One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

  “Few years back, he came to me with a script,” said Berman. “Wanted me to give it to my agent. Which I told him I would, but I never actually did. I just couldn’t. Lou woulda read three pages and never spoken to me again.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve actually done my best to forget it. It was some period piece about a crazy emperor. Unreadable. Funny thing was he had the format down perfectly, had the right screenwriting software—it looked professional is what I mean. Most amateurs don’t get the basics right, you know, filling the pages with CUT TO’s and FADE OUT’s and all the stuff they think goes in a screenplay. Well, this was clean, not even a typo, but an absolute mess storytelling-wise. No through line, no hook, no real story, even. Just, like, a week in the life of this despot. So you’ve got this terrifically overwritten dialogue, kinda wannabe period dialogue, you know? ‘Ho ho, pass the wineskin, thou salty knave.’ Shit like that. And the rest of it was all beheadings, gougings, boilings, burnings. On and on. I’m not squeamish, but this was basically, like, let’s focus on all this stuff in the most lovingly realized way, let’s really get into this and show it all in real time. Serious Grand Guignol shit. It’s one of those screenplays that comes along and just makes you think, wow, what are you trying to say here? What’s the message? Because it was clearly a labor of love, but to what end? Just to be gruesome? He said it was a true story, but who cares? Lot of true stories out there don’t need to be made into movies.”

  Jarsdel felt excitement building within him. He was near to the golden thread again, could almost touch it. “Do you still have a copy?”

  Berman shook his head. “Into the shredder. Bad juju.” He forced a laugh, but Jarsdel could see the effort he put into it, as if perhaps he really did think the screenplay had been in some way malefic.

  “You mentioned an emperor,” said Jarsdel. “Remember which one?”

  “No, like I said, this was a while ago.”

  “Domitian? Nero?”

  “I don’t know. Which of them ate babies?”

  “What?”

  “That was one of the scenes. Has this big banquet, and the main course is a human baby. Actually shows it. Cuts into its—you know—its butt. Eats it. Eats the whole thing.”

  Jarsdel felt his stomach turn. “I…don’t know of any Roman emperors who did that.”

  “Greek, I think. Always going on about the power of Greece, the majesty of Greece.”

  “The Greeks didn’t have emperors. They had kings or archons.”

  “What do I know? Maybe it was one of those.”

  Jarsdel strained to think of whom Berman could be talking about, but his grasp of Greek history was mostly limited to Athens and Sparta. He knew little about Paeonia, Lydia, Kommagene, and the myriad other city-states of the Greek world. Dinan’s character could be one of hundreds of men. “If I wanted to read this thing,” he said, “how would I go about doing that? You think it’s online somewhere?”

  “Nah, doubt it. Odds are the worse the script, the more the writer is afraid someone’ll rip it off. He actually wanted my agent to sign an NDA before reading it, but I talked him out of that. Told him it was bad form. Why don’t you just ask him? I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

  “I’d rather he didn’t know I was looking at it.”

  “Okay.” Berman sighed. “Well, he’s definitely got it registered. First thing an amateur does is get a WGA reg number to protect against copyright infringement. Never fails. Soon as they’re finished with a draft. No rewrites, no notes. No, first the reg number. Gotta get that.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “You pay a fee—ten if you’re in the Guild, twenty if you’re not. You send in your manuscript, and they hold on to it for you. Establishes legal proof of authorship should anyone steal from you—which, incidentally, I haven’t seen happen a single time my thirty-five years in this business.”

  “Do people upload their files, or—”

  “Mostly, but the guild still takes hard copies. Lot of writers prefer that. Feels more real to them.”

  “And I’m assuming you can’t just go in there and ask to read someone’s script.”

  “Ha, no. Think of it like a bank, but instead of money in the vaults, there’s a million unproduced screenplays. Hell of a lot less valuable.”

  Jarsdel wondered what the procedure would be for getting the Writers Guild to release one of them. “Is there anyone over there you could refer me to? About seeing the script?”

  “No, you’d probably need to talk to the registration staff or the depository custodian. Never heard of a situation like yours, so I don’t know what the protocol would be.”

  Jarsdel stood. “Thanks, Richie. I’m sorry for having to come to you with all this.”

  “Yeah. It’s…unexpected.” He got to his feet and shook Jarsdel’s hand. His grip was much softer than it had been earlier.

  “And I probably don’t need to say this, but I’d appreciate it if—”

  “If I didn’t tell Jeff you came to see me. Yeah. Okay.”

  Jarsdel turned to go, pausing for a last look at the beachscape mural—the warm tropical night, the mellow surf lapping the white sands, the dancers embracing in the glow of the torches.

  Berman followed his gaze. “I know,” he said, though Jarsdel hadn’t spoken. “Beautiful, right?”

  Jarsdel nodded.

  “Rough day and I just stare into it and let time pass. Every now and then, almost like I could walk right in and never look back.”

  * * *

  Aleena called Jarsdel after work and asked if he wanted to join her for an early dinner at Little Dom’s on Hillhurst. Afterward, the plan was to go back to her place, where she was going to make them kettle corn and put on a movie. She’d been astonished to learn he’d never seen Real Genius and insisted they watch it.

