Thirsty eased his carcass off the bar stool and shuffled off with evil satisfaction.
The bartender watched him out the door with a face as dead as old meat, then reached behind him and lifted the receiver of the bar telephone.
“Cut and print it!” Diane beamed at her grizzled player. “One-take Thurston rides again. Okay, relight for the close-up.”
The crew bustled with lights and camera as Thurston Frye sank down next to me at a table in the coffee shop, which we had dressed this morning for the bar set. He sighed, fumbled in his jeans, and produced a pair of dentures.
“Nice scene, Thursty.” His nickname was the same as his character name, only spelled with a U.
When Thurston inserted the dentures, his face changed as if the store teeth contained a new personality in ROM. Peevish lines lifted into crinkles and intelligence switched on behind his faded eyes.
“You must lay on some beer, dear boy; that tea-dyed seltzer is simply not on.” Unlike me, Thurston had arrived in America too recently to lose his posh accent. And why should he, having previously acquired it, with some pain, in exchange for his native Liverpudlian?
“I’ll cable Bass.”
He twinkled genially. “Splendid!” Applying tortoiseshell half-glasses to his mottled nose, he inspected today’s script pages, hot from my printer. “How does this rustic person say ‘motorcycle’?”
“Moder sickle.”
“Motah sickle.”
“With a ‘d’ and a Yank R.”
He practiced it, looking doubtful. “I sound at best, like Benny Hill.” A sour smile. “But who will give a damn?”
“How so?”
“Come off it. This enterprise is doomed; just look about you.”
“Why did you sign on?”
“My bank account and Guild permit expired in each other’s arms. This non-Guild job will pay my passage home.”
“Maybe.”
He peered over his reading glasses. “An ominous note, I must say.”
“I’m worried about salaries. Forgive me, but could I ask what arrangements you made with Greystoke?”
Thurston hesitated briefly, then replied with heavy dignity, “Three hundred dollars a week.”
“And profit points?”
“Two.” He sighed. “For what they’re worth.”
“Seen any cash yet?”
“It is to laugh.”
“No one else has either.”
Thurston half concealed a flash of distress.
“What will you do if you don’t get paid?”
“Place my faith in Micawber’s Law: Something Will Turn up.”
“Amen, brother.”
“And if not, one applies to a Bullocks department store, where the proper tone is appreciated in Gents’ Furnishings.” Rising, he put on a floorwalker’s devastating sneer.
Diane called “Ready for the close-up,” and Thurston Frye, late of the Royal Academy, the National Theatre, and the BBC, pocketed his specs and teeth and shuffled into the lights as if he had just hitched his burro outside.
Thursty confirmed what I’d already learned from Lee, Diane, Stogie Rucker, and the rest of the cast and crew. A bit of finger math revealed that the average salary was one-fourth minimum union scale and the personnel together owned more than 100 percentage points of the picture.
I couldn’t complain; my pay was fair, if hardly princely. But why would the others work at rates that made them conspirators in their own exploitation? For experience and credit like Diane and Lee, for rent or carfare like Scuzzy and Thurston, or simply for the indescribable pleasure of making movies.
To an outsider, film making is deeply disappointing. People seem to sit endlessly, wander vaguely, gossip in corners, fiddle with things. Nothing happens. The outsider sees a film set the way a non-gambler sees a casino: as an obscure, complex enterprise full of zombies incomprehensibly obsessed.
But the zombies themselves are fully alive only when they’re there, and they will sacrifice anything to be there. So we’ll always have a few scabby productions like Bikers from Hell, as long as union rules and creditors can be evaded.
And if this film turned any kind of profit, the cast and crew, who owned more than all of it, might just get a few dollars each. But our film would never make a dime - not with location costs of two million dollars. The peons would end up with nothing, so that somebody could play games.
But what kind of games?
* * * *
“Ken!”
At my yell, Ken Simmons stopped backing his golden Mercedes coupe out of its parking slot and waited while I hustled off the coffee shop step and across the motel drive.
His power window glided down in unctuous silence. “How’s the scene going?”
