10 Movie

by Parnell Hall

  “You mean taking people away from the set?” Sidney said. “How the hell am I supposed to make a picture with that going on? I don’t have to stand for this, do I? Jake, call the mayor’s office, tell em I’m trying to make a picture and I’m gettin’ lots of flak.”

  “That might not be a great idea,” Jake said.

  “What?” Sidney said. “What are you saying? Movies are a big industry here in New York. You think they wanna lose one?”

  “We’re low-budget independent,” Jake said. “With a twenty-million-dollar budget we’d have more clout.”

  “Clout, hell,” Sidney said. “That’s what you’re hired for, to make the numbers sound good. Talk to ’em, for Christ’s sake. I mean, what the hell am I paying you for?”

  “To bring the picture in under budget,” Jake said. “Which we will do. Now, today’s a washout, which means I gotta spend tomorrow on the phone with the insurance company. If you think about it, that’s far more profitable than buttin’ heads with the mayor’s office. Meanwhile, we gotta shoot. I can stand one down day, I can’t stand two. So let’s get tomorrow’s schedule set now. The way things stand, we’re on location, exterior, Seventy-ninth Street boat basin.”

  “What about this?” Sidney said, jerking his thumb at the construction scaffold.

  “We fit it in later on,” Jake said. “Even if the cops let us use it, I gotta get permission all over again. We had it for one day. Tomorrow the construction crew’s back here.”

  “Christ, what if they build up there?” Sidney said. “What if they build where we wanna film?”

  “I gotta make some calls, make sure they don’t. Even if they do, it’s no big deal, they’ll build the same thing. I mean, what’s the difference if we film on the ninth-floor catwalk or the eighth-floor catwalk? The action’s still the same.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Sidney said.

  “Anyway, tomorrow we’re at the boat basin.” He turned to the first AD. “And spread the word. ’Cause we may or may not get the daily shooting schedule.”

  “And why is that?” Sidney demanded.

  “Because Dan was supposed to pick it up from the office, but he’s being held here with everybody else.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I could have Grace hop in a cab, but then there’d be no one on the phones. With our luck, she’ll get held here too. Maybe even interrogated.”

  As if on cue, a voice announced, “Clarity Gray.” A loud, peremptory voice.

  I looked, saw it was Perkins, who had just emerged from the Winnebago and was calling across the street.

  “Who, me?” Clarity said. She looked alarmed. “Oh, my. What do I tell him?”

  “Whatever you know.”

  “But I don’t know anything.”

  “Then it should be brief.”

  She bit her lip. “Oh.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. As script supervisor, Clarity Gray was the model of cool efficiency. And here she was, totally flustered at the thought of being questioned by a police officer.

  While we were talking, Perkins caught a break in the traffic and crossed the street. “Has anybody seen Clarity Gray?” he demanded.

  Clarity actually raised her hand. “Uh, that’s me.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so?” Perkins said. “Come on. You’re next.”

  As Perkins led Clarity across the street, Jason Clairemont emerged from the Winnebago. He didn’t cross the street to join us, however. Instead he walked down the street to where a limo was parked. As if by some sixth sense, Phil, his tall, gawky personal gofer, emerged from the driver’s seat just in time to open the door.

  Jason paused just long enough to wave to the TV crews before he hopped in. Phil closed the door, got in, and the limo took off.

  To a chorus of indignant remarks.

  Mine included.

  I mean, hell, Jason Clairemont might be the star of this movie, but he wasn’t the star of this murder investigation. Where did he get off going home?

  The more I thought about it, the more the iniquity impressed me. I decided I’d take it up with Sergeant Clark next time I got the chance.

  Assuming that ever happened. As the afternoon wore on, and witness followed witness, it occurred to me I’d already talked to Sergeant Clark, so I wasn’t going to be called. This notion seemed to be borne out when Sergeant Clark finished with every witness who had been up on the catwalk at the time of the incident, and began interviewing the crew members who hadn’t. These included the art director, Dan and the other gofer who’d given us the hard hats, the caterers, and the teamsters. Even Phil, when he returned from dropping off Jason Clairemont, was taken in to be interrogated.

  He appeared to be the last of the lot, and it was getting on to six o’clock, and a very exasperated crew was very ready to go home, as was I, when Perkins emerged from the trailer and announced, “Stanley Hastings.”

  21.

  SERGEANT CLARK SEEMED IN NO HURRY. He laced his fingers together, put his hands behind his head, leaned back in his seat, and stretched.

  “If this is a ploy to make me crack, you can forget it,” I said. “The problem is, I didn’t do anything.”

  Sergeant Clark frowned and straightened up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve been waiting all afternoon to see if you wanted to talk to me. Just when I decide you don’t, you do. Then when I get in here you stall. It’s a fine technique, but I don’t happen to be guilty.”

  “Whoever said you were?”

  “You’ll pardon me, but I don’t understand your attitude.”

  “Oh?”

  “You start off having MacAullif and me sit in on the interrogation. Midway through Jason Clairemont you boot us out. Now, is that because he’s a star so you cater to his whims?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh, no? He goes home while the whole crew stays. Now, what’s the reason for that?”

