by Parnell Hall
How devastating was this? I’ve tried to give you an idea. I doubt if I’ve done it. I think it can be best summed up as this: From the time Jason Clairemont first opened his mouth, I was so preoccupied with what was happening to the script that, throughout the whole week of rehearsals, I never once had a single thought about the man who had been murdered in the very building where we were rehearsing.
11.
EARLY MONDAY MORNING JASON CLAIREMONT, nerdy twerp superstar, walked into a brownstone on East Eighty-fourth Street.
“Cut!” yelled Sidney Garfellow. “And that’s a print.”
This was greeted by a burst of applause from all those assembled in the street.
All but MacAullif, who nudged me with his elbow. “What they clapping for?”
“They got the first shot.”
“Yeah. So? Guy walked into a building. Big deal.”
“Yeah, but it’s seven-fifteen. Crew had a seven o’clock call. They got the first shot in fifteen minutes. Makes ’em feel good. Sets a tone for the production.”
“You mean this crew’s very efficient?”
“Not at all. It’s a setup.”
MacAullif frowned. “What do you mean?”
“For the first shot they set up something very simple. Schmuck walking into a building. An exterior day shot. No lighting required. No sound sync. Just set up your camera and shoot. If the moron don’t fall on his face, you got a shot.”
“You’re a cynical son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
I was indeed. I also knew everything I’d said was absolutely true, ’cause that’s the way Jake Decker had outlined it when we’d gone over the shooting schedule. I saw no reason to quote my sources to MacAullif, however.
MacAullif and I were standing on the sidewalk across the street from the brownstone where Sidney Garfellow had just nailed down his first shot. We could have been standing on the other side of the street where most of the crew were, but MacAullif had chosen this position, probably due to its proximity to the catering truck, where coffee and doughnuts had been set out. MacAullif practically mainlined coffee—he had filled his Styrofoam cup twice since we’d been there.
“I can tell you something worse than that,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“The crew may be clapping, but they don’t want it smooth and efficient.”
MacAullif frowned. “Why not?”
“There’s a lot of money to be made in movies, and the further behind schedule they run, the more they make.”
“Are you saying this crew would do that?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I’m sure they’re above it. Just like I know there’re no cops on the take.”
“Fuck you,” MacAullif said. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“That’s really Jason Clairemont?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“He’s tiny.”
“He’ll look big on the screen.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I just can’t believe it’s him.”
“Well, it is. Play your cards right, you might get an autograph.”
MacAullif gave me a look. “What’s with you?”
I hadn’t seen MacAullif since we started rehearsal, so he knew nothing about the situation regarding Jason Clairemont and the script. And I wasn’t about to get into it.
“What’s with your murder?” I said.
“Oh, that? Nothing. It’s a John Doe, just like we thought. Some bum got killed. I did the work, turned it over, and that’s that. I’m on vacation.”
“There’s nothing to it?”
“What could there be?”
“I thought the glass indicated the window had been broken from the inside.”
“It did. But so what? All that means is the guy got in sometime when it was open, busted the window to get out. After that he could go in and out the window as he pleased, which he did up until the time he was killed.” •
“By whom?”
“Person or persons unknown,” MacAullif said. He shrugged. “I know you civilians hate to hear that, but a large percentage of homicides fall into that category. They’re unsolved and they’ll stay unsolved until somebody cops to ’em. Which doesn’t mean the guy who cops actually did ’em, either. Sometimes a perp will confess to something just because the cops want him to. Cooperating, you know? The case is cleared, but we’ve still got no idea who actually did it.”
The shrill squawk of, “Quiet on the set,” pierced our eardrums. That was the attractive AD, who turned out to have a less-than-attractive voice, particularly when amplified by a bullhorn.
However, it certainly got your attention. MacAullif and I shut up and looked over toward the set where Jason Clairemont was back in position and about to go into the building again.
“Roll camera,” the AD yelped into the bullhorn.
Seconds later, the German cameraman yelped something back. Unaided by a bullhorn, his voice didn’t carry, and even if it had, no one would have understood him anyway, but what he should have said was, “Rolling.” I presume that’s what he did, because seconds later Sidney Garfellow shouted, “Action!”
And Jason Clairemont walked into the building again.
“Cut!” Sidney cried. He turned immediately to confer with his cameraman. He must have liked what he heard, because he cried, “That’s a print. New setup.”
“It’s a camera move,” the AD squawked on the bullhorn. “New setup. A camera move.” She turned to the script supervisor. “Clarity, what’s the scene number?”
“One twenty-two, Blaire’s entrance.”
I looked up at MacAullif. “Wait till you see this,” I said.
MacAullif had seen no rehearsals, and had arrived just before shooting, so he hadn’t seen the actress playing Blaire.
“See what?” he said.
Before I could answer, a voice said, “Well, well, Sergeant. What do you think?”
We both looked up to find Sidney Garfellow standing there.
MacAullif said, “You’re moving pretty fast.”
Sidney nodded. “Got a four-week shooting schedule.”
“What would be normal?” MacAullif said.
“On an average, ten. You got a hundred-page script, you shoot two pages a day. That’s ten weeks. We gotta do five a day. So we gotta move fast. You check in?”
