We toweled each other with slow playfulness, then ambled toward my rumpled bed to finish.
“You know, Stoney, you’re even better when you’re tired.”
“Hm?”
“Slow and easy. Very sexy.”
“Not hard to manage; I could barely move.”
“It’s not how much you move.” Sally chuckled. “My husband was the strenuous type.”
“Standing up in a hammock, and so forth?”
“Oh, nothing like that; that takes imagination.” She burrowed under my out-flung arm. “No, he just thought he had to be a pile driver. Slap, slap, slap.”
“I get the picture.”
Long sleepy pause, then: “Stoney?”
“Mm.”
“Give this up.”
Silence.
“Well why won’t you?”
Another long pause while I figured it out myself. Then, “I was frightened tonight; terrified. That hasn’t happened to me since - well I don’t even know when. I didn’t like the feeling.”
“Understandable.”
“I despised myself for being frightened and I hated the men who did it to me.”
“So now you’re going to get back at them.”
“No, but I’m keeping after this business.”
A sigh; then, “What’ll you do next?”
“Tomorrow I’ll sync Hummel’s dailies. That’s a great aid to contemplation. And as soon as I think of something...”I shrugged, shifting my arm.
“Stoney?”
“Mm?”
“I’m glad you just took a shower.”
“Me too.”
“Because you put your armpit on my face.”
“Sorry.” I shifted back.
“But don’t go away, Stoney.”
“Never.”
Sleepily: “I like the sound of that.”
“Then there’s comfort yet.”
Chapter 11
I hid myself in the spooky gloom of Denise’s empty studio, locked tight on this hot Saturday morning.
There’s no retreat like a cutting room, a monastic cell crammed with venerable objects: benches and bins, reels and rewinds, sound readers and synchronizers. For an altar, the metallic green Moviola, bristling with arms and pulleys, its improbable contours witness to half a century of piecemeal evolution. Modern machines may work faster, but the Moviola is like a concert grand: at once a technological wonder and a demanding, personal instrument. An editor performs on a Moviola.
Editing routines are soothing rituals like saying the rosary: snipping long reels of dailies into separate shots; winding each into a tight roll, picture with sound; taping and labeling; shelving in neat boxes or tidy upright rows.
An editor presumes to dismantle life, assign the pieces meaning, then reassemble a more coherent reality. As pure an act of faith as any.
And just as pointless, when the reordered reality started out as Hummel’s cola footage. I ran the shots back and forth, braking at the cut point, grease-penciling the frame, splicing the shots with Mylar tape: clear for picture, white for sound.
Like driving, cutting frees part of the brain to spin along alone. Hammond knew I’d got out of the water alive - last night proved it. And now the world was not safe for Winston.
I squinted at a misplaced trim too short to put in the Moviola. Drat Hummel for shooting 16mm film. Can’t see the bloody image without a loupe.
Assume Lee’s film was made here, whether by Mr. Low Profile or Pepe or whoever. Assume the original footage is here in the studio. I searched their cutting room and found nothing, but editors like to keep their stuff handy; it’s a habit. And they like to keep it safe in a vault.
Or the next best thing: a film storeroom. Like the one just down the hall.
Poking a cautious head into the dark corridor, I listened to the silence. Then I took out my sub-master key, left my own door unlocked in case of rapid retreat, scuttled down the hall, unlocked the storeroom, slipped inside, shut the door, hit the light.
The harsh fluorescents washed ranks of silver cans shelved vertically like books, titles lettered on taped rims. Work prints, out-takes, dirty dupes - stuff not worth vaulting; stored temporarily, years ago but then forgotten. Some cans were dated: 1939, 1942. That meant the film was nitrate stock. Glad I didn’t write Denise’s fire insurance. Unpromising: there must be close to five hundred cans here; take a week to open every one.
At the far end against the wall, six cans stuck out an extra inch. Or maybe they were pushed out by something behind them. Sure enough: a four hundred foot, 16mm can. Unmarked. Trophy in hand, I buttoned up the storeroom and retired to my sanctum.
