This Time We Love

by Reynolds, Mack

  The sole occupant was obviously an Italian, dark and somewhat oily of skin in the Neapolitan and Sicilian tradition, twenty or thirty pounds too much in weight but he carried it well. Sicilian he might have been but he dressed in Roman fashion from exquisitely tailored silk suit to the thinnest-shoe soles Max had ever noted. He wondered if the man could have walked half a mile without needing a cobbler’s services.

  Bert was saying, “Max Fielding, Filippo Giotto, the famous producer. This is the American I told you about, Filippo. A natural, eh?”

  The Italian didn’t bother to get up and shook limply. It was deliberate, Max realized, even as he released the hand. There was strength in that hand, and there was danger in the man. Max had no special predilection toward snap judgments or intuition of character, but he had an uncomfortable feeling about Giotto so strong that for a moment he considered calling it all off.

  Giotto looked him up and down, without expression. “Sit down, Mr. Fielding, Bert.”

  “Call him Max,” Bert said, snaking into a chair. “You said you wanted a man. So, okay, here’s a man. You oughta see him in action.”

  Max was used to Bert’s gushing by now. He shrugged inwardly and held his peace as the Italian looked him over. “Say something,” Giotto said suddenly.

  Slightly disconcerted, Max said, “Well, what?”

  The chubby producer growled, “You aren’t an actor, are you?”

  “No. Never claimed to be.” Max was on the verge of coming to his feet and calling it a day. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to come out here in the first place. He’d about reconciled himself to going on home and rejoining the family enterprise, Fielding Toys, for another spell, anyway.

  Bert was saying urgently, “Filippo, old pal, what gives? You don’t want an actor. All you want’s a voice.” The little man seemed more taken up than was called for by the occasion.

  Giotto looked back at Max. “Give me some lines. Anything.”

  Max was blank again.

  Bert hurriedly brought a sheaf of mimeograph papers from an inner pocket. “Here. Here’s something. Read this, Max. It’s part of this poem, Horatius. They’ve gotta work it around for the script, sounds too corny, but this is what one of the big scenes is based on.”

  Max took the sheet of paper and looked down at it. He’d never been particularly happy about reading verse aloud, but what the hell. He read.

  Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

  With all the speed ye may;

  I, with two more to help me,

  Will hold the foe in play.

  In yon strait path a thousand

  May well be stopped by three.

  Now who will stand on either hand,

  And keep the bridge with me?

  Max cleared his throat and looked at Bert, grimacing.

  “Okay,” the Italian said, holding up a plump, beringed hand. He looked at Max, almost distastefully. “You’ll probably do. Come around tomorrow and we’ll try looping in a scene or two of one of Renato Magli’s parts. I’ll pay you fifteen thousand lire a day if your test works out, and you can probably figure it will.”

  “Hey, pal,” Bert injected unhappily, “Maxie here can’t live on twenty-five bucks a day. You know that.”

  The Italian producer pursed his heavy lips. “That is what I pay for dubbing.” Max got the impression that the man wasn’t noted for being quick with a buck. By the minute he was wondering whether he wanted to work for Filippo Giotto, whatever the pay.

  Bert was saying urgently, “You said you’d pay twice that, Filippo, pay, if you could get the right voice for Renato Magli. Hell, Max here sounds more like Magli ought to than Magli does. Maxie’s got sex in his voice.”

  Max had to chuckle.

  Giotto said suddenly, “Very well. Be in my office in the morning. If you test out all right, thirty thousand lire a day. Here’s the address. Nine o’clock on the dot, understand?” He handed Max a card with an address that was evidently another studio.

  As they left the building, Max said to the little flack, “Where’d he pick up the language? He sounds more like an American than I do.”

  Bert said, “Used to live in the States back during the thirties. More American than a Dago. Got into the industry kinda by the back door. Used to work in the unions in Hollywood, then came over here after the war when the wop movies started getting under way. A real operator.”

