlenooinded, feverish, obsessed, and beleaguered activity that entirely dominated her life and the lives of everyone connected with the editing. Billy’s vast, mellow Tudor mansion took on, simultaneously, all the aspects of a sweatshop, a boiler room, a very odd sort of house party, a submarine under battle conditions, a high-class cafeteria, and a rather lavish mental institution.

  Besides Fifi, two other permanent house guests were immediately installed in the house: the editor, Brandy White, a brilliant woman with whom Vito had worked often in the past, and her lover and assistant, Mary Webster. They had told all their friends that they were going off on vacation together, which surprised no one in their talented Lesbian circle, and then they moved into Billy’s biggest guest room.

  “We’ll need another of the guest rooms for the script clerk,” Vito had told Billy during the long night’s drive back to Los Angeles from Mendocino.

  “What does a script clerk do?” Billy asked.

  “Takes notes on everything the editor and Fifi and I say while we’re looking at the film and types them up so that we have a record for the next day’s work—plus take messages, answer phones, attend to all sorts of things.”

  “I’m going to do that,” said Billy.

  “Look, sweet, I know you want to help, but you have no idea how tedious and detailed that job is—you’d go crazy in a week.”

  “Vito, I’m the script clerk. If you don’t like my work you can replace me and I won’t be hurt. But I don’t want to be standing around sucking my thumb while the rest of you finish the picture. I have a vested interest in the success of this film, too, remember? I’m The Producer’s Wife. And the script clerk! This is one area in which I have a skill you can use.”

  “What about the house—you’re letting us have that?”

  “Vito, I’m not talking about offering you something I happen to own because of money I happened to inherit. I’m talking about making a contribution of my skills and my time and energy—don’t you understand?”

  Reluctantly, Vito had agreed, convinced that Billy couldn’t endure for long in the heated gloom and tension of the editing room, but within a day her reliable Katie Gibbs’ skills came back and all her frustrated desire to produce kept her on the job, alert and totally willing. As the days went by, Billy began to learn the language of film as she had once learned to speak French. Little by little, she came to understand more and more of what was being done to the film as it was delicately carved out of the “rough assembly” they had carted down from Mendocino. She started to recognize why the control of an artist was vital in the editing process of even the most perfectly photographed, beautifully acted scenes; to appreciate how the choice of a close-up instead of a medium shot could totally change the mood of a scene; to sense why it was sometimes necessary to discard even the most exquisite piece of film in order to maintain pace or mood.

  Billy’s library, filled with rented equipment, became the editing room. The larger of the two living rooms was turned into a projection room. Mick Silverstein, the composer for Mirrors, sat at the Steinway grand in the former game room and began working on the various themes for the picture. Within a week two sound-effects editors arrived and spent every day working at their craft as each reel was completed. They made such a distracting noise, even tucked away in a corner of the big house, that they had to be moved to the garage. The dining room was in permanent use, since it was impossible to know in advance when anyone would have the time to eat. Breakfast was at seven for Fifi, Vito, Billy, Brandy, and Mary. From eleven in the morning until midnight there had to be food, instantly available.

  Billy’s knowledge of housekeeping was limited to two items, how to get out bloodstains with cold water and how to keep help. Aunt Cornelia had given her that first piece of information when she reached puberty; Ellis the second. “Hire only the best professionals,” he had said, “treat them with every consideration, pay them at least twenty percent over the going rate—and hope for the best.” Both Billy’s butler and chef had worked for her for years, but ten days of the erratic, permanent, hot-and-cold running buffet caused the cosseted chef to decamp, muttering about strange goings-on and inconsiderate employers. The butler, however, was made of more adaptable stuff. He hired two extra kitchen maids and brought in two mates who had served with him in the Quartermaster Corps during World War II to do the cooking. The three regular maids kept the house as clean as possible, although they were scandalized at the amount of debris that was mysteriously produced; the overtoppling heaps of cigarette butts; the marks on the walls; the rented equipment making holes in ancient Persian rugs; the dining room carpet that looked, in spite of their work, as if an army had walked over it, spilling creamed chipped beef, as they went.

  Josh Hillman was also a member of the team, riding shotgun from his office to reply to the legal demands that the studio made steadily on Vito with a barrage of answering documents. One day when he arrived to see Billy, he noticed, as he was admitted by the stern gatehouse guards, three men waiting stolidly outside the gates to serve subpoenas on Vito if he stepped outside the grounds.

  “Arvey’s an unimaginative man,” he told Billy. “If he really wanted to, he could hire a helicopter, land on the lawn with his troops, and force his way into the house and serve Vito that way.”

