SIXTEEN
When I set the script aside two hours later, one thing is clear. In the universe of this movie, Billy Lyle was obsessed with Caitlyn Kelly, and he murdered her because she didn’t return his affections.
It’s not the most original story, but I can work with it.
Assuming I get the opportunity, that is. I’m no closer to understanding why Paul was fired, and I can’t help but feel I’m doomed to repeat his mistakes.
I dump the Ziploc bag of Post-its out on the table in front of me. Kim, bless her, has already done the hard work of coding each Post-it to each shot, but the notes aren’t in order—and there are several hundred—so it takes me a few minutes to pick out the forty-seven that refer to the amusement park scene.
Forty-four relate to an avalanche of continuity concerns: questions about eyelines, about hairstyles, about the prop department’s baseline competence. There’s a fair amount of bluster evident in Paul’s wording and handwriting—a black Sharpie makes a strong point—but apart from the sheer volume of paper, there’s nothing here that’s really out of the ordinary. If Tony’s going to insist on strict factual accuracy, there are necessarily going to be a huge number of details to keep track of.
The last three notes, however, are more interesting to me.
I tap each one in turn.
What are you looking at?
What are you seeing?
What are you missing?
These aren’t questions you ask a script supervisor. These are questions you ask yourself—in the middle of the night, in the middle of a project, your stomach lurching like you’ve tried to take a step that isn’t there, like you’ve realized you left the gas on, like you’ve just remembered that time in college you mixed up The Last Emperor and Empire of the Sun. These are questions born of stress and uncertainty.
Which is to say, they’re questions I ask myself all the time. I just don’t usually write them down.
I try to tell myself that it’s only natural to worry so much—that, in fact, it’s worrying so much that has made me good at what I do, that my biggest weakness really is my greatest strength, just like the self-help books keep trying to tell me.
Maybe one day I’ll believe it.
I pick up my pen and try to give it a spin.
If this pile of yellow paper is anything to go by, Paul’s a worrier, too. Okay, fine. But why is he focusing so much on this scene? It probably won’t even make it into—
The pen flies across the room and ricochets off the side of a metal trash can.
This scene won’t even make it into the movie.
Not as it stands. Not now that Tony knows the roller coaster wasn’t functioning at the time of the murder. This is a man who’s willing to fire a department head over freckles. No way would he let an anachronism make it into the final cut. And after three movies together, Paul would have known that.
So why was he tearing his hair out over unusable footage?
How do you get fired over unusable footage?
I look at the notes spread out in front of me and feel my shoulders slump. It’s pictures I’m good at communicating with, not words.
If I want to have any chance of figuring this out, I’m going to have to call Paul.
I lay my forehead against the table. This is the sort of diplomatic back-channel stuff that I usually delegate to Amy. I don’t even know where to begin. I can’t exactly ask Tony for Paul’s number. What would I say? Hey, Tony, I was wondering if maybe you could put me in touch with your estranged collaborator, because I’m confused about this scene you’re for sure going to cut and also I have some pretty indiscreet questions about just how much of a controlling jerk you are.
No, not Tony. Amy won’t be any help, either. She doesn’t even know any other editors. And Josh—no. I’m not calling Josh.
Is it really possible? Is Nell my best option?
I grab her number off my laptop and move into the quietest corner of the room, squeezing between a fake philodendron and a fake fiddle-leaf fig.
“Tell me they haven’t fired you” is the first thing she says to me, and I’m so shocked she answered her own phone it takes me a moment to respond.
“Give it a day,” I manage.
“What do you need?”
I tuck the phone between my chin and my shoulder. “I was hoping you could help me track down the last guy who had this job—I need to talk to him.”
I don’t bother to elaborate, and I trust Nell not to push. One thing I’ve always appreciated about Nell is that she’s allergic to anything that would slow the process down. The opposite of me.
“Sure, no problem. Paul Collins, right?”
“Yeah.”
I hear her tapping away at her keyboard. Her door creaks open, and she shouts, “Hey Arnie, you know a guy Paul Collins? No—not the singer, that’s Phil Collins, you banana tree. Why would I even be asking you that?” A pause. “Seriously? Shit.” She comes back on the line. “Sorry, kid. Bad news. He’s repped by Vera Madigan, which is a crying shame because a) she’s fucking terrible at her job, and b) we are not speaking to each after a small incident at the Spirit Awards, which was entirely her fault. I’m sure I can get his number, but I’ll have to ask around a bit, get back to you.”
“That would be great,” I say, “but if you find anything, don’t call me. Just send an email.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Anjali to have your Gmail password, but okay, I guess.”
“Thanks, Nell.”
“Hey, Marissa—”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck this up. These people don’t mess around.”
“I promise, I’m trying really hard not to.”
I snap the phone shut and stare at it for a moment. Then I open and shut it a few more times for good measure—ten times, because why not.
I scan the call sheet Anjali gave me, searching for someone I might be able to trust, but I don’t recognize any of the names. Only an editor could work in Hollywood for nearly twelve years and know so few people.
