Diane’s mouth flattened. “So you told him the film was part of a tax fraud. That’s sure to kill the production.”
Scuzzy’s quiet rumble: “Wait a minute. How come, Stoney?”
“The IRS likes to build the cleanest case it can so an average jury can understand it. Right now, the Greystoke case is pretty esoteric I’ll bet you Shannon saw to that.”
Diane snorted.
“It wasn’t hard to convince Wong that these invoices would give them the clear-cut proof they want. But to get that proof, they’d have to hold off until Greystoke used the invoices for his tax return.”
Scuzzy asked, “When’s that?”
“Wong said Greystoke’s fiscal year ends June 30.”
“Giving us ample time to finish.”
“Including post production.”
“But that won’t work.” Diane shook her head impatiently. “Greystoke’s actually paying those invoices. So where’s the fraud?”
“The IRS doesn’t know that yet and officially, neither do we.”
As the implications sank in, Diane’s tense face relaxed, looked thoughtful, smiled. Then she hopped up with restored briskness. “We’d better tell Ken about this.”
Quickly: “No! I mean, the fewer people who have to conceal something the better. Let’s keep it to ourselves.”
Scuzzy shot me a funny look, but evidently decided to let this pass. He lumbered to his feet. “Okay. I got to go get beautiful.”
He thudded off toward makeup, leaving Diane and me looking at each other across the picnic table.
She studied me silently, as if sorting out her thoughts. Then: “You bailed us out again, didn’t you?”
“I guess - for now at least.”
“How many times is that?”
I shrugged.
Another pause as she followed her thoughts down a side road. “Getting a film to do is like finding a package with a million dollars in it. That much temptation isn’t fair.”
“Funny: Scuzzy said something similar.”
“About me?”
“No, me.”
A sharp look. “You think of this as your film?”
“No well, yes, I guess we all do, a little. That’s how this contraption keeps moving.”
We started slowly back toward the company, walking together in silence. Then Diane put a hand on my arm and stopped us. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“You were sick.”
“Going to give up Cuba Libres?”
“I hoped I wouldn’t have to.”
Her face was unusually gentle in the pearly light. “Okay.” Then a sudden shift: “We’d better move it if we want to stay ahead of the rain.”
* * * *
In the scene we were shooting, Scuzzy comes skulking through the woods to the pool, makes sure he’s alone, then strips, dumps himself in the water, and starts washing with the absurdly dainty soap we have watched him swipe from Hallie’s cabin.
Hallie has seen this too, so she follows him into the woods and confronts him, giggling, as he tries to conceal his naked vastness in the water. Their dialogue becomes almost domestic, and by the end of the scene, he’s sitting comfortably in shallow water while she reaches from the bank to scrub his back.
We’d had to move our operation because the little meadow where we usually camped was now in the picture. The opposite bank was too steep to work on, so lights and generator, grip equipment, props and makeup - everything and everyone was now below the temporary dam we’d built to fake the pool.
Diane had wanted striking angles for this sequence, so Lee was now peering over the dam from below it, his zoom lens almost level with the water. I’d hauled the second camera up the steep-side bank to get bird’s-eye shots of the two actors and the pool.
Diane and I were using walkie-talkies borrowed from Stogie’s grip box, since the production was too poor to rent them.
“You want me to roll straight through, Diane? Over.”
“Just grab a slate and then shoot some cover. Whatever looks good. Over.”
Thunder muttered in the distance.
“Better make one fast. Over.”
“If it rains, keep shooting. Out.”
And it did: a few fat, scattered drops that splashed the leaves and drew concentric circles on the water while Scuzz and Hallie played their scene and thunder grumbled overhead.
As always when I photographed, I gave myself directions: Wide shot while they’re talking...nice, nice... zoom in to her hands scrubbing his back... hm, thunder’s getting louder... get the suds on his shoulders... wow! that was a loud one.... frame a two-shot... thunder’s almost constant now; hope we don’t have to loop their dialogue... better check my footage counter...