“Thurston’s a wonder. Can we talk a minute?”
“Hop in; I have to run to town.”
The door latch snickered like the tumblers in a safe and I climbed into a taffy leather seat that must have been the fate of a whole cow. Ken’s window whispered shut and the champagne-colored car rolled imperiously down the driveway as if daring dust to touch it.
We turned north through Calisher, evading a dog and two bikers who timed their stroll across the road to slow us to a crawl, then headed downhill toward the distant desert.
“Ken, have you seen any bills from the Crossbones club?”
He shook his head. “They go direct to Greystoke.” Half silhouetted against the window, Ken’s profile looked like a cameo of a Roman politician.
“Molly gave one to me. Comes to over four hundred K.”
The car slowed and then picked up again. “For just one week?”
“Something else: you said Greystoke was giving away the store. Well he is: over 100 percent.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked around. And there’s almost no cash up front. Far as I can tell, I’m the only one who’s getting decent money.”
A shrug. “I told you, I didn’t make the deals.”
“You think Greystoke will pay the invoice?”
A pause, during which Ken swept the Mercedes through an S-turn and up a short grade. The tachometer hardly hiccupped. “I guess he has to.”
“Why would he agree to those insane rates? He may not know production, but he isn’t that stupid.”
Ken appeared to ponder while he did some fancy driving, then replied as if he were winging it in a story conference. “Suppose... suppose he isn’t paying? Suppose he just wants the bills to make an audit trail? He spends two hundred K cash but he shows two mil in costs. That’s a nice tax loss.”
We hummed along in silence as the evergreens gave way to scrub, the hills subsided into topographical mumbles, and the light evolved from mountain sparks to desert flames. Ken tapped one of the twenty-odd buttons on the dash and the air filled with soft rock goo.
I tried my new idea: “We own more than all the profits from a film that can’t possibly make any. If that film isn’t released, there’s no profit to account for.”
Ken nodded as he considered this. “And no inflated charges to explain.”
“So maybe Greystoke got someone to move an oil drum; open a film can; hide a camera.”
Mildly: “That’s taking it too far.”
“Then how come he hired me to help a director who didn’t need help? How come I’m the only one getting seven-fifty cash?”
“All right, how come?”
“Maybe I’m part of the sabotage: I’m supposed to move in here and grab the shoot. That alienates the company, sends the film off in all directions, and loses time.”
“What about your seven-fifty?” His tone said he was humoring me.
“It adds to the resentment: Hotshot Winston’s getting real money.”
Ken chortled. “Come on!”
“Think about it: Greystoke didn’t mind losing Sean; didn’t worry about casting Scuzzy as a romantic lead; didn’t even care about my rewriting even though I’ve never sold a script. He wants the picture to fail.
”
Ken thought a moment, then shook his head. “Zero Mostel tried that in The Producers.”
“No. Mostel produced the most outrageously awful play he could find. Greystoke’s smarter: he wants to fail plausibly. A few little accidents, a few bad decisions, then it’s ‘sorry guys, but we tried.’”
Another silence while I studied the Mercedes’ austere dashboard, wondering why Ken had spent a fortune for a car with an interior styled by Cotton Mather. Then I remembered: like most of his possessions, he leased it.
* * * *
When we returned to Calisher, I helped Diane wrap the bar scenes and then retreated to my grungy cell and phoned Greystoke to set up a meeting.
His secretary, however, proved less pliant than she’d looked. No, Mr. Greystoke was not in; no, she would not say where to find him; no, he did not give out his home address or phone; have a nice day. You too, Kimberley.
When I sought out Simmons, he too confessed that he communicated with Greystoke only at the office. With no other sources, I’d have to hit Kimberley again, at an angle oblique enough to distract her from her duty. As I strolled back to my room, I began to develop an idea.
I once edited a film in a cubicle back-to-back with another cutting room in which some poor sod was assembling twelve hours of filmed lectures by an Indian holy man who had come to America to exploit P.T. Barnum’s law. In six weeks of listening to mahatma filtered through wallboard, I had honed the music hall dialect I was about to try on Greystoke’s secretary.