  “I was done with him.”

  “You were done with the others. But when they came out of the trailer, they stayed.”

  Sergeant Clark frowned. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re actually angry this actor went home.”

  “I’ve been standing across the street all afternoon listening to the whole crew gripe. Believe me, it’s been a prime topic of conversation.”

  “Eclipsing a murder?” Clark said. “That’s what we have here. A murder. I’m amazed to find so many people unconcerned.”

  I took a breath.

  Clark went on. “Well, for your information, I kept the crew here because I didn’t know which of them I might need to see again. Like you, for instance. I sent Jason Clairemont home because I knew I was done with him. And because I needed to talk to his driver, who couldn’t leave his limo. Or so Jason said. So I had the driver take him home, park the limo, and return it. If that ruffled people’s feathers, it’s unfortunate, but there you are.

  “Now, then. To the matter at hand.”

  “Yes?”

  Sergeant Clark sighed. “Oh, dear, how to bring it up? Well, how about what you just said. This whole thing about Jason Clairemont going home.”

  “What about it?”

  “You express more animosity than the incident would seem to inspire.”

  “So? You try standing on a street corner all day long with a bunch of cranky crew members.”

  “We went through that,” Clark said. “If I could offer another reason why I sent Jason Clairemont home.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What I said to him before. You were still there, weren’t you? When I warned him. Maybe this was an accidental death. That the killer might actually be after him. In which case, he might try again.”

  “Were you serious?”

  “But of course. Isn’t that obvious? If someone was trying to kill Jason Clairemont, they’re not going to stop just because they got the wrong man.”

  “So you’re saying ...?”

  “I sent him home to get him out of harm’s way.”


  I shook my head. “I can’t really buy that.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a stretch.”

  “Be that as it may. For the time being, buy the premise. Charles Masterson’s death was an accident, and someone was trying to kill Jason Clairemont.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “So the question is why? Motivation. Who would want to kill Jason Clairemont?”

  “You got me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got you. When I asked the crew members who on this movie would want to kill Jason Clairemont, the majority named you.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Is it? I understand he won’t say the lines you wrote, he’s rewriting your script, changing all the scenes. And you think he’s messing things up, ruining the movie, and trashing your career. You’re furious, and you’d like nothing better than to see him get hit by a truck.”

  “Oh, come on now.”

  “That’s what they’re saying. Then you come in here with a chip on your shoulder a mile wide because the guy got to go home. I look at you and I have to think they’re right.”

  “You think I tried to kill him?”

  Sergeant Clark put up his hand. “Please. Let’s be rational. I’m telling you what I hear. I happen to know you, and I can’t imagine for a minute you killing this guy.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Though if you did, that’s just the way you’d do it.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Sawing the board in half. There’s no way you’d stand up and shoot Jason Clairemont dead. You’ll pardon me, but you haven’t got the nerve. On the other hand, stealing out in the dead of night and sawing a board in two—it’s not exactly the same thing. You’re not doing it to him. Not really. It’s a kind of hopeful murder. If he leans on this rail, he’ll die. Even with the foreknowledge that he’s going to lean on the rail, the act is still removed from the deed. By time and distance. He isn’t there when you saw the board, and nothing happens when you do. Or will happen till the next day.”

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” I said. I had both hands up, as if pushing his words back. “You’ll pardon me, but you started off by telling me you don’t believe I did this. Now you’re telling me all the reasons you think I could.”

  “Not at all. I’m just saying, if you had, it would have been in this manner.”

  “I don’t find that reassuring.”

  “Well, you should. Would you prefer it if I were accusing you of the crime?”

  “At least I’d know where I stood.”

  Sergeant Clark took a breath. “You’ll pardon me, but you are a difficult man. I know we’ve had our differences in the past. Since that matter came to a satisfactory resolution, I had hoped we could get around them. I find your attitude somewhat disappointing.”

  “Excuse me, but who’s accusing who of murder?”

  “Exactly my point,” Clark said. “I just got through pointing out that I am not accusing you of murder.” He shook his head. Then he reached in his jacket pocket, took out his glasses, put them on, and referred to his notebook. “If we could move along,” he said, “the point I was making that got you so upset was that this murder did not happen on the spot. It was rigged, as much as an hour, a day, or even a week in advance. Which means anyone could have done it. The suspects are not limited to the people who were on the catwalk when the incident occurred.”

  “That’s obvious,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Then let me tell you the possibilities and see if your thinking is attuned to mine. We start with the fact that the boom man, Charles Masterson, is killed. Possibility one, Charles Masterson was the intended victim. In support of this is the previous incident where he got the electric shock. The stumbling block is, how could the murderer know he would be the one to lean on the rail?”

  “True,” I said. “Unless the murderer was Sidney Garfellow.”

  Sergeant Clark frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “I say that because I’ve been standing around all afternoon with nothing else to do but think it over. Now, frankly, I think it’s a hell of a stretch. But if you take the premise these two incidents indicate someone was trying to kill the boom man, it’s the only solution I can see.”