Jesus!
I pulled away from the camera eyepiece in time to see a vast sprawl of green-brown water boiling down the little canyon at twenty miles an hour. Before I’d recovered enough to shout, it reached the pool, bowling Scuzzy over. Hallie yelled as the water smashed against her legs, throwing plumes of muddy turbulence.
I couldn’t wade the flood now and I was high enough for safety, so I did what cameramen do: kept rolling.
Hallie lost her footing and fell into the roiling river as Scuzzy spluttered to the surface. He saw her going down and grabbed her; then they both went under.
At that point our flimsy dam gave way and a ton of soupy water hit Lee, Diane, the dolly, and the crew beyond it, sweeping them away like twigs in a gutter. The sudden drop in the pool level exposed Scuzzy and Hallie, who slipped and flailed and stumbled toward the other bank. Hallie fell again and Scuzzy grabbed her, picked her up, and walked up to safety with her in his arms.
Shrubs and trash and rocks and little trees thrashed down the stream, scouring the banks and smashing the equipment. Reflectors floated off like silver leaves, the generator tipped on its side, the prop and makeup tables just disintegrated. People were flailing in the water, crawling up the far bank, clinging to trees.
And then it was gone.
The water level dropped, its speed diminished, and the roar that wasn’t thunder faded out. The widening meadow below the dam lay under a foot of water, but even that was ebbing visibly.
People were shouting and running as I carried the camera down the steep bank, forded the now-docile stream, sloshed my way to drier ground, and looked around.
Literally nothing was unscathed. Every piece of equipment appeared sodden and broken or gone completely. Cast and crew wandered aimlessly or sprawled where they had dropped.
Lee was stumbling toward me, drenched and filthy, carrying the camera, pan head and all. “Totaled! Look at it!” He held out the camera like a beloved pet a car had smashed.
“You all right, Lee?”
“It’s ruined.”
“People first, Lee.” He turned away. “Wait! Pull the mag and put it in a bucket of stream water.”
“What!?”
“You heard me. Fast!”
Lee nodded dumbly and trotted off with the camera.
Scuzzy and Hallie were up on the bank, Alf was helping crew members dig equipment out of the muck, and Stogie stared at his muddy pants with the comical shock of a drenched cat.
Diane was running around counting heads, oblivious of the brush cuts on her bare legs and the slime that coated her from pigtails to hiking boots.
“Everyone’s accounted for. Stoney, what was that?”
“Flash flood, I think. Very strange, though. You okay?”
She nodded absently. “What do you mean, strange?”
“It only lasted thirty seconds.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be sudden?”
“And where was the rain that made it? We’ve only had a few drops.”
A small figure caught my eye: Molly Caudle running awkwardly across the meadow, avoiding brush and fallen trees and trash that once was film equipment. Fifty feet away, she shouted, “Stoney! You okay?” and Diane shot me a sideways look.
She pulled up, panting. ?
??My living God, what happened? Look at you! Look at all this! What is it?”
“Flash flood. We think.”
“Is everbody okay?”
“Cuts and bruises, but everyone is fine, Molly.”
“Oh, thank God.” She looked around. “But this is awful.”
Diane was also surveying the damage. Suddenly she paused and her face went white. “If everyone’s accounted for, what’s that?”
Fifty feet beyond her pointing finger, a pile of floating garbage bumped gently on a tree root. As we all trotted toward it, the pile became a human form and the form resolved itself into denim jeans and jacket and a shaved bald skull.
I said, “Wait,” and Diane grabbed Molly by the elbow. I waded in the water to the body, rolled it over...
...and dragged Pits Caudle up the bank.
I tried to drain him but little came out. Molly stood frozen as a figure in a dream.
Diane moved in, dropped to her knees, thrust a finger into Caudle’s slack mouth and pushed his tongue down. “Know CPR?”
I looked at Diane and we both shook our heads.
As if on cue, a black and white cruiser rolled up and a Sheriff’s deputy emerged, slogged across the field, and sized up the situation.