  Now it came back to Max where he’d seen the other before. “Say, that’s Marcia McEvoy’s husband, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” Bert said. “I pointed him out to you last night. How’d you like to look in on the set where they’re shooting, pal? They’re running part of the Bacchanalia, the ancient Roman festival. Horatius, that’s Clark Talmadge, rescues Lucretia, that’s Marcy McEvoy, from the drunken revelers. It’s the first time they meet, see? He’s the Captain of the Gate and she’s a candidate to be a Vestal Virgin. Get the drama? He rescues her just in time. If anybody gives it to her, they’d have to burn her at the stake.”

  Max hadn’t been following that too well. “Come again?” he said. He had been remembering the night before at the Shaker when Filippo Giotto had stamped out of the night club in a rage at his American wife. He had been wondering why the American girl had ever married the Italian producer.

  Bert explained as they walked. “That’s the big story. Marcy plays this gal about to become a Vestal Virgin. If you’re a Vestal Virgin and anybody lays you, then the gods would be in a tizzie, see? So any Vestal Virgin that gets it has to be burned at the stake. Well, Lucretia, that’s Marcy, is trying to get home through the mobs during Bacchanalia. She’s gone out looking for a doctor for her old lady, see? And during Bacchanalia, everybody gets stoned, and everybody lays anybody they find out celebrating. So Horatius rescues her.”

  Max was staring at him. He said, “You mean they’re making movies with plots like that these days?”

  Bert said, “Here we are, we can go in, the shooting light’s off. Pal, that’s all they are making movies about these days. It’s either got to be killing or screwing, or preferably both. Nothing else draws any more. Come on.”

  Inside was the confusion of the movie set. Any movie set. Max following Bert, they wedged, edged and maneuvered themselves through a maze of cables, banks of lights, backdrops, props, and a confusion of actors, grips, special effects men, sound workers, cameramen, set directors, set dressers, assistant directors, boom men, sound directors, wardroom workers, makeup men, hairdressers and others.

  Bert whispered, “Ever been on a set before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, for Crissake, don’t stumble over any electric cables.”

  Max held his peace. They came to a reasonably clear area from which they could see the set.

  It was supposedly an outdoor scene, evidently a section of ancient Rome not overly prosperous. There was a fountain in the center of a small square and three narrow streets leading away. Twenty-five or thirty extras attired as lower-class Romans of both sexes stood around as the white-haired director, Manfred King, talked over the scene with Marcia McEvoy. As he talked, Marcia combed her shoulder-length hair, seemingly not hearing a word he said. A male hairdresser and a makeup girl fussed around her.

  Lonny Balt, a Nikon in his hands, drifted up and nodded to them.

  Bert said, “How’s it going, pal?”

  Balt, his pasty face even paler in the dim lighting here, off the area where the set’s lights played, growled, “La McEvoy’s on a bitch. Claims she can’t stand queers to touch her. The word’s got back to Talmadge, and now he’s in a pet.”

  Bert Fix looked over at the film’s director. “Manny seems to be bearing up under it.”

  “An old pro,” Lonny said appreciatively. “The Marcy McEvoys and the Clark Talmadges in this business come and go like the seasons, but old pros like Manny King stay with us. Which is the only thing that makes this business bearable.” He added, just before wandering away again, “She rejected a couple hundred shots
I did of her in that temple scene. Says I make her look flat-chested. How the hell does she want to look in a temple, like a whore? I’m going to quit.”

  Manfred King turned back to his cameras and his female lead disappeared up one of the set’s streets. “All right,” the director said, without raising his voice, “let’s try this again.” While he took his place beside the camera, his sides took over shouting directions, shushing all those on the set who were not immediately occupied with the scene.

  King said something else, so gently that Max couldn’t make out his words, and the scene came to life. Bored extras suddenly became Roman revelers. Half-garbed girls squealed and ran about the streets, or threw themselves wantonly into the arms of the soldiers, tradesmen and the occasional aristocrats who were drinking, reeling, singing and quarreling happily.

  It was Bacchanalia, all right.

