Stardust

by Joseph Kanon

  She came over to Ben, touching his bloody hand, then moving hers up to his forehead, brushing it. “So,” she said, a whole conversation.

  “Please,” Bunny said.

  “Come with him. I can’t do this alone,” she said to Ben, then left, slipping out onto the dark lot.

  “Get rid of that,” Bunny said, nodding to Dieter’s gun, still in Ben’s hand. He looked down at Dieter’s body. “Are you finished now?”

  Ben didn’t answer, staring, seeing the police photo again. The same twisted body, same dark blood around the head, soon even a crowd around it. Finished. What had he expected to feel? This void? I found him. I know. But now there was not even that to keep Danny with him, no hold.

  Bunny twisted something on the metal frame, his hand still wrapped in a handkerchief. “I had a hell of a time with these bolts.”

  “Accident,” Ben said.

  “Just what we’re always afraid of,” Bunny said coolly, arranging Dieter’s body. “You should see the insurance premiums.” He looked up, gauging the fall’s trajectory. “People don’t know. They think the equipment- Of course, visitors.”

  “He’s shot. He has a bullet in him.”

  “Freakish, wasn’t it? The crash, setting that off. People who carry guns should keep the safety on.”

  “You think they’ll believe that?”

  “Why not?” Bunny said. “It’s what happened.” He looked at Ben. “Isn’t it?”

  “You’re covering up a-”

  “Now you listen to me. Liesl’s not going to be explaining anything. Is that understood? I mean really understood this time? She was never here. You came looking. People get lost on the lot at night. When they don’t know where they’re going.” He paused. “You might thank me. The gun was pointing at you. And here we are-”

  “I have to tell the Bureau. About Dieter. It can lead them to the next.”

  “I don’t care what you tell them as long as nothing leads here. It’s an accident in tomorrow’s papers. They’ll have to live with that. Make them,” he said, looking at Ben, then away. “She’s valuable to the studio. Anything else here needs taking care of?”

  “Some blood under the Japan map. A camera got loose down the ramp.”

  “I saw. Naturally one of the new ones.”

  “Did she come to find you? Liesl? She was worried?”

  “We found each other. Carl called. To check on the orders.” He gave Ben another look. “Your hand,” he said noticing it. “You better get over to the infirmary. Patch it up. Think how you got it, will you? That makes sense? Maybe you cut it trying to get the light off him. In your haste.”

  “It’s got a bullet in it. How do we explain that? The doctor-”

  “It’s the studio infirmary,” Bunny said, then held his look. “I’ll fix it.”

  SUNSET

  They had set up bleachers for fans down one side of the long temple entrance to the Egyptian and put the cameras and reporters behind a rope down the other, the red carpet between. The line of studio cars seemed to stretch all the way back to Highland, the spillover crowd craning necks to look into back windows, hoping for glimpses. There were searchlights and live radio feeds and an a party scheduled at the Grove, signs that the premiere itself marked a shift at Continental, the old modest openings something now out of the Gower Gulch era.

  Ben looked at the giant posters behind the floodlit palms-Liesl with her head tilted up, her eyes fixed on the GI who was taking her home. The real Liesl was in a soft off-white gown and a fox cape, and her appearance had drawn oohs from the kids on the sidewalk. He watched her on the red carpet, surrounded by studio people, first greeting the audience, waving, then turning to tell the reporters how thrilling it all was. And wasn’t it? The air was bright with flashing lights, something new, the rhythm built up, car after car, gown after gown, heady just to be part of it. Her escorts were in uniform to represent all the forces-everyone’s dream war bride. Dick would follow later, another squealing entrance and another interview.

  “The soldiers were a nice touch,” Bunny said as they watched from the side. “You can feel it, can’t you? It’s going to happen. Look at them.”

  He nodded to the reporters, surging around her but keeping a distance, some invisible royal line, not pushing microphones in her face. Even Polly, speaking to her now on the radio, seemed respectful, paying court. Ben thought of Rosemary at Lasner’s party, surrounded, everyone smiling. Her moment.