I dialed her again, imagining a bath towel turban on my head. After a brisk electronic cadenza, the phone was picked up. “A.G. Enterprises this is Kimberley.”
“Miss Kimberley, I am Mr. Satyajit Bannarjee speaking here.”
“Who?”
“Bannarjee.”
“I didn’t....”
“Bannar like a very wide flag you see, plus j, e, e.”
“Bannarjee.”
“Beautifully correct. Could I please become connected to Mr. Greystoke?”
“He’s left for the day.”
I eased some agitation into my tone: “And I have misplaced the time and created a most distressful situation.”
“Uh, who are you with, Mr. Bannarjee?”
“I am quite alone except for my driver.”
“I meant....”
“But how am I to deliver the merchandise to Mr. Greystoke?”
“Merchandise?”
More agitation now: “How do I do that, Miss Kimberley?”
“Well, you could bring it in and leave it.”
“My goodness no! This must be placed in the hands personally of Mr. Greystoke.”
“He’ll be in tomorrow.”
“And I’ll be in too - in Bombay! I am flying tonight on Pan American number six-two-two at eight p.m. exactly gate six! This is terrible you see.”
Uncertainty in her voice now: “What is the merchandise?”
“I am completely not at liberty to disclose its nature.” With hushed portentousness: “Suffice it that these are very special importations connected with Mr. Greystoke’s private interests.”
A doubtful pause, then: “I can give you his home phone.”
Add two teaspoons of oil: “You are the picture of generosity though of course I cannot see you. Can you also give directions?”
Faintly bewildered. “For the phone?”
“My driver is like myself an Indian person and becomes quickly lost in your great city.” Sternly: “I am displeased with him.”
More confused now: “I don’t know....”
Quickly before she recovered: “I beg you Miss Kimberley to help a person in distress. Mr. Greystoke will be quite furious with the whole caboodle of us yourself included.”
A resigned sigh. “Where are you now?”
I named a fictional location and she talked me from it, freeway by freeway, turn by turn, block by block to an address in Silverlake. “Big gate on the west side; just go on up the hill.”
“My most gracious thanks Miss Kimberley for your exhaustive gazetteer. I must relinquish this telephone now or additional coins will be demanded. Bye-bye!”
“Have a nice day.” She sounded slightly stunned.
I unwound my mental turban with contrite apologies to the Indian subcontinent, but it had flustered Kimberley enough to wheedle directions from her.
Out into the gathering twilight and across the gravel to my Volkswagen, which was quietly lowering the tone of the neighborhood. The Beetle crouched beside Ken’s Mercedes like a leper begging from a lord, its dusty license labeling it BUMBLE. I eased my door open to avoid dinging the Mercedes’ blond satin haunch, reflecting that Ken’s license should say BARBIE.
Then off to Greystoke Manor in L.A.
Chapter 8
Buzzing southward through the spring twilight like an evening insect, en route to Silverlake, five minutes west of downtown L.A. Ghostly factories loomed along the Golden State Freeway as another ghostly black mass coalesced in the passenger seat, removed its bowler, and patted its fat brow with a hanky in one fat paw: Kasper Gutman, looking remarkably like Sidney Greenstreet.
He inspected the Beetle with greasy benevolence, then beamed in my direction and whispered asthmatically. “A man of simple needs, simply satisfied. I like that, Sir.” He flapped the dashboard with his hanky.
“It runs.”
“A man of trenchancy and pith.” Gutman’s eyes irised down to happy slits and his famous closed-mouth chortle burbled upward: “Hmhhmh.” The little eyes turned shrewd: “And are you content with it?”
“I’m never content.”
“I’m glad of that, Sir; upon my soul, I’m glad.” He slapped his black serge knee and his thick thigh wobbled. “I distrust contented men; they keep their wants a secret.”
“No secret about mine.”
“Forthrightness, Sir! That’s the ticket.” He collapsed three chins in a happy nod. “Hmhhmhhmh. That’s the best way.”
“Coming from you, fat man, that’s a riot.”