So who can I ask? It has to be someone discreet. Someone who would hold on to old papers. Someone who wouldn’t particularly care what Tony thinks of them—
The answer’s so obvious, I’m angry at myself for not thinking of it sooner.
I flag down a PA.
“Do you know where Tony is?”
She taps at her iPad. “Looks like he’s down in the squash courts with Daisuke, working the setup.”
“The squash courts—those are on the other side of the hotel, right? Like, really far away?”
She blinks. “I guess.”
“Could you do me a really big favor?”
She glances at Anjali, takes a step closer. “Maybe?”
“Could you have someone call me on my production phone to let me know if Tony’s schedule for this afternoon changes?”
“Would you like me to try to set up a meeting?”
“No, just tell me if—you know. Things change.”
She leans in. “Are you asking me to warn you if he shows up so you can make sure he doesn’t catch you doing something you’re not supposed to be doing?”
I lean in, too. “Is that okay?”
She rolls her eyes and makes a note on her iPad. “Honestly that’s like ninety percent of my job.”
I smile my thanks, grab my backpack, and slip out into the lobby. I try not to look like I’m running as I rush out the front entrance and down the driveway toward the parking lot.
To the teamsters.
* * *
—
Apart from the times I’ve caught a ride with Amy to set, I’ve never had much reason to interact with Transportation, so I know as much about teamsters as Isaiah knows about DPs.
Which is to say, a few jokes.
How can you tell which k
id on the playground is the teamster’s son?
He’s the one sitting around watching all the other kids play.
There are about five hundred others, but they’re all basically the same: Teamsters don’t do anything, ha-ha!
Not that you’d ever hear me say anything like that out loud. Not on one of Amy’s sets, oh no. She’s intensely protective of her drivers. She prides herself on it, in fact. “They only have to do one thing, but they do it perfectly,” she told me once, her expression fierce. “It’s all fun and games until you get stuck in a non-union truck.”
But when I clear the trees and step into the parking lot that’s being used as base camp, my first thought is that maybe Amy was doing that thing where she overcompensates because she feels guilty about her upper-middle-class white privilege, because given what I’m seeing, the jokes don’t seem too far off the mark. The crew is out by their trucks, lords of all they survey, and they have an impressive setup: A portable tent, a TV and a fan, two easy chairs, a couch, a minifridge.
They’re also all on smartphones.
A man in cargo pants and a Dodgers shirt comes to his feet and shields his eyes with his hands, watching my approach.
“Howdy,” he says.
I lift my hand hesitantly, realizing too late I should have prepared an opening gambit.
“Hi?”
I come to a stop a few feet away. The man eyes me.
“New editor?” he guesses.
I sigh.
“I’m Chuck,” he says. Then, pointing to the other drivers in turn, “Tim, Big Bob, Little Bob, Mindy.”
“Marissa,” I say, pointing at my own chest for some reason.
Tim, leaning against the nearest truck, sips from a can of Diet Coke, a serene expression on his face. “Don’t know that we’ve ever seen an editor in broad daylight,” he says. “Kinda figured you guys slept in a coffin.”
I fiddle with the straps of my backpack until I come up with a characteristic response: “Huh?”
Tim bares his canines, curls his free hand into a claw, and hisses.
I tilt my head. What is happening? Is he pretending to be a cat?
But before I can ask, Chuck holds out his hand, and someone—I don’t even see who, it happens in such a swift, smooth manner—tosses him a can of soda. Regular Coke. He pops it open and takes a long draw. “What can we do you for? You need to go somewhere or did someone tell you we have the only DirecTV feed on the island?”
“I’m just trying to track down some contact information,” I say. “I’m hoping I can ask the last editor a few questions about some of the material he left behind.”
Chuck takes another sip of his soda. “Valentina should have all that on file.”
Big Bob sticks his hand in the air. “I’ll ask her for you.”
Mindy swats his shoulder. “Don’t be gross.”
“I’d rather not trouble her,” I say.
Chuck runs his thumb along the side of the soda can, looking thoughtful. “So you’d rather trouble us, is that it?”
Uh-oh. Not thoughtful. Pissed.
“No, that’s not what I meant at all. I—”
“Oh, you just thought we’d be too dense to ask what you were up to?”
My eyebrows jump so high they nearly hit my hairline. “What? No. I asked you because you could drive your truck through the hotel lobby and Tony still wouldn’t be able to fire you.”
There’s a pause—then a collective grunt of agreement.
“Okay,” Chuck says. “We can help you—once you tell us why.”
“I’m just asking for a phone number.”
“In an incredibly suspicious, roundabout manner.”
I throw up my hands. “Fine! I’m breaking the rules, okay? I’m not allowed to ask around about Paul. You could definitely get in trouble for helping me. But if I don’t find a way to talk to him I’m worried I’ll lose my job, and if I lose my job I have to go back to LA, and if I have to go back to LA I have to face the fact that my best friend is moving in with my mortal enemy-slash-shameful crush, which means I’m probably never going to see her again outside of work. Not to mention, it would be hugely professionally embarrassing.”