  Manfred King, who was leaning forward in his canvas chair, made a motion and Marcy McEvoy entered. Her face registered fear, bordering on terror, and she pressed against the walls of the houses she passed, avoiding this collapsed drunk or the clutching hands of that laughing, leering soldier. Finally, one caught her, held her by the arm, his other hand proffering a bottle of wine. He took a deep draught himself, then tossed the bottle aside. It shattered against the ground, and he devoted both his hands to this new acquisition. Her eyes widened in terror and she made ineffectual pleading noises. A drunken soldier caromed into both of them and belligerently took exception to the girl’s would-be lover. In the turmoil, she escaped again, pushing her way further along through the crowd.

  Manfred King said something gently and somebody else yelled, “Cut!” And the scene suddenly lost reality and disintegrated again into a score or so of extras with prop men, grips and others now circulating among them. They were obviously setting it all up to do over again.

  “What was wrong with that?” Max whispered to his guide.

  Bert shrugged. “You never know. They’ll take it maybe another half-dozen times. Something Manny didn’t like.”

  One of the special effects men had picked up the shattered remnants of the bottle the drunk had thrown to the ground as he seized the frightened girl. He stood next to Bert and Max and seemed to be fiddling with the shards.

  Bert said, “Hi, Alec. How’s is going, pal?”

  Alec grunted, both greeting and comment.

  Max said, “You must go through a lot of bottles this way.”

  Alec looked at him. He was a small, business-like worker. He held up the pieces of the bottle, grinning. Suddenly they had become one and the bottle was new again. The extra who played the drunk came up and took it from him, someone else poured some red fluid into it, and the extra went off to resume his place.

  “Breakaway bottle,” the special effects man told Max.

  Bert introduced them.

  Alec obviously realized Max was a newcomer to the movie set. He said, “See that wagon over there with all the straw? In the next scene there’s a fight and a guy gets knocked up against the wagon and the wheel drops off and the whole shebang collapses. How long do you think it’d take to shoot the scene a dozen times if we had to really repair the wagon? So we’ve got breakaways. We can put that wagon back together in half a minute.”

  “Live and learn,” Max said. “I’ll have to write my uncle about this.” He grinned and said, “Maybe you could get a job with him.”

  The special effects man said, “About once a week I decide to hell with this racket and that I’ll get into something else. What does your uncle do?”

  Bert Fix scowled. “I thought you said he made toys?”

  “That’s right,” Max said. “And in these days of planned obsolescence, if you stare real hard at a kid’s toy it collapses. Then the parents have to go out and buy some new ones.” He looked at Alec. “The only thing is, you’d have to forget all about the part where you can fit them together again.”

  Alec laughed. “If you think these breakaways are good, you shoulda seen the last production I was on, in Spain. They had these big war scenes between the Egyptians and Persians, hundreds of chariots. The producer had talked Franco into loaning him five thousand soldiers for extras. Any accidents, or anything, and the army medics fixed the guys up, understand? No unions, or actor’s compensation to worry about; nothing. So the director decides he wants realism. He gets these poor Spanish draftees all done up in ancient armor and stick them into chariots with trained American stunt men as drivers. Well, Franco’s army doesn’t have much in the way of modern equipment, but it’s not that backward. None of these guys have ever seen a chariot before. So the director has them charging all over the place, hanging onto the chariots for dear life, and then, just as one of these breakaway chariots gets near a camera, the stunt man driver reaches down and pulls a lever and bingo a wheel falls off, or something, and the poor Spaniard goes ass over elbow and breaks a leg or something — very realistic. The Spanish army had more casualties than they did in the Civil War.”

  Max was intrigued. “But didn’t the stunt men take a beating, too?”

  “Hell, those guys know how to fall and roll with it. That’s their profession. But those poor kid recruits didn’t know what was coming. Excuse me, gotta go back to work.”

  The set was beginning to come to life again, preparatory for another attempt at the perfection Manny King wanted.

  Somewhere, close by, a cricket whirred. Max, taken aback, ran his eyes around the vicinity. Of all the sounds in the world …

  Bert said, “Oh, oh, the messenger of doom.”

  “What?”