  Billy laughed wearily. “It may come to that. He’s so enraged that who knows what he might try next?”

  Hillman hardly recognized Billy in her working clothes: the terry jogging suit, now baggy in the seat, the tennis shoes, the careless ponytail. If it hadn’t been for the great diamonds she still wore in her ears, he might have taken her for—he wasn’t sure, but Billy Ikehorn seemed to have disappeared into this rather worn, efficient, carelessly thrown-together woman. She had become a full-time, diamond-decorated ditchdigger, he thought. The insane working rhythm of the professionals was normal to her now, an eight-hour day would have been laughable; quiet, contained crisis was the constant, relaxation an aberration.

  “I’m holding them off, just barely,” he told Billy. “How’s it coming along here? How much longer do you need?”

  “The end’s in sight,” she sighed. “We’ve been sending the film back and forth to the lab every day for reprints, optical effects, titles—other things I don’t really understand.”

  “How do you manage to get it past those thugs outside the gate?” he asked curiously. Josh dealt only with words and papers, not with the actual film, the subject of all the struggle.

  “We use panel trucks. Sometimes they say ‘Pioneer Hardware’ on the side, sometimes ‘Jurgensen’s’; we change around—tomorrow they’ll say ‘Roto-Rooter.’ ” Billy was proud of this dodge, which had been her idea.

  “How many more weeks before you’re finished?”

  “Probably two weeks of editing left. Fifi’s agent called him last night and told him that Arvey was blacklisting him from the studio and proceeding against him with the Directors Guild, telling them that he was in breach of his contract, party to theft. His agent’s afraid Fifi might lose his director’s card.”

  “What did Fifi do?” Josh asked, alarmed.

  “Told his agent to tell Arvey to do something unmentionable to himself and that he could survive without the studio, that the members of the guild were his friends and he wouldn’t get anywhere with them.”

  “I hope he’s right,” said Josh gloomily.

  The next day Fifi’s agent telephoned again, more agitated than before.

  “Listen, Robin Hood,” he rasped, “you’d better get your ass out of Sherwood Forest. I had calls from Metro and Paramount today—they were going to be your two next jobs, in case you’ve forgotten. Arvey’s been bad-mouthing you to them and they want to pull out from their deals, and we’ve got nothing on paper yet. Those studio heads stick together, you know. Do you want to commit suicide? I’m serious, Fifi, your whole future is on the line and the DGA can
’t fight the studios for you. Stay with Mirrors and you’ll be back making commercials. That film is legally not yours, no matter how you try to justify it to yourself.”

  The following morning Fifi’s place at breakfast was unfilled and under the door of Vito and Billy’s room there was a letter from him, a combination of deep regret and matter-of-fact necessity.

  “I can’t blame him,” Vito said gravely. “He did more than I had any right to expect. But Christ, if only we could have had him for the next two weeks—”

  “I have about thirty pages of notes on the last reels,” said Billy.

  “How many?”

  “Thirty, maybe more. He spent a lot of time looking at the whole picture, over and over and over, and every time he said something, I took it down. I figured he might forget—some of it is repetitious, some places he changed his mind two or three times, but it’s all here. I’ll transcribe it right away.”

  “First,” cried a transformed Vito, “you’ll eat a good breakfast—a working girl needs all her strength. Ill finish cutting the picture myself—Brandy and Mary and I—and Fifi’s notes. Jesus! I love you, Billy!”

  “Now,” asked Billy, “now can I say I told you so?”

  “Absolutely!”

  At breakfast, Vito told Brandy and Mary what had happened and warned them that the same thing might happen to them.

  “I’m just cocky enough,” answered Brandy slowly, “to think that Curt Arvey or no Curt Arvey I can get away with it. Anyway, Vito, you don’t know how to run an editing machine, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you try to mess around with one. It took me six years to get my editor’s card and I’m not about to let you in on any of my secrets. Don’t worry about us jumping ship. We’re in this to the end. Right, Mary?”

  “Right, Brandy,” said Mary, repeating the same two words she had murmured hundreds of times a day since the work began.

  The final stage in the completion of Mirrors was the “mix,” which took place during five all-night sessions in an independent mixing studio, where no questions were asked, not even of the hardest of hard-core porno producers as long as he paid his bills on time. Nevertheless, as an extra precaution, even the mixing engineers were told that they were working on a picture called The Mendocino Story. In the course of the mix the music track, the voice track, and the sound-effects track were all fit together, and the resulting sound track combined with the images made a single piece of film called the. “answer print.”