“Mr. Bannarjee, I presume?” The tenor was as distinctive as the small silhouette.
“Hello, Shannon.”
“Kimberley called of course, so I expected someone though I couldn’t imagine who.” He inspected me like a butler dealing with a grocer who had missed the tradesman’s entrance.
“Greystoke available?”
Impassively: “Probably not.”
“I need to see him on business.”
“You know where the office is.”
“This isn’t office business. May I come in?” When I stepped forward I towered over him by fourteen inches.
Shannon didn’t budge. “Why don’t I just relay your message?”
If I had to, I could push him away like a doorstop. “Don’t make me take advantage, Shannon.”
Stepping back without alarm, he touched a pocket of his blue velour robe. “You might be surprised.” I saw no telltale bulge there but then you only see them in movies.
“All right, my message: I have a Crossbones invoice and I’ve figured it out.”
A long silence while I peered vainly at his silhouetted head. The head nodded.
“I’ll wait for an answer.”
Another nod and the elfin silhouette shut the door on me.
Standing on the darkened porch, I reflected that Shannon had just said more in thirty seconds then I’d heard him speak in the hour I’d spent with him. In fact, his whole behavior seemed subtly different: no more a timid shadow but a solid, confident presence.
The door reopened. “He’ll give you five minutes.”
I almost said what I thought of such largess, but held my tongue and followed him into a front hallway scaled like a palace and dominated by an oak staircase as tasteless as it was massive. We trudged through ranks of dim and empty rooms with twelve-foot ceilings. No wonder Greystoke bought this house: here everyone was just as small as he.
We found him playing baron in his living room, a thick-beamed barn hung with musty trophies from a studio prop house. A fake log fire blasted behind a mantelpiece half the size of a theater proscenium, its hearth defended by an honest-to-god grizzly bear rug.
Greystoke was similarly bedizened, in a quilted smoking jacket with shawl lapels, and clutching a lead-crystal glass. The overall effect was comic.
“Winston, right?” as if groping for the name of this minor retainer. I refrained from tugging on my forelock. “Whaddya want?”
“Hello, Alan.”
He frowned at his first name. “What’s so important you gotta drive ninety goddam miles?”
“Forty, but it’s important.”
“Siddown.” I didn’t. Uneasy silence. “Wanna drink?”
“Scotch and water, please.”
Greystoke looked at Shannon, who was being slowly ingested by a fat plush armchair. Shannon shrugged slightly as if to say, so get him his Scotch. I considered this reaction while Greystoke fumbled at a bar cart of incongruous chrome.
“Thank you.”
“Drink fast; I don’t like business in my house. Now talk.”
Instead I sank into an overripe sofa, grateful that this absurd room at least permitted full-scale furniture. I sipped my Scotch. “Much better.” Another time-consuming sip while Greystoke visibly fumed.
Finally, he strutted over to the fireplace, planted himself on the grizzly rug, and struck his Patton pose. “Okay, Winston, get to the point. I got a lot to do and I don’t like my home life screwed up. Understand? Okay, now say it short and sweet.”
I gave him my best bored gaze. “Stop playing Napoleon, Alan.”
I had thought that turning purple was a literary conceit, but Greystoke proved me wrong. “I don’t need this.” He snapped his head toward the plush armchair. “Shannon!”
But Shannon was looking at me with calm speculation. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Greystoke stared at him, stared at the grizzly bear, stared at me and for the first time, he appeared uncertain. “Is this gonna take time?”
“Some.” I looked at Shannon over the top of my Scotch.
Greystoke sucked in a deep breath, as if willing himself to retake the initiative. “Shannon, go put the tape thing on.”
Shannon’s elfin face flashed annoyance and he struck a milquetoast husband attitude: “Whatever you say, Sweetie-face.”
He extracted himself from the innards of the chair and left the room.
Greystoke seemed embarrassed. “I hate to miss a game, so I told Shannon to tape it, understand? Okay, you follow basketball? Great game.”
He seemed to want to wait for Shannon but I wouldn’t let him: “Your invoice for one week’s location services comes to over four hundred thousand dollars. You going to pay it?”
