by Parnell Hall
“Yeah, I suppose,” Richard said. “It just occurred to me. The guy’s so cold, aloof, and snobbish, maybe he’s gay.”
“I don’t think those are necessarily gay attributes.”
“You know what I mean. The man’s a cipher. He strikes me as asexual, so how can you tell? It just occurred to me, maybe he thought I was gay. Which I’m not. I’m a bachelor, but I’m not gay.”
“Richard,” I said. “I think you’re off on the wrong track. You remember when the bimbo with the boobs walked by? Clark was staring goggly-eyed like everybody else.”
“So what?” Richard said. “Every man, woman, and child was staring at her.”
I glanced over at the TV. Alice had hit the record button on the VCR, since I was missing half the show. It occurred to me, Richard was a lawyer and he wasn’t watching “L.A. Law.” I wondered if that was a comment on the show or on him.
“Richard,” I said. “Is this what you called for?”
“No. I wanted to thank you for getting me on the set.”
“No problem.”
“That Sidney Garfellow is all right.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“Richard, I told you what they’re doing to my script.”
“It can’t be that bad. He was damn nice to me.”
He was indeed. When Sidney Garfellow had gotten back from photographing the bimbo in the boat, and I’d finally been able to introduce him to Richard, the man had been cordiality itself. I realized he always was with the public. It was only with insiders, with the cast and crew, that he let his hair down and slipped into the persona of ruthless bastard. Sergeant Clark, as the investigator of the murder, had been let into this inner circle. Richard Rosenberg, as a visitor to the set, had not. So Richard had seen only the genial facade.
“That’s nice, Richard,” I said. “I’m glad you had a good time.”
“So that’s why I’m calling. I forgot to ask him.”
“Ask who?”
“Sidney Garfellow.”
“Ask him what?”
“About dailies. I’ve never seen dailies on a motion picture. Could you ask him to let me in?”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. It’s Friday, I go home early. Sometime next week.”
“I’d have to know which day.”
“I don’t know which day. Just ask him in general. If he says yes, I’ll see what my schedule is.”
“Okay, I’ll ask him. But I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“About dailies.”
“What about them?”
“They’re boring as hell.”
“Sure, if you have to see ’em every day. I only want to see ’em once.”
“Even so.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Richard said and hung up.
“What was that all about?” Alice wanted to know.
“Richard wants to go to dailies and he was wondering if Sergeant Clark was gay.”
“I got all that,” Alice said. “What about the bimbo with the boobs?”
“I told you. Hot Babe Number Four in the string bikini. The biggest tits I never saw because I wrote the scene backwards.”
“And even Sergeant Clark stared?”
“Turn the TV off.”
“Huh?”
“We missed the whole middle of the show. Let’s watch the tape when it’s over.”
“We didn’t miss that much.”
“We missed enough. Turn it off and come here.”
“Oh?”
“Just turn it off.”
Alice turned the TV off, came over to the bed. I put my arms around her waist.
“Do we owe this to Hot Babe Number Four?” she asked.
“If so, it’s the first thing this movie’s done for me.”
I have to tell you, when the phone rang again it was an even bigger imposition than the first time. I would have let it ring, but it was after eleven. Which was prime time. No one called after eleven unless it was an emergency.
I groped wildly for the receiver, put it to my ear. “Hello.”
It was MacAullif. “Turn on the TV,” he said.
“What?”
“Turn on the TV. Channel four.”
“MacAullif—”
“Now, schmuck!”
And the line clicked dead.
I slammed the phone down. “Where’s the remote control.”
From somewhere beneath me, Alice mumbled into my shoulder, “You gotta be kidding.”
“MacAullif says it’s important. Channel four.”
“It’s recording,” Alice said.
She was right. Serendipity. We were able to concentrate on more important things. Still, the TV was back on a damn site quicker than it would have been if MacAullif hadn’t called.
I rewound the tape. Without getting up and switching the VCR over from clock to digital counter, I was doing it by guesswork. I rewound a few seconds, then hit play. Alice and I watched the screen. There came that interminable two-second lag before the tapes kicked in.
“Look!” Alice said.
She needn’t have bothered. I was looking, all right.
And there on the TV screen was Sidney Garfellow, large as life. Just in case there was any doubt as to the issue, the graphic, SIDNEY GARFELLOW, appeared across his chest. Just below that was the slightly smaller graphic, PRODUCER-DIRECTOR.
The shot was a medium close-up. It was an exterior, night. The location was in front of Sidney Garfellow’s apartment building. Sidney’s face was lit with floodlights. A number of microphones were thrust in front of him.
“That’s right,” Sidney said. “I said murder. The tragic death of our boom man, Charles Masterson, was not an accident, as you have been led to believe. It was cold-blooded, premeditated murder. The rail was sawed in two, and that is why he fell.
“But that’s the least of it. There is every indication—and this has also been withheld from you—but there is every indication that the intended victim was not Mr. Masterson, but was actually our young star, Jason Clairemont.”