The can contained a work print on a plastic core, tail end out. I rewound it onto a reel, then fed the head end into the Moviola.
And there it was: the room, the bed, the stud, the redhead girl. I had the original film - or, technically, a work print struck from it. I stared blankly at the little glass screen as footage snickered through the machine into the bin on the far side. I stopped the picture on a closeup - the face in those high school pictures: the same remote smile, same puzzled green eyes under a cloud of carrot hair. I released the hand brake, allowing movement to resume in this tiny world.
The dance continued through the usual positions until at length, the stud mimed ecstasy and pulled free. What a contemptuous gesture: the ritual besmirching of the submissive female. But Lee’s big eyes stayed calm and her smile remained, as if she were really someplace else.
I wearily rewound the film out of the canvas bin, careful of the fragile splices. Something nagged me, something wrong about that film. I nerved myself to look at it again: same dreary ritual, same insulting ending, same tranquil face.
The face.
A quick rewind, then I ran the film again, this time on the bench-top viewer where I could pull it through at high speed, hunting Lee’s face. There... and there... and there... always a tight closeup. I checked all the medium and full shots. Confirmed: her face did not appear recognizably in any of them. Lee’s closeups were shot separately and cut into the film, almost as if the head and body belonged to two different people.
Wishful thinking: closeups are always shot separately. Still, I double-checked it. The edge numbers coding the medium and long shots belonged to the same roll of film, while Lee’s closeups had totally different numbers. Yes, but if they’d shot two-camera style, there would be different rolls. Not conclusive.
I went through it forward and backward, shot-by-shot - fast, slow, single frame. Nothing. Again. Nothing. By now the content was quite meaningless. I wanted to believe it but I couldn’t prove it.
The work print was now dirty from looping onto the floor. Rewinding, I pulled it through my cotton-gloved fingers to clean it. Some of the splicing tapes were working loose.
Tapes.
Stopping the reels, I put the film back into the viewer at random: long shot; medium shot; Lee’s closeup; another medium shot. I pulled the film and checked the splices. And there was the proof: Lee’s closeups were spliced into the film with the narrow straight-edged tapes produced by a guillotine splicer. But all the other shots were joined with the wider, ragged-edged tapes cut by a Rivas-type splicer. An editor may use both splicers, but not at the same time. Lee’s closeups were replacements, added later to the original film. The girl who lay writhing on grimy sheets was not Lee Tolman.
But she was the girl I left on the boat, broken beyond mending.
It sank in slowly: Lee Tolman was not dead. Not. Dead. I felt like giggling or yelling or buying cigars. My cheeks cramped from grinning.
Not dead!
And yet, the logical structure that was building had been destroyed like a cube puzzle twisted once too often. Another girl had been killed - another redhead connected with Hammond and Lee. Connected somehow. How? Give the cube another turn.
Lee didn’t make the film, but she had consented to those closeups, apparently naked on matching bed sheets. You don’t find those shots in
home movie outtakes. No, her closeups were made specifically for insertion in that film, and she must have known it.
Made by another somebody who lit the set, shot the footage, had it processed, cut it in. Somebody who had access to the original dirty movie.
Somebody like the proprietors of Night Nurse Nooky. Test this new pattern.
I made a one-minute reconnaissance mission to the adjacent cutting room. Night Nurse Nooky was now neatly canned and labeled, trims boxed. But the equipment was still ready for use and the editor’s personal junk was all over the cutting bench, which displayed a note grease-penciled onto a tablet: Phil: Finished Nooky. Call me when you get dailies from Saturday’s shooting. Mel. Today, of course, was Saturday.
* * * *
I crept along the bleak hallway and down the stairs, feeling like a fugitive in an old Warner Brothers gangster film. Wrong approach; I should look as if I belonged down here. Straightening up, I loafed up to the big sound stage door and pulled the handle. Locked. No red light on, no way to hear through the soundproofed wall. Stymied.
A quick passage to the lobby. Half a dozen parked cars were visible through the window, so somebody was here. Thinking: sound stage loading doors no good; they’re worked from inside. Try the roof. The air-conditioning’s up there. Must be access somehow.