  The restaurant was cozy, the air heavy with the smells of garlic and basil. Jarsdel had over-ordered and doubted he’d be able to finish his meatball and provolone sandwich. He offered Aleena the rest of his appetizer—grilled corn with parmesan—and she took it gladly.

  “You know,” she said, “I was thinking. For someone who grew up in LA, your knowledge of movies is pretty sad.”

  “I’m from Pasadena. We read books over there.”

  “B…b…how do you pronounce it? Books?” Aleena put on an expression of absolute bafflement. She shook her head. “No, don’t know ’em. Are they French?”

  Jarsdel smiled. He watched as she spooled a tight forkful of angel-hair pasta in the bowl of her spoon. She offered it to him.

  “Mm,” he said, chewing, “delicious.”

  “Yup. So simple, yet…” She squinted at him. “I feel like you’re not here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Your mind, it’s elsewhere.”

  “Sorry. I’m a little preoccupied with work stuff.”

  “Can I help?”

  “I don’t think so. Just ruminating.”

  The busboy came over and refilled their waters. Aleena thanked him and asked for more bread. “How’s this gonna work, then?” she said when he’d gone.

  “How’s what gonna work?”

  “You and me. You have to be able to talk about your job. The good days, the shitty days. I want to know you. It’s kinda what couples do.”

  “I don’t have a problem talking about it. A few things I’m not supposed to discuss because they might be on their way to trial or they’re sensitive for other reasons.”

  “Then what about the rest, the things you can tell me?”

  Jarsdel took a drink of water and thought it over. “I don’t wanna ruin the mood. It’s ugly, a lot of what I see. Not everyone likes hearing the details.”

  “Try me.”

  “You sure?”

  She gave him an exasperate
d look.

  “Okay. Right now, I’m mostly working that thing in Thai Town. Little over a month ago.”

  “Ew, the burned guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t want to bring it up.”

  “I can handle it. Do you know who did it yet?”

  “I have a suspect. No real proof, though, he’s not in custody.”

  Aleena smiled. “Custody. I just think it’s so cool. My boyfriend’s a detective. Like Magnum.”

  Jarsdel had to stifle a laugh around a mouthful of wine. He swallowed painfully, then said, “He was a private detective, not a LEO.”

  “LEO?”

  “Law enforcement officer.”

  “Ah, LEO. Very cool.”

  The busboy came back with some bread. Aleena peeled the crust from one of the slices until all she had left was the soft center. This she buttered, sprinkled with salt, and popped into her mouth. The song that had been playing—“You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You”—gave way to Sinatra singing “The Way You Look Tonight.”

  “Ugh,” said Aleena when she’d finished chewing.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You look upset.”

  “I’m not. It’s just this song. I hate this song.”

  “Why?”

  “It was our wedding dance song. David and me. Social foxtrot.”

  Jarsdel understood. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Aleena tried a smile. “Can’t help thinking of Abby whenever I hear it. Obsessing over whether she was already dead by then, when we were dancing to it, or if it was happening at that moment. You know, just torturing myself.”

  “Are you okay? Want to go?”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s just music.”

  “Music can be pretty powerful.” He thought it sounded lame, but Aleena nodded.

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  They let the rest of it pass in silence. Over the last few weeks, Jarsdel had almost forgotten—perhaps deliberately—the circumstances of how he’d come to meet Aleena. Now he felt a sudden, hot wave of anger at the Dog Catcher and the anguish he left behind him. The killer had even managed to reach out through a harmless old song and inflict a little more misery.

  When it was over, Aleena swirled her wine and took a thoughtful sip. “I’ve been thinking about something. Ever since Halloween. Not that asshole in the movie theater. Afterward, when we were at my place. You remember?”

  “I’m not sure. What specifically?”

  “When we were in bed, and you were telling me about your badge. And what it represented and how you never had any doubt that it was like cosmic balance and the proper order of things and stuff like that. That you were fighting for reason against chaos. I know I’m not saying it exactly right, but—”

  “No, that’s pretty much it,” said Jarsdel.

  “Okay, so the thing that bothers me is what if you’re wrong? I don’t mean your motivations, but your whole—I don’t know—thesis, I guess. That there’s any such thing as balance, or even any such thing really as right and wrong.”

  “That’s a…uh…that’s a pretty intense argument. Do all certified professional organizers dabble in philosophy?”

  Aleena’s face hardened. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t be a dick. You don’t have to undercut me.”

  “I’m sorry. Wasn’t trying to. I guess I’m just trying to keep things light.”

  “Like I need a certification in a subject to express an opinion.”

  “Really, Aleena—”

  “No. You’re being condescending. Like you’ve got all the answers and you’re just sort of smugly observing everyone else. That lecture you gave me about Achilles. I’m not your student, okay?”

  “You’re right. It’s a bad habit. Please say what you were going to say.”

  Aleena looked at him coolly.

  “It’s my security blanket,” Jarsdel went on. “It’s what I do when I feel vulnerable or, I don’t know, uninteresting. I have this need to be interesting. It sucks. You’re right, and I’m working on it. Please, accept my apology.”