  “What’s it costing you?” Ben said.

  “Don’t keep books. How much is air time worth? Mr. L never understood that, either. These people haven’t even seen the picture and look at them,” he said, still fixed on the reception. “It just comes to her. They all have it, that instinct.”

  “Did you?”

  Bunny didn’t answer.

  “You don’t know her. She could walk away from it tomorrow.”

  “No one ever does,” Bunny said, turning. “No one.” He took out a cigarette. “You’ve been scarce. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Come have a smoke.” He drew them away from the temple courtyard into the lobby, waving away some ushers who darted over. “I wanted you to hear it from me. We’re not picking up Rosemary’s option.”

  “Why?”

  “The picture’s doing nothing.”

  “You dumped it.”

  “Now you’re an expert on distribution, too. We didn’t dump it. It’s last year.”

  “So put her in something this year.”

  Bunny took a drag on his cigarette. “Look, I don’t know what she is to you. But you’re a big boy now. That’s the way it is.”

  “You know what this is all about. You’re going to let him tell you who to hire? He’s finished.”

  “He’s embarrassed. He’s calling off the hearings. For now. He may even be in a little trouble next election. But he’s still in office. He’ll regroup. When this starts up again, Continental’s going to be absolutely clean. No associations, not even relatives.”

  “Or close friends. If they’re alive.”

  Bunny said nothing at first, squinting through the smoke, reluctant to cross a line. “That’s right. If they’re alive.”

  They looked at each other for a minute with the weary familiarity of an old couple, stuck together by everything that had happened, too tired to untangle it.

  “Hal tells me the picture’s finished.”

  “Some dubbing.”

  “You’ll be thinking, what next? They were wondering at Fort Roach.”

  “They called you all by themselves.”

  Bunny stuck the cigarette into the sand of the standing ashtray. “They’re winding down. The exhibitors don’t want any more information films. The training films-”

  Ben shrugged. “My separation papers’ll come through any day.”

  But Bunny was going somewhere else. “They’ve agreed to a limited distribution. The Nuremberg picture didn’t do what they hoped. This would be the last anyway.”

  “How limited,” Ben said, alert, listening to code.

  “Limited. Strictly speaking, we don’t have to distribute at all. There’s no agreement.”

  “Sol agreed.”

  “Well, Mr. L-”

  “Is still head of the studio.”

  Bunny looked up. “Keep your socks on.”

  “You can’t do this,” Ben said, his throat suddenly tight. “Dump it. Not this one.”

  He saw the pan shot of the guards’ faces, the slow walk into the camp, evidence.

  “I’m not dumping it. And you’re leading with your chin. Anybody ever tell you not to do that here?”

  Lasner on the train, clutching himself, never weak.

  “Show them what you really want?” Bunny finished.

  “I really want this,” Ben said, his voice steady. “It’s important.”

  To whom? The dead, the survivors? It occurred to Ben that he had become a believer in images, their power to change things, even though of course they didn’t. Show the faces. Ma
ybe that’s all it was, a record too late, but at least it was there. The dead are never avenged. All we can do is leave markers.

  “I said limited. Major cities. After Christmas. Don’t worry, you’ll get your credit.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  Bunny raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “Sol wants this picture.”

  “So you keep saying. And I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. He knows what the exhibitors are like, but if we can sell it as-”

  “What do you want?”

  “Want?” Bunny said, raising both eyebrows now. “I’m not a pawnshop. It’s a picture, not a watch. I said I’d do what I could.” He paused. “What I’d like, though, is a little favor from you.”

  Ben waited.

  “I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time at Cedars. Little chats.”

  “He likes to tell stories,” Ben said carefully, wondering where this was going. “The old days. My father.”

  “Funny how that happens. He never used to dwell on the past.” He looked up at Ben. “I know Mr. L pretty well. He gets-enthusiastic. He’s likely to think things can happen that can’t happen. That people can do things-and they can’t, really. They don’t know enough. They’d be in over their heads.”

  “They could learn.”