He seemed caught off-guard. “That’s my business.”
“It’s ten times what it should be.”
Some of his bluster returned: “I told you I don’t say things twice, understand?”
“All right, it’s your business. But it’s my business too.” Shannon glided back in and I waited until he had remounted his man-eating chair. “I have four profit points. If your books show four hundred thousand dollars a week in location costs, there won’t be any profit and I won’t get anything.”
“That’s business.” He almost smiled as he said it.
“No, it’s not; it’s tax fraud.”
“Watch yourself.”
“Right now, I’m watching you. Watching you run a lot of phony charges through your books to fake a paper loss.”
Shannon’s piping tenor: “What is it you want, Winston?”
I raised a hand to show I’d get there in due course. “That isn’t all: you don’t want this picture released, so you’re sabotaging it.”
Greystoke mimed surprise better than I’d expected. “I’m sabotaging it.” He shook his head. “How do you like that, Shannon, I’m sabotaging it.” Back to me: “So how am I sabotaging it?”
As I told them, Shannon asked quick questions about details, while Greystoke gaped at me stupidly. When I’d finished, he stared at the grizzly some more, then glanced at Shannon, who jerked his head sideways.
Greystoke got the message: “Lemme speak to Shannon, okay? We’ll just be a minute.”
Shannon nodded okay, and the two of them hiked toward a corner under moose heads and regimental banners, looking like Munchkins in somebody’s castle.
They spoke inaudibly for several seconds, Shannon doing most of the talking, then retraced their fifty-foot journey to my end of the room.
Shannon pulled up a straight chair that wouldn’t eat him and climbed onto it. Despite his countertenor voice, his tone carried authority: “We’re listening.”
“All right. I don’t know what games you’re playing and I don’t think they’re my business.”
A slight smile. “We’re in perfect agreement so far.”
“But your games put Sean Parker in hospital.”
“Not my games.”
“Then Greystoke’s.”
Shannon shrugged, then sat quietly waiting. Perched on his chair, he seemed like a faintly uncanny apparition, with neat short hair and a small, pink, tight-shut mouth. His body looked twelve, his face looked forty, and he gazed out of opaque gray eyes with the patience of great age. I waited too.
After a minute or so, Shannon clasped his small hands. “What makes you think we want to sabotage the film?”
“If it never gets released, people won’t question why there aren’t any profits.”
Shannon’s smile carried a hint of condescension. “You don’t know much about taxes, Winston, but I do: I’m an accountant. Books are books to the IRS, and they’re the people we have to deal with whether the film makes money or not.”
“You admit you’re padding expenses?”
His face admitted nothing. “In fact, the more the film makes, the better for us. The feds look hard at obvious tax loss schemes. It’s much better to show a little profit.”
Greystoke checked in
at last: “Besides, I got my name on that picture and I don’t put my name on losers, understand?”
For no reason, I thought of the blank title page of the old script. “Alan, did you write this movie?”
He gazed coyly at the floor. “Well... yeah, sort of. I paid some guy to help a little. Anyway, it’s my story.” His pride sounded genuine, if grotesquely misplaced.
I looked at Shannon thoughtfully. “Can you tell me flatly that you two have nothing to do with the sabotage?”
“Absolutely. And I find it disturbing. If we have a serious accident, we’ll get official attention.”
“And that’s bad news.” Greystoke stood beside Shannon, impatient to recapture the center of attention. “Look, let’s cut the bullshit. Okay, we got something going; so what do you care? You’re getting paid.”
“Sure, and my four points are almost as good as Confederate money. You’re playing your games at my expense.”
“No problem. I told you I take care of my people, understand? Okay, I’m tearing up your contract and I’m giving you a thousand cash for each point.”
“That’s a start.”
“Whaddya mean start? Nobody holds me up, Winston.”
“I mean I have another idea: tear up everybody’s contract and pay all of us union scale in cash.”
Greystoke began “Not a cha...” when Shannon waved him off and looked at me. “What do you care about the other people?”