MacAullif nodded. “With Jake. He told me to hang out and watch the shoot. I also checked in with the two cops here from the mayor’s office. I don’t want to be steppin’ on anybody’s toes.”
“Fine,” Sidney said. “You got a script?”
“Me? No.”
“Stanley, see that he gets a script. Ask Clarity to issue him one on my say-so.”
Before either of us could say anything, Sidney slapped MacAullif on the back, said, “Good to have you on board,” and hustled back across the street.
There came the distant roll of thunder, and I noticed the sky had gotten darker.
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “Looks like rain.”
“Yeah,” MacAullif said. “What do you do then?”
What we did was move indoors to the cover set. That’s why you always shoot your exteriors first on a movie—if it rains, you got somewhere to go.
It poured, and we went.
Suddenly crew members were rushing every which way, packing up equipment. And the teamsters, after three weeks of nothing at all, finally got to move their trucks.
The crew piled into whatever vehicles were available. Some had brought their own cars. Some rode with gofers.
Jason Clairemont rode alone. The tall, gawky kid who’d been with him, when I’d mistaken both of them for gofers, actually was. But not an ordinary gofer. He was Jason Clairemont’s personal gofer. To satisfy his every whim, and drive him wherever he wanted to go.
I rode with MacAullif. I hadn’t brought my car, and he’d brought his. We hopped in and headed back to the warehouse. MacAullif pulled in next to a fire plug—handy being a cop—-and we hopped ou
t and sprinted inside.
We’d beaten everyone back except the VIP van, Dan’s station wagon, which had nosed us out by pulling up right to the door to unload. The VIPs were Sidney Garfellow, natch, and most of the department heads, basically the same group who’d been on that ill-fated location scout.
In fact, the only one not present was sound man Murky Doyle. That was because this morning’s street shots were MOS, which, so help me, stands for mit out sound. He wasn’t on the call sheet for that location, and today his place in the car was taken by the script supervisor, who darted into the building just ahead of us.
Which reminded me. MacAullif needed a script.
We caught up with her in the office, where she was drying her hair with paper towels. It seemed a poor time to tell her MacAullif needed a script, but then, I wanted him to have one. I mean, the damn thing had my name on it.
“Excuse me, Clarity,” I said.
She looked up. “Yes?”
“This is Sergeant MacAullif,” I said. “He’s a technical advisor on the show. I know it’s a bad time, but when you get a chance, Sidney said to issue him a script.”
Clarity smiled. “It couldn’t be a better time. They’re right here.”
She pulled open a cabinet on the wall, revealing a pile of scripts. She took the top one off the pile, flipped the cover open, and looked at the number on the first page.
“One twenty-seven,” she said. “One moment, please.”
She reached in her book bag and pulled out a huge three-ring binder. She searched the tabs, found the one marked script, and flipped it open. Balancing the heavy notebook in the crook of one arm, she pulled a pen from her shirt pocket and said, “Your name again?”
“Sergeant MacAullif.”
She smiled at him. “Your first name is Sergeant?”
MacAullif smiled. I think he almost blushed. I guess movies make people crazy. “My name is William, ma’am,” he said.
I knew that. I’d never used it, but I knew it. To me, MacAullif’s first name was sort of like a trivia answer.
Clarity wrote MacAullif’s name in her notebook, then handed him the script. “Here, William,” she said.
“By the way,” I said, “what are we shooting?”
Clarity looked up. “Huh?”
“What’s the cover set?”
“Oh. Blaire’s apartment, of course.”
Silly me. Of course. If you call actors, you have to pay ’em, whether you use ’em or not. So whenever possible, the cover set uses the same actors who would have worked anyway. Since that was Jason Clairemont and the bimbo, today’s cover set had to be Blaire’s apartment. Which meant we were going to shoot the same scenes we’d worked on the first day of rehearsal.
Shit. What a kick in the teeth. Suddenly I didn’t want MacAullif to have a script. Because it wasn’t my lines he was going to read. No, the script in MacAullif’s hand was a rainbow of blue, yellow, and pink replacement pages, each one representing the amateurish improvisations of our illustrious star. On second thought, I didn’t even want MacAullif to have that script at all.
That was such a depressing thought, it was almost a relief when my musings were interrupted by the arrival of Murky Doyle, dripping wet and mad as hell. Murky strode up to Jake Decker and said, “This is most irregular. I had a two-o’clock call.”
“On the set, yes,” Jake said. “But this morning you’re on standby.”
“There’s no such thing as standby,” Murky said. “I’m either on the clock or I’m not.”
“You’re on the clock, Murky,” Jake said. “I let you stay home as a favor.”
“Some favor,” Murky grumbled. “Those street shots should have sound. What are you going to do, lay in foleys later?”
“I’d have to anyway,” Jake said.
Murky stuck out his chin. “What is that, an insult?”
“Not at all,” Jake said. “Any scene like that, the sound editor’s going to supply extra sound for the mix. The real sound only matters if there’s something specific.”
“Better with it,” Murky said.
“This morning it wasn’t necessary.”