He checked Caudle. “Forget it.”
Molly turned away without a word.
The deputy addressed the company. “Case you’re interested, the little dam gave way up at Belle Haven.” He wagged an arm vaguely upstream.
Diane said, “What’s that?”
“Fancy tract they’re building up there. You know: ‘lakefront properties’, only the lake’s nothing but a crummy dammed-up gully. Supposed to be an earth fill dam, but it’s only half finished. Big hole in that sucker now.”
Diane’s voice was angry. “If it’s only half finished, why was there water in it?”
The deputy shrugged. “Only half full too.” He surveyed the wreckage. “Lucky for you.” He thought of something. “You got all your permits, I guess.”
I moved in. “I’ll get them for you. But shouldn’t we take care of him?”
He looked at Caudle’s body. Someone had covered the face with a soaking shirt. “Paramedics’ll be here in a minute.
Chapter 16
What seemed like half the county sheriff’s office had left with reams of notes and Caudle’s body and the preliminary conclusion that his death was accidental. The crew chiefs had delivered damage reports, and now Diane and I were moping in the coffee shop trying to decide if there were enough pieces to bother picking up.
She stared out the dusty window and asked without much curiosity, “Why did you send Lee to the lab with the magazine in a bucket of water?”
“Same thing happened in Hawaii years ago: camera fell in the ocean with half a day’s footage in it. So they brought it up, sealed the mag in sea water, and air-shipped it to the lab. It developed fine.”
“I don’t see how.”
“The emulsion was okay because the film never dried out. I saw that in American Cinematographer.” No response. “It was worth a shot.”
A sigh.”What good will it do us?”
“I’m afraid not much. The water got the camera, the lights, the generator, and all the sound equipment.”
“In short, we’re out of business.”
“It looks that way.”
Diane absently revolved a spoon in her coffee cup as she had been doing for the last five minutes: tack... tack ... tack... tack.... Bouncing through the window, the afternoon light modeled her thin-bridged nose, picked out the long fingers holding up her chin, and vanished in her deep cat’s eyes.
Tack... tack... tack....
“Diane, I’m sorry.”
Ten more revolutions while she studied the gravel outside, and then she addressed the driveway through the window: “I don’t know if I’m sorry or not. In a way, I deserved it.”
“Well...”
“It’s only a movie. Who said that?”
“Hitchcock.”
“But I acted like I was like creating Middlemarch or Pride and Prejudice.”
I kept quiet.
“What’s worse, I thought that all our problems were a plot to abort my masterpiece.”
“Whatever the purpose, it was some kind of plot.”
“But not against me personally. I’m not that important.”
I chuckled. “On the one hand, no one is. On the other hand, yes you definitely are important.”
She looked at me and smiled. “Thanks for all your help, Stoney. You almost held it together.”
“And nobody can take away your accomplishment: You made a classy film.”
Her smile faded as she turned back to the window. “Three-fourths of one. That’s like making three-fourths of a baby.” Pause. “Well. Let me sit a minute, Stoney. I promise not to wallow in self-pity.”
I stood up, kissed her hair quickly, and walked out into the perversely cheerful light.
* * * *
As I wandered toward my room, the route began to stretch until it seemed I was making no headway at all, and I realized that my steps had slowed and shortened and then stopped completely outside Simmons’ door. I paused to finish a half-formed thought, then knocked.
“Yeah?”
When I entered, Simmons was standing among suitcases and hanging bags, talking on the phone. “No message; I’ll tell him when he arrives.” He hung up. “I tried to contact Alan but he and Shannon are already coming up here.” A wry look. “It’s payday.”
“Think he’ll refinance us?”
“Not a chance.”
“Don’t we have insurance?”
“Course not; you know what that costs.”
“Then we’ll have to find another source.”
Simmons looked at me sadly and shook his head. Returning to the closet, he removed a suit as perfect as a plastic casting and hung it in a garment bag. “What other source?”
“Ken Simmons.”
A sour smile. “I see today hasn’t killed your sense of humor.”