  “Not on this job.”

  “You’re ahead of yourself. Sol hasn’t offered me anything.”

  “Then it’s a good time to move along, before it comes up. Fort Roach. Wherever. You don’t want to disappoint Mr. L, either.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “By having to say no. The job’s filled.”

  Ben gave a quick half smile. “You really want this,” he said, an echo.

  Bunny looked up at him. “I already have it. Now take yourself out of it.”

  “That’s not up to me. Or you. Sol’s still head of the studio.”

  Bunny shook his head. “Not anymore. But that’s something we’ll keep to ourselves, shall we? Feelings being what they are. Acting Head is fine with me. Mr. L can live with that. As long as he does. Let’s make it easier on everybody.”

  “And what’s the favor? Go away? Why?”

  “For Fay.”

  “Fay?” Ben said, surprised.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about running a studio. The first thing-I’ll bet it’s never even occurred to you-is who owns it.”

  “Sol owns it,” Ben said, suddenly not sure.

  “Not all of it. Not enough. You know that Rex still has his original eight percent. He’s very excited about the television deal. Sam owns a piece, too, did you know? And I’m happy to say he feels very confident about the direction we’re taking. So does New York. Very panicky they get when there’s a health problem. They like a certain stability. That leaves Sol. Or, rather, Fay. I have enough voting stock to do it without her-I’m already running the studio, which seems to escape you. But it would be much nicer with. One happy family, not taking sides, squabbling over something that isn’t going to happen anyway.” Another direct look at Ben. “Some deathbed whim. Fay’s been lovely to me. I’d like it to be her idea, too. Sol’s idea. Not something that was forced on them in a proxy fight. And it wouldn’t be, if you weren’t here.”

  “You really want this,” Ben said quietly.

  “It’s not a lot to ask, considering, do you think? Think of all the favors I’ll have to do for Polly now, because of you.”

  “Don’t do me-”

  “Well, it’s not just you, is it? Polly’s a girl who hates being stood up. Vindictive, really. She still thinks you’re holding out on her. But we don’t want her going after you, opening things up. Looking into accidents. I’ve got seventeen writers and I’d still rather just let things lie as they are. Think of all the people involved. Luckily, Polly likes access to studio heads. She’s not one to hold a grudge when there’s so much else she might be doing. And of course, if you’re not here, to put her in a temper-out of sight, out of mind.”

  “She won’t be out of Minot’s mind.”

  “Oh, they’ll make up. Well, at least go back to their corners. They need each other, when all’s said and done, always a point. A little go-between work and before you know it, it’s lunch at Chasen’s and off we go. It’s you they won’t forgive. There’s nothing you can do for them.”

  “Only for you.”

  “For Fay, really. No point in having any unpleasantness. Especially when it’s done.”

  “You’re sure. Maybe you underestimate me.”

  “No. I did. Not anymore. Why do you think we’re having this chat at all? This time, we need to understand each other. Lou,” he said, voice raised, eyes over Ben’s shoulders. “Good to see you. You know Lou Katz, from Abe Lastfogel’s office?”

  “Nice to meet you. Jesus, this is some night.”

  “Wait’ll you see it.”

  “I hear, I hear. Listen, we should talk sometime about Julie. Who does a musical for two hundred dollars a week? I mean, it’s wonderful what you’re doing, a production like that at Continental? But she’s wonderful, too.”

  Bunny nodded. “So let’s keep her happy. Monday, okay? We keep the steps, but we can do something on the front end. Just don’t plead poverty. Not the Morris office.”

  “What, it’s for her. She’s still in some crappy efficiency on La Brea.”

  “Not after this.”

  “Zanuck never saw it.”

  “Well, Sam Pilcer. He’s got an eye. You know Ben Collier? He’s producing a documentary for us. The end of the war. Footage you won’t believe.” He looked at Ben. “We think it’s an important picture. San Pietro, in that class. Awards, even.”

  “Jesus, at Continental. How’s Sol? I hear so-so. That was something, though, wasn’t it? What he pulled with that fuck Minot?”