“Not much, but they sent me to negotiate. If they get cash, then I get twenty percent.”
My hosts exchanged glances, relieved at finally having me pegged. Greystoke shook his head, grinning. “Nice try, Winston.”
I shrugged, realizing that I must now ignore Gutman’s caution against threats. “All right, I think the IRS gives rewards. You know: information leading to arrest and conviction, etc.”
Greystoke said, “We give prizes too for that, but you wouldn’t like em, okay?”
My bored look again: “Uh-huh, well if you’re going to take me for a ride, you better rent a bus. Some other people saw that invoice.”
“Who? How many?”
I focused on Shannon. “Look, I don’t care what you’re doing. I want my pay to be fair, my crew cooperative and something extra for my trouble. That’s all.”
Shannon stared with his old man’s eyes. “That’s all until the show’s over; then the IRS still offers that reward.”
“True, but I’m after something else.” He looked wary. “No, it doesn’t cost extra. This is my first produced screenplay. It’s also my friend’s first starring role and my girl...” I pretended to stumble and recover, “...the director’s first feature.”
Greystoke’s face said what the hell does that mean?
Intently: “It means nothing to you, but those credits are what we live for. I want my name out there.” Greystoke opened his mouth and then closed it at Shannon’s signal to continue. “If the feds attach the film, it won’t get out. No release, no credits for us.”
Shannon shook his head, smiling. “That’s not logical. If you pull the plug because we won’t pay, the film won’t get out anyway.”
I mirrored his head shake. “I want the credit but I need the money. I can’t eat credits.”
Silence.
I gave it one last shot: “That’s it, I guess. If you pay us decent salaries, we’ll finish the film, take the credit, and mind our own business. I don’t bleed for the IRS.”
Shannon stared at me. “What about the sabotage? That worries me.”
“I’m working on it. I’ve one or two other ideas.”
Shannon stared some more.
Greystoke cleared his throat and looked at his mute “assistant.” “Whaddya think?”
Shannon gazed at me without expression. “If it keeps things quiet, it’s worth the price.”
Greystoke nodded reluctantly and my neck and shoulder muscles came unstuck. I produced backdated union contracts, which my Mac had spit out in quantity, complete with names and rates. As a production manager, I keep several boilerplate contracts for just such contingencies. Greystoke signed them, between outbursts at the figures. He grudgingly promised to drive up the following morning with back pay in cash.
Then he drew himself up to his full five-foot-two and fanned the papers in his fist. “You’re costing me a lot of money, Winston.”
“It’s all deductible.”
“It better be worth it, understand?”
“You’ll get your picture now.”
“Yeah.” He held the contracts as if reluctant to part with them. “Listen, whadja mean about your credit? How much did you rewrite?”
“Oh, uh, little stuff to fit Fenster in.”
He nodded doubtfully. “But it’s still my picture, okay?” He handed me the contracts. “Shannon! Show him out!” He wheeled around and strutted from the room.
Shannon walked me to the door, quiet as the ghostly rooms we passed through; but when I turned on the porch to say goodnight, his at-home persona resurfaced. “Winston, you made a promise.”
“Yes.”
“You ought to know: there’s more to this.”
“Like sabotage?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t know what’s going on there. I mean other things.”
I waited for him to tell me, but Shannon only stared. “You better keep that promise.”
He shut the massive door.
Chapter 9
Another crisp April morning full of puffy clouds and Zephyr’s sweete breeth and smale foweles maken melodye to screw up sound recording.
“Son of a bitch, cut!” Diane looked at the sound man, hoping against hope. He shook his head.
She glared at the ceiling of the gas station office as if she could see the scrub jays dog-fighting above the roof. “Let’s try it again. Take four right away.”
Key grip Stogie Rucker, resplendent in a rainbow shirt that enhanced his resemblance to a beach ball, consulted quietly with the property master, then waddled to the door. “Wait for my signal.”
“What signal?”
Stogie left without replying, and we huddled in the hot little office as if listening for the end of an air raid.