“It’s come pretty close, and I’m not joking now.” He paused long enough to flash an appraising look, then resumed his packing with studied care.
I perched on the edge of his oak worktable. “You’re going to refinance this shoot out of the hundred thousand you got from Greystoke.”
Simmons looked at me with sincere concern. “I understand your feelings Stoney, believe me.”
“Sorry; you’ve used that once too often.” I circled the worktable and sat in his leather chair. We stared at each other for most of a minute, though nothing appeared on Ken’s bland face.
Then, in a mildly derisive tone: “What’s this going to cost?”
“Camera, dolly, sound, lights, generator, grip equipment, props, makeup, wardrobe cleaning. You figure it.”
“That’s all?”
“While I think of it, a cook and cash for decent food.”
“Why not rent limos too?” He smiled at my naiveté. “You really think I’ll pay for all that?”
I kept my own face blank. “If you don’t, I’ll pull the plug on you and Greystoke.”
Simmons’s voice remained unchanged, but his face relaxed into a featureless mask. “I’d hate to have you take that risk, Stoney. The bikers know you found out about this.”
“Only the late Pits Caudle, and after today I think I can rely on his discretion.”
Simmons shook his head at my simplicity. “Oh, Stoney. All I have to do is tell Bull Dike.” He folded a perfectly packed bathroom kit.
“You’ve heard of Megaton.”
“Sure; that’s Fenster’s character.”
“And Dike’s beloved bro and drinking buddy. Suppose ol’ Ton tells Dike you pulled the plug?”
“Why would Dike believe him?”
“Because Ton’s both a bro and a landsman, while you and your Mercedes and your hundred dollar pants are precisely what Bull Dike despises.”
Simmons’s pale eyes were as opaque as marbles
. “It won’t work.”
“I’ll take that chance. Will you?”
Ken shook his head. “Is the film worth that much to you?”
“That’s part of it. And I don’t like being used - especially by a friend.”
“You feel hurt, Stoney; I can relate to that.”
“Sure: I’m okay, you’re okay; win-win.” I stood up. “What’s your answer? I want to call the IRS before they close.”
Simmons stared at me in disbelief. “You know, I think you’d do it.” I walked to the door. For the first time, he raised his voice: “You’re a zealot, Winston. You’d cut off your nose to spite your face.”
“If it was cancerous.” He reddened. “What’s your answer?”
“What guarantee do I get?”
“If you refinance this shoot, I won’t volunteer anything about this.” Which was technically correct since Delmore Wong would doubtless seek me out, bearing coercive papers. “You have my word on that much.”
A long, long wait, then Simmons answered in a tired voice. “You know, Winston, I believe you, because you’re such a righteous prick.” For the first time, he let the anger reach his face - an ugly effect but it suited him. “Okay, I’ll have to do it. And thanks a lot, my pal.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, my pal, but it’s purely a matter of business.”
“I’ll tell you something, Winston: I could never stand your smartass so-called humor.”
“Uh-huh; oh, and I know you’re a professional, so you’ll continue to do your job.”
The gravel crunched outside as 250 pounds of Greystoke and Shannon arrived in six thousand pounds of town car.
“That will be the quartermaster. I’d better tell people he’s here.” Before Simmons could react I nipped out the door.
As I appeared on the drive, Greystoke rolled down the passenger window of the Lincoln and bellowed: “What’s it gonna cost me, Winston?”
“To do what?”
“Don’t dick around; they told me all about it.”
“Ah. We need to talk, Alan. Go park by the coffee shop; I’ll join you in a second.”
When I checked on Simmons through his open door, he was staring at a sports jacket, so I rejoined Greystoke at the coffee shop. “How about taking me for that ride?”
“Huh? Oh. Uh, get in back.”
“I don’t want to talk to your bald spot. Move over.” He looked at Shannon, who was driving. He nodded and Greystoke opened the door, raised the center arm rest, and shifted to make room. The door thunked shut impressively and we rolled down the drive.