I snuck around to the outside staircase at the back of the building. Up the fragile iron steps, treading near the wall, cursing Denise for not maintaining her studio. As I dusted railing rust from my hands, I saw a shed-like structure at the center of a web of metal ducts. The padlock was broken; blessing Denise for not maintaining her studio.
It took a moment before I made out the trap door beneath the dust. I pulled the ring handle gently: nothing. Harder. Surprisingly, the door swung upward without much sound. Another minute to adjust to the even dimmer light beyond, then I recognized the slat floor of the grid that spanned the sound stage, eight feet below the roof. I eased down the filthy old ladder and paused inside.
The stage floor lay thirty feet below me, with the hospital set lit and working. Framed by the lighting catwalks floating above it, the distant scene resembled a TV picture. The usual couple on the bed, the woman astride, partner largely invisible beneath.
Wisps of talk drifted up unemphatically: “Great. Keep going. Camera two, get a reverse.”
A hairy figure took his hand-held Eclair to the head of the bed, just outside the other camera’s frame.
“Okay, now doggie-style. Fine, Honey, fine. Camera two, get the closeup.”
Hairy carried his camera to bedside: “I only got maybe fifty feet left.”
“Then don’t shoot until he comes. Let us know, Chuck.”
“Pretty soon.” Chuck the stud sounded abstracted as he tried to predict his timing. “Get ready.”
“Set, camera two?”
“Any time, C.B.” Hairy was quite the wit.
“Talk to us, Chuck.”
“Here I come.”
“Rolling, two?”
“Rolling.”
“Now,” laconically from Chuck.
“I’m out.” From Hairy.
“No sweat; we got it. Now collapse, both of you; go ahead and collapse.” The tiny couple sprawled. “Fine, kids.” To Hairy: “You reload yet?”
“Coming.” Hairy grabbed a fresh film magazine, deftly pulled the exposed strip of film into an arch to check it, and slapped the magazine on the Eclair body. “All set.”
“Right. Camera one, cut. Camera two, get her reaction.” Hairy moved in on the woman’s face. “Big smile, Honey; that’s good.”
She mimicked his grimace. “And cut, camera two. Great. Okay, relax.”
Chuck swung around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Who’s got a cigarette?”
Honey left the frame and the director walked in: “Okay, re-dress for the other room, Lena.” A scrawny blond woman appeared with a framed picture and started changing the set dressing. The director looked off the set, shading his eyes. “Hey Pepe?”
And Pepe Delgado strode forward importantly, dressed in his usual velour shirt and sharp footgear.
The director consulted a clipboard. “Henry and Dolores are up next. Jesus: Chuck again? Pretty rough on him. And Peeper. Hey, where is Peeper?”
From overhead, Pepe’s parody Latin gestures looked even less believable: “I told her ten o’clock today, but you know that one: she runs on Mexican time.”
“We can’t hold up the shoot.”
“You can use the black one. Put Peeper in when she shows up. Can’t you handle this thing? I have important matters at hand.”
The director’s face was unreadable down there. “Yeah.”
“All right, my friend, I will come back later.” Wheeling about, Pepe made his exit.
The director stared after him, then: “Lena? How long till the set’s ready?”
“Gimme ten?”
“Go ahead. If Chuck has to work again, he’ll need the time.” With a disgusted shrug, the director left my frame.
I retraced my route up out of the stage, through the air-conditioning shed, across the roof, and down the rusty ladder. Rounding the building, I saw Pepe drive out of the front lot, so I knew the story I was developing would play. This time, I marched up to the sound stage door and pushed the buzzer smartly. No response. I leaned on it. Finally, the big door cracked and the scrawny blond peered out.
“What?”
I summoned a harmless smile. “Pepe said Peeper was coming in at ten today.”
“She’s late.”
“He said she might be, so I should just hang around and wait.”
Suspicious look, so I added a stitch to my embroidery: “Still shooting Night Nurse Nooky?”
“We wrapped it two days ago. It only took a morning.”
“Oh, right. Well, Pepe said to wait on the stage. Said I shouldn’t be out where people can see me.”