  But then he saw Nadine Barney resetting her watch, even as she marched efficiently toward the cameras and the canvas chair from which Manfred King was directing the shooting. She spoke to the elderly director, who frowned at her for a moment, then shrugged and held out his hand. She put some pills in it, and he tossed them back. One of his assistants handed him a glass of water. Nadine turned briskly on her heel and took herself off.

  Bert Fix growled, “I’ll bet that girl makes love by that alarm watch of hers. You’re working away like crazy and bingo the thing goes off and she gets up outta bed to keep some appointment to give Manny his pills, or something.”

  Max laughed.

  A magnificent physical specimen attired as a Roman officer had come up beside him, and was scowling at the set. For a brief moment, Max didn’t recognize him, being thrown off by the makeup. Bert Fix said, “Hi, Clark.”

  The star looked at him and fluttered a hand in the way of greeting. “Why, hello, Bertie.”

  With mild shock, Max realized this was Clark Talmadge, currently tops among the screen world’s muscle men. The actor made no effort, off camera, to disguise his deviation tendencies, evidently. He looked Max over, up and down, and for a moment Max Fielding realized how a beautiful girl must feel under the scrutiny of a randy male.

  “Well, hello,” Talmadge said.

  Bert Fix said hurriedly, “Clark, this is my old pal, Max Fielding. Clark Talmadge.”

  They shook hands. Talmadge looked him up and down again. “My dear boy, you aren’t in films, are you?”

  “No,” Max said, regaining his hand, after the other had gotten to the point of holding it rather than shaking it.

  “Well, you certainly should consider it. I mean, really you should, with that build you have. Now, shouldn’t he, Bertie?”

  Bert said, “Max is working for Filippo, Clark.”

  “Oh, that cad. Really, Max, we should get together. I could give you ever so many pointers about films. If you’d like, I’d love to get together with you.”

  Bert said flatly, “Look, Clark, Maxie likes girls. You know, he’s old-fashioned.”

  Clark Talmadge giggled and made a limp motion with his hand, as though to slap at the little flack. “Oh, Bert, I really should get angry at you. The things you say.”

  Nadine Barney had come up while they were talikng. “Clark,” she said briskly, “Mr. King is waiting.”

 
“Oh, dear, of course. Such a chore, working with that bitch, Marcy.” He strode into the lights of the set, a six and a half foot giant of a man, his armor clanking authentically.

  Max looked after him, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. He whistled softly through his teeth, and said, “I didn’t think I was the type. Aren’t those characters supposed to go for effeminate men, the dainty type?”

  Bert said, “He goes for anything in pants.”

  Nadine said evenly, “Unless it’s a girl in slacks.” She looked at Max. “Are you a journalist, Mr. Fielding?”

  Bert said hurriedly, “Max is a pal of mine, Nadine. Saved my life once.”

  “Oh?” Nadine looked from Max to Bert, then back again. “On purpose? May I ask why?”

  “Get off my back,” the little man said sourly.

  Max said, “You’ve probably already discovered that Bert is inclined to exaggeration.” The light here was dim, away from the glare of the studio spots, but all over again Max realized how superbly pretty this girl was. Neat, crisp, efficient, every pore in place, but with it all, extremely attractive as well. He suspected that an equally superb body went with her facial perfection; even the severe business suit, for instance, couldn’t disguise the aggressiveness of her high and generous breasts.

  She evidently realized that she was under male scrutiny and, if anything, her voice went brisker still. “And what do you do, Mr. Fielding, besides rescue Bert Fix from disaster?”

  Max said easily, “I do the best I can. When I have to work, salesman. Nothing, right now. I’m between jobs, thank goodness.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “You mean you’re a Good Time Charley?”

  Bert groaned. “That’s what I like about Nadine. She can sour milk at twenty paces.”

  Max grinned and laid it on the line. “I’ve always thought that work was something you did when you had to. At the tender age of thirty-five, I’m of the opinion that life is fleeting and that I ought to live it up while I can.”

  She looked at him coolly, “Wine, women and song, eh?”