That statement was greeted by a number of shouted questions, but Sidney put up his hands, fending them off. “Hold on, hold on,” he said. “There’s more. I would like to make a brief statement at this time.”
Sidney reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a paper, unfolded it. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and began reading. “As a result of the murder attempt on the life of my star, Jason Clairemont, which resulted in the death of my boom operator, Charles Masterson, I am convinced that someone is attempting to halt production of my movie, Hands of Havoc, Flesh of Fire. I hereby serve notice on that person or persons. This is my movie. I raised the money for it personally, and I am producing and directing it myself. And I am here to assure my investors that I will not be stopped. This production will go on. I am not intimidated.”
Sidney extended his right arm. As he did, the camera pulled back to include Jason Clairemont, who stepped into frame.
Sidney put his arm around him. “And Jason Clairemont is not intimidated.” Sidney smiled at him, then turned back to the camera. “But I am concerned for his safety. And toward that end, I have acquired the services of a personal bodyguard ...” Here Sidney extended his left arm, and the camera pulled back farther to include a small mountain of a man who strode into frame. “… to insure Jason’s safety on and off the set.”
The camera held on the three of them for a moment, then slowly zoomed in on Sidney’s face. I don’t know how, but I swear Sidney must have directed it.
Because it was just perfect. Just as the camera moved in on him he raised one finger and said solemnly, “Because I assure you, ladies and gentlemen—just as I assure each and every one of my investors—that no matter what ...”
Here Sidney paused, waited until the camera had come to a complete stop.
“The show must go on.”
28.
IT WAS A MEDIA
CIRCUS.
When I got to the location at seven o’clock the next morning there were already four or five TV crews there ahead of me. I wasn’t bothered though—immediately recognizing me as a nobody, the reporters let me push by.
Not so Jason Clairemont. When the nerdy twerp superstar’s limo arrived they surrounded it, cameras up, microphones at the ready.
Not that they got anywhere near Jason, however. When the door to the limo opened, it was the burly bodyguard who emerged. He closed the limo door behind him and stood there glowering. The effect was awesome. Cameramen actually moved back a pace at his glance.
The bodyguard spotted the two cops from the mayor’s office assigned to traffic control and motioned them over. At his direction, they cleared a path through the TV crews. Then and only then did he open the back door of the limo. Cameras were rolling, but the man who emerged was not Jason Clairemont but production manager Jake Decker. He and the bodyguard stood, two giants flanking the door.
Next, producer-director Sidney Garfellow stepped out. He stood there a moment or two in the TV light. Then, I swear to god, he gave stage by stepping sideways and gesturing to the door of the limo.
From which emerged Jason Clairemont.
It was a star’s entrance.
Jason neither cowered nor shrunk. He stepped out and stood, haughty, proud, disdainful.
Sidney, Jake, and the bodyguard quickly surrounded him and whisked him onto the set. But not before Jason had a chance to smile, nod, and wave to the cameras, not to mention the crowd of more than two hundred people that the TV crews had already attracted to the location.
But I didn’t tell you what it was. The location, I mean. I’m doing it again. Telling the story out of sequence. Just like they filmed my script. Or at least Jason’s version of my script.
Anyway, the location just happened to be the USS Intrepid. That’s a ship that’s permanently docked in Midtown Manhattan on the Hudson as an air and sea museum. It’s an aircraft carrier with all types of old war planes on the deck. Which made it a neat place for a chase scene. In the script I had Jason dive off the yacht with Hot Babe Number Four and swim to the pier where the Intrepid was docked—no, not today, they shot that yesterday; if Hot Babe Number Four were here I can’t imagine what the TV crews would have made of her.
Today we were shooting the stuff on the Intrepid deck. Jason running up the gangplank, hiding in a cockpit, jumping on a bad guy from the wing of a plane, bluffing guys out with a prop gun from the museum, and what have you.
The location was nice in that it was functional for the script, and it was nice in that it was confined to the deck of a ship that had access only by the gangplank, which made it easy to keep the media out.
Not that that was apt to appease Sergeant Clark much. I had a feeling the gentleman was going to be most prodigiously pissed.
Sidney Garfellow, the DP, the AD, Clarity, the gaffer, the art director, and sound man Murky Doyle were on deck inspecting a World War II fighter plane when Clark arrived.
I was standing with MacAullif, who had just arrived himself, and the two of us were watching the scene and speculating on what would happen when Sergeant Clark showed up.
Not much. At least, no fireworks. And it occurred to me, Sergeant Clark was probably the only officer on the whole force who wouldn’t have blown up under the circumstances. But he was remarkably calm.
“Mr. Garfellow,” he said. “If I might have a word with you.” While apparently cooperative, Sidney managed to give the impression of being terribly put upon. It occurred to me the man was an excellent actor. As well as a colossal prick. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“It has come to my attention that you have hired a bodyguard for Jason Clairemont.”
“Yes. So?”
Clark nodded. “Probably a good idea. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Where is Jason now, in makeup?”