  Aleena gave a reluctant nod. “So,” she said, exhaling, “that’s all I was thinking. About what you said. And if you were kind of—I can’t think of a nice way to say this—kidding yourself, I guess?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do you know what moral luck is?”

  “Maybe…I—”

  “It’s okay if you don’t know. Just say ‘I don’t know, Aleena. Please tell me.’”

  Jarsdel blushed but nodded. “Okay. I don’t know. What is it?”

  “It’s a theory—yes, from philosophy, which was my minor by the way—that what we think of as right and wrong are really matters of circumstance and not a true measure of a person’s worth. So like, if you take a person who, let’s say, ends up participating in a riot. He gets caught up in the crowd and the energy and the excitement and ends up looting a store or joining a crowd that beats someone up. You have this person, right? We’d say he’s, I don’t know, not exactly evil, but not a great guy. A criminal. Lower down on the spectrum of relative worth to humanity next to a person who didn’t do those things.”

  Jarsdel thought it over a moment. “Yeah, okay. I’m with you.”

  “But then let’s say instead that on the day of the riot, he happens to be sick with the flu, so he doesn’t go out and get caught up in the madness and therefore doesn’t do anything wrong. He’s still the same guy, but this time, the opportunity didn’t present itself, so he didn’t do the thing that in the other scenario we’d look at and say, hey, this is a bad dude. So in the new scenario, he gets a pass, right?”

  Jarsdel frowned, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think I buy it. I mean, that may be the case some of the time, but crimes of opportunity make up only a small spectrum of the stuff people end up in jail for. What about premeditation? And what about people who put themselves in situations where those opportunities keep arising? You could say a mugger is an opportunistic predator, because he wouldn’t be able to commit the crime without the appearance of the victim. But he’s good at what he does. He makes sure to put himself in places where victims come along and create those opportunities for the crimes to take place.”

  “But that’s my point—”

  “No, wait, hang on. Gimme a chance to respond. Because this is something I’m knowledgeable about, or at least really passionate about. I think what you’re saying is a cop-out, because you’re ignoring the fact that it takes a certain kind of person in the first place to take advantage of an opportunity to do wrong. You have to have it in you. Whether you act on it or not, it’s still in your bones.”

  “You’re going to arrest people for what’s in their bones?”

  “Of course not, and I think you know that’s not what I mean. But a criminal is—and forgive the cliché—like a ticking time bomb. If he hasn’t committed a crime yet, it’s only because the right set of circumstances haven’t aligned in the right way to entice him. Think about this. Think about repeat offenders, right? In and out of jail. Whatever the crime—assault, robbery, fraud—it doesn’t matter. According to your model, they’re just morally unlucky? Wrong place at the wrong time? There but for the grace of God go we?”

  Aleena’s gaze didn’t falter. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  Jarsdel exhaled between his teeth. “Okay. I don’t think I’ve ever disagreed with someone so strongly on any point, ever.”

  “That’s kind of an honor.”

  “I just don’t know what to say. It runs contrary to everything I know about criminal psychology, history, everything. The wickedest people in the world were already wicked. Circumstances arose through which they could wield their terror, yes, but the ingredients were already there.”


  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t get it—what do you mean?”

  Aleena paused to peel the crust from another piece of bread. She buttered and salted the spongy center and took her time eating it. Jarsdel waited. Aleena took a slow sip of wine, then finally spoke. “That was just a basic example I was giving you. But the thing with moral luck is that you can go deeper with it. Constitutive moral luck, it’s called. It’s those ingredients you were talking about. How much control do you have over them? You’re surrounded by abuse, cruelty, self—”

  “This is nature-versus-nurture stuff, I know—”

  “No, you don’t know. Listen. I was going to say that those things are typical of the nature-versus-nurture argument. As in, whatever nurture we receive is out of our control, whether we’re beaten or caressed. We can’t choose our environments; everyone agrees on that. But isn’t the nature we receive, the nature we’re born with, also outside our control? Let’s say I’m born a narcissist. I only care about others to the extent that they figure into my life, with me at the center. But I didn’t choose to be a narcissist, right? I was built that way. It’s genes. I didn’t make a choice to be a selfish asshole, but it’s how I came out.”

  “Ah, so it’s just the hand you’re dealt. Bad luck. Free will is out the window, and it isn’t your fault for being horrible.”

  “What does it matter to assign fault? What does that do for us? That wasn’t even what we were talking about. We were talking about there being some kind of higher realm of right and wrong and that the side of righteousness is directly connected to cosmic balance, whereas the side of what we’d call wickedness is in opposition. Perverse.”

  Jarsdel’s assurance wavered, and Aleena smiled. It was a sad smile. “You see what I’m saying, don’t you?” She went on before he could answer. “Whether it’s nature or nurture doesn’t matter, because neither are within our control. We’re either shaped by our environment or by our DNA. Either way, we’re shaped. And if that’s true, then what part of a person’s moral character can we isolate and say that it’s truly them? You know—pure, truly untouched by any other factor. I don’t think we can.”