I smiled. I’m sure MacAullif had no idea what the argument was about, but I tuned right in, and it was kind of funny. Jake, wanting to insure that Sidney grabbed his first shot in record time, had elected to shoot the scene MOS, and considering the personality of our sound mixer, I couldn’t blame him. Murky would undoubtedly have putzed around, screwed up, and made the shoot take longer. Jake was paying Murky for the time anyway, figuring that should appease him. But Murky, ever the grouch, was arguing for his right to have been present for the shoot, fucking up the sound, making things take longer, and doubtless, in the back of his mind, piling up some overtime at the end of the day.
It was sort of what I needed to hear at that moment. Yeah, your script gets mangled and the movie sucks, but life goes on as usual.
Jake Decker rather firmly suggested that Murky shut up and set up his sound equipment. Murky responded with a haughty, “Sound is always ready,” and stalked out to comply.
MacAullif and I trailed along behind to see how the crew was coming on the set.
Actually, not bad. The freight elevator, when it wasn’t delivering dead bodies, worked just fine. As Jake had suggested, the trucks had been driven onto it and brought up to the second floor, so the crew could unload directly onto the set. By the time we got there, the camera, grip, and electric trucks were parked in a line.
So was the catering truck, which MacAullif made a beeline for. While he dumped cream and sugar into his coffee, I watched the crew.
The gaffer, whose name I couldn’t remember, was standing near the truck, barking orders at his best boy and assistants, who kept emerging from the back of the truck with lights and coils of electrical cable.
The key grip, whose name I also couldn’t recall, was supervising the unloading of sandbags. As I recalled from my work in the movies, on the set they always used lots of sandbags—I was never quite sure why.
On the back of the camera truck the assistant cameraman sat, his arms immersed in a black changing bag, loading film magazines.
The camera truck was also serving for sound, one of the few concessions Jake Decker had been able to squeeze out of the teamsters union, and while I watched, Murky Doyle and a short dumpy man with horn-rimmed glasses who must have been his assistant unloaded a large laundry hamper they were using for a sound table, one of those huge bins with a wooden top. I could tell by the way they were lifting it that it was heavy. It occurred to me it would contain most of Murky’s sound equipment—microphones, cables, and so forth—and maybe even his Nagra, the tape recorder sound mixers use.
Murky’s assistant climbed back up in the truck and emerged a minute later with the long boom mike, which reminded me who he was. Right. The assistant sound man wasn’t called the assistant sound man. He was the boom man. Responsible for holding the boom mike just outside of camera range during each shot. It occurred to me it had been a while since I’d worked in films.
I turned back to find MacAullif looking in the script. In fact, at the very scene we were about to shoot.
He looked up at me. “You wrote this?” he said.
There was no avoiding it. I took a breath. “Originally,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“Yeah, originally I wrote it. But your golden boy Jason Clairemont changes anything he feels like.”
MacAullif frowned. “And they let him?”
“They have no choice. He’s a star.”
“That’s stupid,” MacAullif said.
“Tell me about it.”
I had a feeling MacAullif didn’t quite believe me. On the other hand, MacAullif was a good cop, but he was still a cop. What I mean is, I wonder if he knew the scene he just read was bad. That’s not to say cops have no taste, it’s just—aw, hell. I’m sorry. I’m just not rational on this subject.
I’m not sure how the conversation might have
gone, but at that moment MacAullif murmured, “Holy shit!”
I looked. As usual, MacAullif was right. Holy shit described the situation quite aptly.
The bimbo playing Blaire Kessington had just bellied up for a cup of coffee. She had obviously just come from her dressing room, where she had decided to relax during the setup by removing her costume. She paraded out for coffee attired in bra, panties, and robe. The robe was diaphanous; the underclothes were skimpy at best. That which they supposedly concealed was not. The effect was quite stunning.
The young lady jiggled up to the table, poured a cup of coffee, dumped in cream.
“No sugar,” she said with a smile. “Gotta watch my figure.”
“Son of a bitch,” MacAullif said as she made her way back to the dressing room.
I tapped the script he was holding. “Read on,” I said. “There’s three more like her.”
I steered MacAullif away from the coffee to the other end of the warehouse, where the carpenters had erected the Blaire set. It was your basic living room with movable walls. A nice set. Simple. Functional. One wall had been removed now and was leaning against the far wall of the warehouse. The camera had been set up in its place. Electricians, grips, prop men, and set dressers swarmed over the set, getting it ready for the shoot.
The AD poked her head in, said, “How long?” and received varying estimates, including, “Almost set,” from the art director, “Give me a break,” from the gaffer, either “A half hour,” or “A hot flower,” from the DP, “Ready when you are,” from the key grip, and, “Get real. They won’t be ready for hours,” from everyone’s favorite sound mixer.
It was actually forty-five minutes later when they began to rehearse. And, wouldn’t you know it, the scene they began with was the one I hadn’t even written at all, the one of Jason Clairemont picking the front-door lock.
Before, he’d just pantomimed the damn thing. Now, with an actual door and lock in place, he was attempting to pick it open, inserting two thin strips of metal into the keyhole and twisting them around.
Beside me, MacAullif said, “Shit.”
I looked up. “I beg your pardon?”