“A sense of humor too; capital! I like that in a man.” The burring voice acquired an edge: “But don’t attempt Bogart, Sir; you haven’t the panache. You do me better, much better; hmhhmh. We’re soul mates, Sir, if you want my opinion.”
“We’re not, but I do: how should I handle Greystoke?”
“Greystoke: a man after my own heart.”
“Exactly.”
“Your little joke, Mr. Winston, yes I see. Hmhhmh!” He considered the matter, fanning his pink baby face with his hat. “Well, Sir, you need an angle.”
“Why?”
“To men of affairs like Greystoke and myself, everyone has an angle.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Dear me, Sir, I trust I haven’t overrated your perspicacity. Greystoke will automatically assume that you have an angle.” A complacent smile. “You cannot prate of justice for your crew; justice is an angle he mistrusts. It will only make him suspicious.”
“Any suggestions?”
Gutman replaced the tubby bowler, risking his coat seams in the process. “Greed, Sir; that’s your line: financial self-interest. Greystoke understands that; Greystoke is comfortable with that.” He accordioned his chins again as if regarding Greystoke with avuncular affection.
“So I tell him I want cash or else I blow the whistle.”
Sharply: “Come come Sir, no! Threats of exposure will only goad him to unpleasant reprisals.”
“Then I just want cash?”
“You confirm my belief that honesty is a refuge of the obtuse.” Gutman groped into the ether somewhere and plucked out a glass of whiskey and a siphon. He irrigated the liquor with ponderous care, squirting just enough soda to christen it. “Let me lead you by the hand, Sir: if you demand cash, he will simply pay you off and the others will be none the better for it. Your very good health.” He sipped his Scotch with elevated pinky. “But suppose their betterment were a source of profit for yourself?”
“Doin
g well by doing good.”
“Hmhhmhhmh, by gad, Sir, you restore my faith in you! Precisely: suppose you represent that cast and crew will pay you a percentage of whatever you obtain for them.”
“Say, ten percent.”
He sneered at such petty larceny. “Twenty has more the ring of verisimilitude.”
“So I pretend I’m extorting money from the crew.”
Gutman eyed his glass as if deciding whether to steal it. “Why pretend? It’s honest pay for honest service.” His piggy eyes reviewed my seedy outfit: “And your prosperity is evidently marginal. No harm there.”
“Yes there is, but you wouldn’t see it.”
His mouth flattened to a sour line. “As you please; but if you won’t heed that advice, heed this: perfect your Bogart, Sir.” The bulging black suit was growing dim. “In your own persona you could not intimidate a sheep!”
With a last fat smile and buttery chuckle, Gutman/ Greenstreet vanished into thin air, which thickened appreciably at his passing.
* * * *
Silverlake is old by L.A. standards, a suburb built when commuting was by streetcar and the adjacent city was literally “downtown.” It clings to hills conceding nothing to San Francisco, a grid of streets cascading down the slopes and swooping up again in cheerful disregard of the terrain. The homes are shingled bungalows and Spanish fantasies and, occasionally, the curving rails and target windows of Ocean Liner Moderne.
Silverlake and Echo Park next door are sacred ground to people of my faith, and as I chugged down Glendale Avenue between them, past the brooding Tom Mix mansion, now besieged by condos, past the remnant of the Keystone Studio I could sense the shades of Stan and Ollie rising in the twilight to muscle their piano up the nearby stairs, while Ben Turpin lurked in ambush at the top, hefting ghostly pies.
Right on Sunset Boulevard, right again on Micheltorena, up a hill that left the Beetle wheezing, and into a serpentine driveway guarded by an iron gate: Fort Greystoke.
The gloomy house was a typical twenties mansion: Catalogue Georgian festooned with Palladian riffs like an old maid dressed as a hooker. Its tan facade was stucco scored to mimic sandstone block. I passed under a tacked-on Selznick Revival portico and pushed the button by the great front door.
A long pause and then the glimmer through the fanlight brightened half an f-stop at a time as someone switched on lights while he approached. The door swung open.