by Davis Bunn
“When I went back to Hawaii, I left behind a lot more than my first script and my money. I didn’t know it at the time, of course. I figured I’d get up there on my mountaintop and write my magnum opus.” Candace gripped her ankles so hard her feet tingled from lack of circulation. “In all this time, I’ve only made it to page three.”
Celia dropped her arm. She stared up at the ceiling. She did not speak.
Candace took a breath. Let it out. Tried again. “I’m thinking I could trust you.”
Celia swung her feet to the floor. She reached for the gold box now surrounded by script pages and sticky notes. “I shouldn’t smoke. It makes my scarring worse. I’ve been to five plastic surgeons and they all say the same thing.”
“They don’t have to wear your skin, though, do they.”
Celia lit her cigarette, blew hard, said, “I made a deal with myself. I only smoke two cigarettes a day.”
“How many does that one make?”
“Seven. No. Eight.”
“It’s Brent, isn’t it.”
Celia rose to her feet and walked to the sliding doors. She stared out at the jacaranda tree, now illuminated by the soft pool lights. “Since he’s gotten out, he’s been popping up every now and then. Usually it’s a phone call. But he wrote me four letters. And he’s come by twice before this time.”
“You still have the letters?”
The cigarette crackled in the quiet room. “I wasn’t going to let him in. I don’t know why I did. No, that’s not true.”
“You kept the letters, didn’t you,” Candace said. “All four of them.”
“I dreamed about him. Brent.”
“When?”
“The night before he showed up.” Celia told her about the dream. “Why would that make me cry?”
“You tell me, girl. It’s your dream.”
“You’re religious too, aren’t you.”
“I was. I’m trying to be that way again.”
“What happened?”
“Sam Menzes.”
Celia dragged deeper still. “Oh. Him.”
“I felt like God let me down so bad I must have missed something major in the fine print.” Candace could have stopped there. But it was just the two of them. And the night. “I thought I’d gotten over being angry with Him for letting me down so bad. Maybe I did. But when Brent showed up and he started talking, what I felt most was ashamed. All the days washed away and lost forever.”
Celia walked back over and stabbed out her cigarette. Hard.
From the kitchen came the sound of singing in Spanish. Soft. Lyrical. Candace heard one word she recognized. Over and over. Jesu. “I forgot she was here.”
Celia stared at the open kitchen door. “I’ve never heard her sing before.”
“You did, didn’t you. Keep his letters.” When Celia walked back over to the sliding glass doors, she pressed, “Did you tie them together with a pink ribbon?”
“Pu-leese. A rubber band.”
“Where are they?”
“In a box on my bedroom mantel.”
“What did he say?”
“I only opened the first one.” She hugged herself. “I wasn’t going to let him make me cry again.”
“But you kept them. I’ve got shivers.”
Celia began rocking back and forth. “I don’t want him to hurt me again.”
“You want my opinion, Brent Stark will do everything in his power to make sure nobody hurts you.”
Celia stood and rocked a little longer. “What about you?”
“Oh, sure. Me too.”
“No.” She turned around. “I mean, are you in?”
Candace felt her face stretch and remembered to call it a smile. “Girl, that man had me before he climbed off his bike.”
11
Mr. Dupree? Brent Stark. Hope it’s all right to call this late.”
“Jerry probably told you I’m not much interested in sleep. Besides which, if I don’t want to talk I don’t need to answer. What’s up?”
“Jerry thinks we’re being followed. I’m beginning to agree. I wanted to make sure the guy isn’t one of yours.”
“Jerry is my only eyes and ears on this gig. I wouldn’t be doing a decent job of building trust if I had other folks on your tail.”
“Another tracker probably means one of the studios is sniffing around your project.”
“Now, why would they do such a thing?”
“It’s standard practice in Hollywood if they have a project chasing the same market. My money’s on Sam Menzes. I spoke with Candace Chen before calling you. In their last meeting, Sam said he was going to develop a script of his own and bury her.”
“Those folks don’t mess around, do they.”
“If it’s Menzes, you haven’t seen anything yet. We need to know if Menzes has a project in development that has anything to do with Daniel Boone.”
“Let me see what I can find out.”
“Mr. Dupree, there’s another favor I’d like to ask.”
“You can keep calling me mister as long as you like. But if I had my druthers, you’d call me Bobby and drop the sir.”
Brent explained what he was after. Bobby gave it a moment’s silence, then said, “That’s a good idea. No. It’s better than that. It makes me feel like we’re gonna make this thing work.”
“That means a lot, Bobby.”
“Let me make a couple of calls. My number one lady, Fiona, will be in touch.” There came a pause, then, “Things working out between you and Jerry?”
“Too early to tell.”
“So give me what you can.”
Brent waved at Jerry, who was pointing at the LAX departures board, which now flashed boarding for their flight. “I told Jerry you probably hired a consultant who’s been in this business a long time. And they probably said Jerry has serious potential. But moving from handling a college crew and a single camera set doesn’t make him able to handle what you have in mind.”
“What exactly is it you think I’ve got in mind?”