  “Tell me how you figure.”

  “’Cause it was Sidney Garfellow who gave Jason Clairemont the eleven-o’clock call. He can say all he wants about how it was the assistant director suggested it, he merely approved it, so it was a mistake but he’s got so much to think about so he relied on the advice of others, but the fact is, he’s the one gave him the call. Which was way too late. So assume it’s not a mistake, he gives him that call deliberately. So they can’t shoot that shot, and they have to turn the camera around and shoot the reverse. Sidney was up there with the cameraman, laying out the shots, and knows the positions on the reverse and knows where to weaken the rail.”

  “And how does he know that’s where the boom man’s going to stand?”

  “That’s the whole point. He told him to stand there.”

  “As I understand it, that was only because the scene couldn’t be miked from below.”

  “Exactly. Which Sidney would have known before he got up there. He lets the boom man mike the scene from below, of course the boom’s in the shot, the DP says it’s gotta move, and Sidney tells the boom man where to go.”

  Sergeant Clark frowned. “You really think Sidney Garfellow did that?”

  “No, I don’t. I think it’s absurd. But you ask me how it could work out that Charles Masterson was actually the intended victim, that’s the only way I see it.”

  “Interesting,” Clark said. “And what if he wasn’t? Possibility number two. What if Charles Masterson’s death was an accident and the intended victim was Jason Clairemont?”

  “Just the reverse,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That would tend to indicate Sidney Garfellow was innocent. Why? Because he gave Jason Clairemont the eleven-o’clock call. Which saved his life.”

  “Right,” Clark said.

  “It would also tend to vindicate the assistant director.”

  “Oh?” Clark said. “Why is that?”

  I frowned. “What do you mean, why? Same reason. She was involved in giving him the eleven-o’clock call.”

  “Involved?”

  “Didn’t Sidney say it was the AD who suggested eleven o’clock and he just went along?”

  “As you’ll recall, he said that might have been the case. He wasn’t sure.”

  “Well, what did she say?”

  Sergeant Clark raised his eyebrows.

  I exhaled. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “You wanna discuss this, or you wanna play games. How the hell can I discuss what people said if you’re gonna give me the I’m-a-police-officer-I-just-gather-information-I-don’t-give-it-out bit?”

  One of Sergeant Clark’s more infuriating traits was the fact that it was almost impossible to ruffle him. He nodded judiciously. “Quite right,” he said. “In point of fact, she can’t remember either.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Why should I kid about a thing like that? The fact is, she can’t remember. Or so she says. And I have no real reason to doubt her.”

  “What does she think? I mean, where did the figure eleven o’clock come from?”

  “That’s where it gets tricky.”

  “How so?”

  “The first AD refers to Clarity Gray, the script supervisor.”

  “She suggests the time of the call came from her?”

  “No, but she names her as the person who ought to know where it came from.”

  “Does she?”

  “She does not. Which I find somewhat strange. You would expect the script supervisor, someone in charge of keeping track of everything, to be particularly levelheaded and efficient. I found Miss Gray to be rather flustered and unsure of herself.”

 
“Couldn’t that be a natural reaction to being interrogated by a police officer?”

  “Oh, of course. It’s probably nothing more than that. But for whatever reason, her information is less than reliable.”

  “What is her information?”

  “She seemed to think the suggestion for the eleven-o’clock call might have originated with Jason Clairemont himself.”

  I frowned.

  “That bothers you?”

  “Not at all. I find it very interesting.”

  “There again, it’s either very interesting or basically irrelevant.”

  “What do the others say?”

  “About what? The idea Jason asked for the eleven-o’clock call?” He shrugged. “Like I said before, they can’t remember.”

  “That’s Sidney and the first AD. What about Jason himself.”

  “Ah, there ...”

  “There,” I said, “you haven’t asked him because you let him go home.”

  “Are you going to keep coming back to that?”

  “You said you let him go home because you didn’t need him anymore. Turns out you did.”

  “You really do dislike the man,” Sergeant Clark said. “So the next possibility should absolutely thrill you.”

  “Oh. Do you mean? . .

  “Yes, of course. The possibility that Jason Clairemont was not the intended victim but actually the perpetrator of the crime.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “You hadn’t considered the possibility?”

  “Yes, but not seriously.”

  Sergeant Clark nodded. “I know what you mean. It occurred to you how nice that would be. But you never really thought it was true.”

  “Are you saying it might be?”

  “Anything might be. We already discussed how you might have done it. Would you care to discuss how Jason Clairemont might have done it?”

  “By all means.”

  “Well, then that’s the first strike against him. If he asked for the eleven-o’clock call knowing they’d get to him before then, the whole thing could be deliberate on his part. He kills the boom man to make it look like someone’s trying to kill him.”

  “Why?”

  Sergeant Clark put up his hands. “Motive? It’s far too early to guess at motive. We’re only exploring possibilities now. Could this have happened? Take it as a premise, the way we did with you. Say Jason Clairemont wants to kill someone. Could he weaken the rail and then give himself an eleven-o’clock call so someone else dies?”