“Yes,” the AD said. “They’re set up below decks.” She pointed. “Through that door there and down the stairs.”
Sergeant Clark nodded his thanks and went off the way she’d indicated.
“Jesus Christ,” I said to MacAullif. “What?”
“He didn’t ream him out.”
“I told you he wouldn’t.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s not his way.”
“Nine cops out of ten would have chewed his ass.”
“Not Sergeant Clark.”
“That’s one of the reasons he pisses me off. He’s not a man, he’s a machine.”
“It’s just his style.”
“Yeah,” I said. After a pause I added, “Do you think he’s gay?”
“What?”
“Sergeant Clark. Do you think he’s gay?”
“Christ, no. He’s got a wife and three kids.”
“Sergeant Clark?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s got a wife and kids?”
“You find that hard to believe?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
“Partly me. I’ve always had trouble thinkin’ of cops as having families. Until they get shot. Then they always do.”
“You’re a cynical fuck, aren’t you?”
“And then him. Like I said, he’s like a machine. I just can’t see him with a wife and kids.”
“Well, he’s got ’em. What made you think he’s gay?”
I told MacAullif about Richard Rosenberg. That struck him funny.
“No shit,” he said. “So, the ambulance chaser’s homophobic. I’ll have to kid him about it the next time he gives me a hard time.”
“Aw, shit, MacAullif,” I said. “You can’t tell him I told you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, you can’t do that.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Hey, I gotta work for the guy.”
“Yeah, I suppose you do,” MacAullif said. After a pause he said, “You gonna tell him he’s got a wife and kids?”
“Sure.”
“How you gonna tell him you found out?”
“I’ll tell him I asked you.”
“And why did you tell me you wanted to know?”
“Why do I have to give you a reason?”
“What, are you kidding? Rosenberg’s an attorney. He’s gonna ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t have the right answers, he’ll tie you up in knots. You really think he won’t find out you told me?”
I exhaled. It occurred to me, Jesus Christ, life was hard. “Hey, MacAullif,” I said. “If he does find out, I’ll let you know, and then you’re free to kid him about it. Otherwise, keep your fucking mouth shut.”
“Nice talk.”
I heard footsteps on the deck and looked around to find Sidney Garfellow bearing down on us. If the safety of the young movie star was troubling him, you wouldn’t have known it.
“Ah, what a location, what a location,” Sidney said. “Do I know how to pick ’em, or what?”
I didn’t point out that Sidney had had absolutely nothing to do with choosing the location, since I had actually written this particular one into the script. I merely smiled and nodded.
“And you, Sergeant,” Sidney said. “I wanna use you in the shot.”
MacAullif frowned. “I beg your pardon.”
Sidney put up his hand. “No, not today. Next week. In the street scene. Check the schedule. I wanna use you then.”
“Oh,” MacAullif said. He didn’t seem particularly happy.
“By the way, Sidney,” I said. “Thanks from Richard Rosenberg.”
“Who?”
“My boss.”
“Oh yeah,” Sidney said. “He wants to visit the set?”
I took a breath. “He was there. Yesterday. At the dock. I introduced you.”
“Oh,” Sidney said, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “Is that who that was? So how’d he like it?”
“Just fine, thanks. But he wanted me to ask you if he could come to dailies.”
“No. Sometime next week. If it would be all right.”
He made a face. “I don’t like the public seeing dailies. Just raw takes. Unedited. No effects. People don’t understand. They look at it, they think it’s shit. You could screen the rushes for Citizen Kane, you’d think what a boring flick, you know?”
“So, I should tell him no?”
Sidney shrugged, “Hey, if he can stand it, what the fuck do I care? Just tell Clarity when he’s coming.” Sidney clapped us on the arms, just one of the guys. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I gotta check out a plane.”
And off he went.
“Does your technical expertise extend to aircraft?” I asked MacAullif.
“No, but what does it matter? No one’s asked me for my technical advice yet. Frankly, I don’t know why the guy hired me.”
“He wants you as an actor.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“What’s the matter? Stage fright?”
“Fuck you. I never acted before. You’re the one used to be an actor. Why don’t he pick on you?”
I hadn’t thought of it. I guess I’d been too obsessed with the script. But it occurred to me, a cameo would sure be nice.
While I was thinking that, Sergeant Clark came out on deck. He looked around, spotted me and MacAullif, came up to us.
“Well,” he said. “The bodyguard’s name is Norman Pollack. Works for Randell Investigations. Small Manhattan agency. He’s about as bright as you’d expect, but he seems tough enough. I just hope he knows his job.”
“Uh-huh,” MacAullif said. He turned to me. “You wanna ask him?”
“Ask me what?” Clark said.
“Why you didn’t take Sidney Garfellow to task. For talking to the media.”
“What would be the point?” Clark said. “What’s done is done.”
“That’s not the way you felt about Richard Rosenberg,” I said. “I remember when you weren’t happy with him, you had a lot to say on the subject.”
“There’s a vast difference,” Clark said. “He’s an attorney-at-law.”
“And therefore beneath contempt?”