“Going nonunion means the top specialists will all be shut out from you. The director’s job will be that much harder. But if you want a top-drawer film—”
“Which I do.”
“You’re still looking at a budget of somewhere around twenty million dollars. Two location teams, three film crews. Sixty-five staff behind the camera. Maybe a hundred days of shooting time. This film will require a serious coordination effort, made worse by a relatively untested team. The person you consulted said you needed a senior director. But working on a nonunion film would basically ruin them for life in Hollywood. So you’d have to find somebody who had been banished. Which brought you to me.”
“Actually, your name came up later. But otherwise you’re right on the money. And if you’re this smart, you’ve also realized I need you and Jerry to work as my team. Got any ideas on that one?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Brent sketched out what he had in mind.
“You know what? The more I get to know you, the more I like what I find.” Bobby Dupree’s voice hardened a notch. “Now I got one last question for you, then we both got to get back to our other dance partners. Are you in or are you out?”
They took the last flight from Los Angeles to Denver and spent the night at the new airport hotel. Brent did not pretend to want to spend his dinner seated across from a silent Jerry. The man’s sullenness was gone. But the distance remained. The restaurant was noisy without being full due to two tables of homeward-bound skiers. Brent asked for a table by the glass-fronted fire and worked on his lists. When Jerry entered the restaurant, Brent nodded but made no movement to clear away his work or invite the man to join him. He knew Jerry kept glancing over. But a little suspense worked as well in business as it did on the screen.
The next morning Brent was awakened by the phone. Bobby Dupree gave him the information Brent had requested and hung up, leaving Brent more energized than he’d ever been from coffee. He and Jerry too
k the nonstop to Norfolk and drove to Brenton University’s main campus. Named after their chief benefactor and fast-food king, Brenton U had grown from concept to full-blown university in just nine years. Unlike most other Christian centers of higher education, Brenton was rich. The Brenton trust had been founded with just one objective in mind: turn a patch of green outside Norfolk into a world-class institute, and do so fast.
The red-brick Fine Arts building had the raw look of fresh construction. The early March sky was a brittle gray, the wind salt-laced and very cold. They parked in a visitor’s slot and entered by the main doors. They were directed down corridors filled with students until they reached a sound stage door. The light overhead was off, so Brent knocked and entered.
Several of the departing students recognized him. Brent saw the shock register, heard the whispers rise behind him. Brent felt a poignant stab at the sight of Trevor standing with one hand draped over the camera dolly. On set, Trevor rarely released hold of what he called his most trusted friend.
“As I live and breathe. Brent Stark in the flesh.” Trevor offered his hand. “How are you, dear boy? All right?”
“I’d like you to meet Jerry Orbain.”
“I love your work, sir.”
“A fan. How nice.” Trevor had an Englishman’s ability to smile with nothing but his eyes. “Speaking of which, I believe you have caused several of my charges to froth at the mouth.”
An attractive young woman asked, “Can I have your autograph, Mr. Stark?”
The former cinematographer waved his student away. “No, you most certainly may not. Mr. Stark here has agreed to give a special lecture at two. I suggest you hurry back to your chambers and watch one of his films. Torn Curtain was always a personal favorite, though the Hitchcock original was better still.”
Brent waited until they were alone to say, “A lecture?”
“Oh, did I fail to mention that? I do apologize. But they are ever so eager. It’s quite rare that a real live Hollywood star makes it to the wilds of Norfolk.”
“I haven’t talked to a group in six years. And I’m hardly a star anymore.”
“Ah, but this is your ideal audience. They grew up watching your films on cable. And they’re too young to recall the scandal.” Trevor’s eyes were a luminescent gray, gentle as an English rain. “You really didn’t expect me to sit through your pitch without extracting a pound of flesh in return.”
Trevor Wright insisted on taking them back to his cluttered office and making them tea. He puttered about in his shapeless jacket, fussing over a tin of biscuits that his students kept full. Brent observed, “You really are happy here.”
“Other than a loathing for faculty meetings, yes, I suppose I am. Will you take sugar, Mr. Orbain?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Trevor directed his words to Jerry. “I grew tired of listening to my fellow believers complain about the state of Hollywood entertainment. I decided to take matters into my own hands. Do my part, as it were. Try and elevate the quality of young believers destined for the film trade.”
Jerry said, “I’ve worked with students from Biola University.”
Trevor nodded slowly. “That’s where I’ve heard of you. Of course. You directed the series for Hope.”
“You saw it?”
“I watched several segments. For a limited budget and untested actors in starring roles, you did yourself proud, young man.”
Jerry almost kept himself from glancing at Brent. “That’s right. I did.”
Trevor’s eyebrows lifted a notch. “Do I detect friction around a genuine project?”
Brent replied, “Financing, green light, stars, the works.”
“Oh dear. You’re putting me on the spot, are you. I rather thought this meeting would be more off-the-cuff.”
“We wouldn’t fly three thousand miles to see Norfolk in March.”