  “Like something out of the movies,” Bunny said flatly.

  The others were moving in now, filling the lobby. Liesl was posing with the servicemen, two on each side. Her father, looking slightly lost, had arrived with Salka. She was beaming, reminded perhaps of the old opening nights at the Ufa Palast, but no one in the bleachers paid any attention. Only Polly recognized them, nodding to Ostermann, her neighbor at the hearing, now someone she mentioned in her columns. The Conscience of Germany. There was talk of a Nobel, she’d heard. Behind her, Kelly was holding her mike, doing a remote check. When he looked up he caught Ben’s eye for a minute, an odd questioning, the sound stage accident mixed up with the Cherokee somehow, a scent nobody was following, Ben an inexplicable connection. But Kelly had moved on to another beat, no longer doing Cagney, and Dick Marshall was getting out of his car, the story he’d come for.

  Ben went in, sitting in one of the back Continental rows, watching the rest of the audience kissing and waving across aisles, a party. Bunny hurried down front with Rex and Sam and some men from the front office, talking as he went, Lasner on the carpet at Grand Central. Little Brian Jenkins, quick as a bunny. Then Liesl came in between the Army and the Navy and the lights started to dim.

  It was the kind of company audience that applauded the credits, little salutes to their friends. Imre Tabor, ten years out of Budapest, had directed, and Epstein had done the music and Simco the photography, all Europeans, but whatever edge they may once have brought had been smoothed out, maybe forgotten. It was a studio picture, bright, every eyebrow in place. Ben wondered for a second what might have happened to Kaltenbach if he’d stayed, got lucky with Exit Visa, shepherding Danny’s story through rewrites. A vehicle for Dick. Stranger things had happened.

  On the screen a process shot of ruins dissolved to a studio interior, the family waiting for the Allied liberation. Then Liesl’s first appearance, riding a bicycle, hair blowing. Applause. Her face in close-up, young, fearless, the one Danny must have known. In a second a retreating German soldier would grab the bicycle, force her into the doorway, struggle with her until she got his gun, shot him. The scene that would come in handy in real life, holding the gun ste
ady in the nightclub set, standing over Dieter on the floor. Ben standing there, too. Are you finished now? Bunny had said. Danny finally avenged. But how could you ever be finished with murder? An endless accounting. There was always more. Reasons. And once you did know, what did you do? Not all deaths are alike.

  Liesl was heaving, distraught, racing to safety. Now the advancing GI who would discover her, deliver her, and then come to call. The war as Continental saw it. Not the rest of it, not what Ben had seen. He glanced down toward Bunny. There were a hundred ways he could interfere, keep the faces off the screen. Would it matter? What was it worth to them, already gone? Had it mattered to Danny, Dieter finally lying in a pool of his own blood? But it had to, somehow. To us. What if we never saw the faces, stayed in the dark?

  He felt the hand on his shoulder just as the screen Liesl shot the gun, making him jump. An apologetic publicist, drawing him quietly out to the lobby, a waiting phone.

  “He’s asking for you,” Fay said. “I know you’re in the middle-”

  “Is he-?”

  “I don’t know. He keeps coming back. An ox.”

  “But you called.”

  “I have a feeling, that’s all,” she said, her voice small, afraid.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  The same hospital smell as he walked in, sharp disinfectant cutting through air thick with blood and waste, the same as Danny’s hospital, all of them. The linoleum in the corridor, just mopped, glared in the overhead light.

  Fay was sitting in the room with Paulette Goddard, waiting together, maybe as they’d once waited in casting offices to show their beautiful legs. Now they both looked drawn, sober, their usual sparkle muted. The way his mother might have waited for Otto, if she had been there, if any of them had. They squeezed his hand, a silent hello.

  Sol was lying half propped up, eyes closed, his skin gray, thin hair pasted down with sweat. A plastic tube hissed oxygen in his nose, and a bottle hung next to him, dripping fluid through an IV. His face looked slack, old, the corners of his mouth white with dried saliva.