Chuck gazes at me steadily while I catch my breath.
“That was a lot,” he says.
I tuck my hands back down by my sides where I can see them. It was a lot. I hate when it comes out of nowhere. Like, one moment you’re just trying to upgrade your cable modem, and then—boom. You’re telling Myrtle at AT&T U-verse how hard it is to find cardboard-applicator super tampons, and you’re painfully aware with each passing second that Myrtle is not happy, that this is not what Myrtle signed up for, but you can’t help it, what’s coming is coming, it’s like the tide or gravity or the last stages of labor, because you haven’t talked to anyone but your mother for a week.
“It’s been a long couple of days,” I manage.
Chuck angles his head toward the only man who hasn’t yet spoken, a bearded giant in a Padres cap. “Little Bob,” he says. “Binder.”
Little Bob hauls himself to his feet and lumbers over to the trailer. He emerges a few moments later with a big purple binder, which he pushes into my hands.
I find a seat on the sofa and balance the binder on my knees. Inside, I find all the paperwork they’ve received from the production office, revisions and originals, exquisitely organized. They’ve even custom printed the tabs.
I glance at Chuck.
“Little Bob loves Staples,” he says.
Little Bob shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “There was a sale,” he mutters.
The directory’s in the back. I grab a notebook out of my bag and start to copy out Paul’s number. “While I’m here,” I say, “maybe you can help me with something else. The shoot at the amusement park—”
All five of them groan in unison.
My pencil stills. “So you know what I’m talking about?”
“We’re lucky no one got hurt,” Big Bob grumbles.
“Total clusterfuck,” Mindy agrees.
Chuck crushes his soda can and tosses it into a nearby trash can. “That coaster never should’ve been turned on to begin with.”
“So what happened?” I ask, stowing my notebook. “Was it an accident?”
Chuck gives me a funny look. “As opposed to . . . not an accident?”
His voice is so plainly incredulous that I don’t know how to respond. Am I really so wrong to wonder whether something else might be going on here? Am I too inclined to see intention where there isn’t any? Maybe I am. Maybe it’s a defensive reflex—if I linger too long on the fact that so much of what we put onscreen is the product of frantic, last-second problem-solving, it really undercuts the notion that we know what we’re doing.
I tug my ponytail loose and retie it, annoyed with myself.
On the other hand, maybe I’m not overreacting. Maybe I’m the sensible one. My first day on set, they had a major lighting malfunction, and now I’m finding out a roller coaster jumped the track? That’s two more accidents than there have been on any other production I’ve ever worked on, and now that I think about it, it’s incredibly weird that everyone on the crew seems to be A-OK with that.
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Chuck says, clearly following my train of thought. “The coaster’d been busted for years. Mechanic I talked to said some boy lost a leg on the thing back before the park closed.”
I shake my head, confused. “So why did so many people get fired?”
Tim coughs into his sleeve. “Yeah, well—Mindy’d know more about that.”
Mindy’s hands go to her hips. “What’re you trying to say, Tim?”
All four men cast their eyes up at the sky, their expressions uniformly bland.
“You assholes. You’re worse than my brothers
.” She turns to me. “I had a crush. A tiny, little crush.” She holds her thumb and forefinger ever so slightly apart. “Befitting a tiny, little man.”
I frown. “I thought Paul was like six three.”
“No—Ryan. The 2nd AD.”
“And why was he fired?”
“’Cause he roots for the Angels?” Big Bob says.
“’Cause he smokes ultralights?” Tim says.
“’Cause he sucked?” Little Bob says, surprising everyone—myself included.
“We all know what he did,” Mindy says, leveling another irritated look at her coworkers. “That day, one of the extras broke into a trailer, and instead of calling security or being a reasonable human being about it, Ryan went, like, full alpha douchebro and knocked the guy out.”
My hand goes to my throat. “Oh God. Was the extra okay? Did he press charges?”
“I don’t know—I don’t think so? Anjali was pretty intent on keeping it quiet. I’m sure she paid him off.”
“Probably double if he didn’t tell Tony,” Big Bob says, darkly.
“Tony doesn’t know?” I ask.
Big Bob shrugs. “We’re sure as shit not gonna tell him.”
I hand the binder back to Little Bob. “Thanks for this.”
He looks down at the ground. “Anytime,” he mumbles.
Chuck saunters over. “Look, you need anything else, you come find us, okay? You ask me, this shoot’s been rotten from the get-go. The sooner it’s over, the better for everyone.”
I nod gratefully. “I appreciate that.”
Tim leans down and reaches for the Smokey Joe they’ve got set up between the easy chairs. He holds up a caveman-size kebab. “For the road? No garlic, I promise.”
“How did you know I don’t like garlic?” Then, “Oh, because I’m a vampire, you mean.”
He grins. “Got it in two.”
CHUCK KOSINSKI: In case anyone’s wondering, this one’s my personal favorite: What’s the last thing Jesus said to the teamsters?
GRACE PORTILLO: I don’t know, what?
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