Her minute nod affirmed the logic of this. “Okay.” She let go of the door handle and returned to dressing the set. I slipped inside and closed the door.
I played “Pepe Said” on the director too when he looked my way: “Hi! Pepe said to wait in here for Peeper.”
His beard shifted as he pursed invisible lips. “She comes and goes.” Then, smiling at his brilliant joke, “That’s her job.” I mimed appreciation. “But I’ll tell you something: never mix talent and management.”
“How do you mean?”
“She thinks because she’s Pepe’s old lady, she can do what she pleases.”
“I see your point. Pepe doesn’t spend much time on the set.”
“He likes to play the big producer.”
“I know. Well, I’ll just stay out of your way while I wait for Peeper.”
He nodded indifferently and wandered off. I settled into a canvas chair, assuming the bored, patient look of someone who belonged there.
By rearranging pictures and furniture, the scrawny blond had created a different hospital room - not that the Neanderthals who watch this trash would notice. In fact, the layout was too similar to need relighting, so they were ready to go again.
Chuck was limping around in a phony leg cast and hospital shortie nightgown. A slender black man accompanied him, looking distinguished in lab coat with prop stethoscope. Honey’s vast toffee breasts strained the seams of her nurse’s dress.
The other actress was a striking South American type with dark hair and imperial eyes. The director checked her over: “Fix your dress, Dolores.” She pulled her white uniform together and buttoned it with slender fingers.
“Okay, Chuck: on the bed. Hook your leg up.”
“Do I have to screw in this trapeze?”
“That’s the gimmick: you get laid in traction.”
“Jesus!” But Chuck climbed obediently aboard.
“Here it is, guys: you nurses come in and start giving Chuck a bath. Honey, you egg him on - you know.”
Honey grinned.
“Dolores, you see he’s getting interested, so y
ou tip Honey the wink and you both go after him.”
“So Doc, they’re really going at it when you come in. You get the picture and join the fun. That’s about it.”
The “doctor” nodded soberly. “Who takes on who?”
“Checkerboard: all black and white.”
Honey grinned at the doctor: “Sorry, Baby.” He smiled back.
They continued to choreograph the orgy with the professional detachment of decorators arranging furniture. Camera one was set to cover the basic angles while Hairy prepared for cutaways with hand-held camera two. By now the cast was a tangle on the bed.
“Okay, let’s make one.”
Chuck applied some baby oil from a bottle provided by the scrawny blond.
“Go ahead and roll. Mark it, Lena.” She thrust a slate labeled Hospital Orgy before camera one, clap stick open to show this was MOS (“Mit Out Sound)”.
“Sticks out; action.” And the scenario, such as it was, unfolded. Dolores and Honey were quite professional about keeping open to the camera as they attacked the patient Chuck. Hairy moved around grabbing closeups, accompanied by an assistant holding a small lamp with which to banish gloom from occluded private parts. Like a ringside announcer, the director called descriptions blow-by-blow.
The effect was anything but erotic because, as always, the event was overwhelmed by the process of filming it. For all the randy slap and tickle, they might just as well have been recording an assembly line procedure.
In a sense, they were.
At length, the director stopped the take. “What’s wrong, Chuck?”
“What do you think, after ten minutes?”
“Just relax. Fluff him a little, girls.”
Honey appraised the situation with a professional eye, then swung off the bed. “Don’t hold you breath, folks.” She started in my direction. As she oscillated toward me, I tried to compute the forces generated by her mighty breasts. For Honey, walking must be like fighting a pair of gyroscopes.
She plonked down in the chair beside mine. “Well, what you think so far?”
“What can I say?”
“You git off watchin’ people?”
“No, I’m more a doer. Just waiting for Peeper Martin.”
“Then you must be a doer. But she ain’t here.”
“I know.”
“An’ I’ll lay you odds she don’t show till after lunch. I know that girl.” She scratched a tan thigh.
“Lee Tolman ever hang out around here?”
“Oh yeah; couple times. Like, she don’t work with us; you know? But she comes in.”