A deafening explosion rattled the windows and shook the plank floor. Stogie puffed in, smoking pistol in hand, and cocked an ear to indicate the silence. He smiled complacently around his cigar.
Diane looked pained. “You didn’t...?”
Stogie shook his head. “Blanks: big sonsabitches.” He returned the starter’s pistol to the property master. “You got maybe ten minutes before the birds recover.”
Hallie Sykes and Scuzzy toed their chalk marks while Lee ran his tape from a hook at the camera’s film plane to Scuzzy’s knobby nose, an easy target. Stogie went outside again and I followed.
I found him soaking up the sun as only old men can do. “Thanks for helping, Stogie.”
He shrugged it off. “How we doin’?”
“The end of the second week today and almost up to schedule.”
He nodded. “I gotta hand it to her.” He gazed down the road without expression. “And the poor little girl’s gonna break her heart.”
I was about to comment on this male condescension when a ghost as fat as Stogie whispered in my ear: Angle, Sir, hmhhmh; don’t forget his angle.
“How do you mean, Stogie?”
He inspected the wet end of his cigar, then dropped it on the asphalt. “It’s fallin’ apart, kid. Too long in this goddam dump; too much work; too little money.” He shook his head with a genuine regret. “She can’t keep it goin.’”
“Would you help her if you could?”
He nodded, still staring down the road as if expecting someone. “I like her; she got balls.” From Stogie, it was an innocent compliment.
“Okay, then first the good news: we got Greystoke to change the contracts. Everyone gets union scale.”
Stogie forgot to look bored. “I.A.?”
“I.A. and SAG - retroactive.”
“No kiddin.’” He turned shrewd little eyes on me. “And who got this outta Greystoke?”
“Well, we did.”
Stogie’s chuckle bubbled out. “We, huh? Kid, there may be hope for you.” An even longer chuckle. “Scale. God damn!” He grinned up at me with almost paternal pride.
“Now the bad news: the money won’t do it by itself. We have to turn the people around.”
He unwrapped a new cigar. “Yeah, everybody’s pretty down.”
“So when Diane announces this, I need you to speak up.” He frowned. “You’re the senior member, Stogie; they’ll follow your lead.”
He almost concealed his pleasure at the compliment. “Locker room time, huh? Win one for the Gipper.” He clicked his rickety Zippo and puffed on the fresh cigar. “I dunno.”
I hoped Diane would forgive me: “For that poor little girl, Stogie.”
He looked at me blankly, then glanced up at the phone wires overhead. “Goddam birds are starting.” Stogie hiked his pup-tent pants and waddled back inside.
* * * *
In the tiny gas station office, Hallie Sykes opened the ancient, grease-smudged refrigerator and peered inside. “Yeah, two beers left. Bud okay?”
Lumbering forward to accept his brew, Scuzzy blundered into a festoon of fan belts hanging from the low ceiling. An off-screen grip yanked a length of nylon monofilament to pull a stack of air filter cartons, empty for this gag, down on Scuzzy’s head. He stood sheepishly in the midst of his disaster.
Hallie tried to keep from grinning, but her eyes crinkled and her mouth twitched.
Scuzzy was starting to grin too when all the lights went out.
“Cut! What happened?”
The gaffer wiggled twist lock plugs. “Lost our juice. I’ll check the jenny.” He went out.
Diane sighed and lit a brown cigarette. “Okay, take a break.”
I went out into the sunshine, to find Molly Caudle bouncing toward me with a paper grocery sack. “Hi, Stoney.” Today she wore the obverse of her usual tube: a T-shirt cut high enough to reveal four silky inches of plump tan midriff. A legend undulated across the shirt’s convexities: CONTENTS MAY SETTLE, but they hadn’t started yet.
She grinned. “Brung you something.”
“What?”
“Lunch.” She proffered the sack. “I feel real bad about the food, you know? So I uh, made this at home. Wanna share it with me?”
“Thanks, but it might not look good: special treatment for the production manager.”
She dismissed these scruples. “Naw. I know a nice place to eat. Nobody’ll see us.” Her grin suggested what else we could do in such seclusion.