“Quite.” Trevor tasted his tea. “Scripts, I have to say, don’t interest me much these days. Which was why I accepted Brenton’s offer when they came calling. And the only thing I like less than the scripts are the people fashioning the story.”
“You already know the project. You liked it.”
“Dare I ask which one?”
“Long Hunter.”
“Oh, I say.” Trevor set his cup aside. “Candace Chen’s script.”
“None other.”
“You’re starring?”
“And directing. Celia Breach will costar.”
“You and Miss Breach in the Chen story. That will certainly set tongues to wagging.” Trevor played at a distinct lack of interest. He straightened the crease of his rumpled trousers. Crossed his legs. Flicked at dust on his cuff. “Dare I offer a bit of advice?”
“Always.”
“Directors who are also actors fail more often than they succeed. Put simply, the director can’t take off his actor’s hat. The film never achieves proper balance.”
“What’s your answer?”
“We’re speaking theoretically, mind.”
“If you want.”
“For every shot that includes the director-actor, he may not study the monitor. He risks focusing too tightly upon his own role and ignoring the scene’s broader scope.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“I’m not nearly done. For all such shots, the director must hand over control of the scene to another.”
“Meaning you, as DP.”
“Now, now.” Trevor wagged his finger. “We are speaking theoretically.”
“But that’s what you meant, wasn’t it. The director of photography would control the shot. What if I wanted to share this responsibility between two people?”
“And who might that other individual be?”
“My assistant director.”
Trevor blinked slowly. “The concept is certainly novel, but not without merit. Sharing the responsibility would also mean the director could maintain a greater sense of overall control.”
The assistant director was supposedly the number two on the set. But with a dominating director, the role was often reduced to that of a glorified slave. “I don’t need a gofer,” Brent said. “I’m after balance. A second set of eyes. A person I can trust to take over the second unit.”
“Did you have someone in mind?”
“Are we still talking hypothetically?”
Trevor rose and collected their cups, walked to the sink by the rear window and rinsed out the pot. “I may love teaching. But I’m far from wed to this alone. Were you to agree to my terms, and if the script is as good as I remember …”
“It’s better.”
Trevor wiped his hands on the dishtowel. “You wouldn’t object if I made up my own mind over that?”
“I’ll leave you a copy.”
“When do you need to know?”
“I can give you two weeks. But I’ll need you on location at the end of that time.”
“We are moving swiftly, aren’t we.” To his credit, Trevor Wright did not offer superfluous objections about classes and the like. To a pro, shooting schedules took precedence over everything. And Trevor Wright was, above all else, a pro. “I suppose I could arrange a substitute for the remainder of the term.”
“If you need anything between now and then, contact Jerry.
I’ll be out of touch for a while.” He rose and offered Trevor his hand. “Thanks for seeing us, Trevor. I’ll be back in time for the lecture.”
“The students will be agog.” The gaze was no less keen for its mellow aura. “One final question. That bit of news I heard about you finding faith after they sent you away.”
“All true.”
“Yes. Soon as I saw you, I gathered as much. Staying sober, are we?”
“Since the night of the accident.”
“So glad to hear it.” He settled his other hand atop theirs. “My dear boy. You’ve had a rather trying time of it. But from what I see before me today, Christ has worked His miracle yet again. Your dross has been turned t
o gold.” He smiled them a farewell. “See you in the lecture hall at two.”
Back at the car, Brent pulled a fresh script from his valise and handed it to Jerry. “You may want to spend a few minutes in there with him alone. Establish a rapport.” He handed over the car keys. “You take this one. I spotted taxis by the Admin building. I need to rent another car before coming back to do the lecture.”
“Where are you going?”
“Bobby’s arranged for me to get some help with my role.”
Brent handed over his three lists, which now totaled more than twenty pages. “While I’m gone, I’d like you to get started with these.”
“What are they?”
“Lists of critical elements we have to get lined up before moving into production. They’re divided into location and studio sets, roughed-out shooting schedule, and general problem areas. If I were you, I’d show that second list to Trevor. Say you want his advice. But what you’re really after is him to take it from you and start work on it today.”
“Why are you doing this? So you can go back to Bobby and blame me when it’s wrong?”
“No, Jerry. So I have the ammo I need to ask Bobby to make you my AD.” Brent snapped his suitcase shut. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To run the show? So run.”
12
Brent’s call caught them just as Liz pulled into the Houston lot the following Thursday. Liz put the call on her car phone system so Stanley could hear and said, “You’re late.”
“I’ve been fighting traffic for five hours,” Brent replied.
“Where are you?”
“In a truck stop off I-85. I’m headed for the southern tip of the Appalachians, down Georgia way. Bobby Dupree has set me up with a real-live frontier tracker. The man does not own a phone. As in, no contact whatsoever with the outside world.”
“Why would Bobby do that to you?”
“Because I asked him to. Is Stanley there with you?”
Liz glanced at the bearlike man hulking in the passenger seat. She wanted to answer, sort of. Stanley was not merely silent. He was scarcely present at all. “Yes, but we’re due upstairs now. You’re not the only one who’s been fighting traffic.”