Black Is the Fashion for Dying (6 page)

“What will they think of next,” he murmured.

Jenkins, hovering behind him, said, “I'm sorry we didn't have time to rig it up yesterday.”

“If you had, I'd be out of work today.”

“Now, Mr. Gordon. The director's still—”

“Balls!” Gordon said. “A couple of extra wires and these things'll do everything a director can do.” He grinned suddenly. “Except, maybe, hump the leading lady!”

Jenkins' shocked face vanished as he leaped to the mound, walked across it to the actors. “Okay, folks,” he said briskly. “We'll run through it once more.”

Caresse didn't seem to hear him, looking at the jungle below with a strange, tense, preoccupied expression, as though she were really going down to hunt the tiger. But Phil Alton, playing Masterson, a man without a nerve in his body, a sweet mug with twenty million female fans, laughed and said, “Run is right, Josh.”

Gordon said, “Caresse?”

“Yes?”

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Wondering if she had been hitting the yellow-jackets again, he turned to Basil Trabert, snarled, “Wipe that pout off your face, Sonny, or I'll wipe it off for you,” and went back to the platform. Tom Billings, the veteran cameraman, was staring at the monitors in disbelief.

“Criminy!” he said in a discouraged voice. “I'm sure glad I bought that avocado ranch.”

“I'm available,” Gordon said, “if you need an extra hand.”

He shouldered Billings aside, bent over the monitors. Somebody said, “Mr. Remigen—” and he said, “Get out!” At least the first part of the scene was all right. Good composition, Caresse standing just ahead of the two men on the sunlit mound, all three looking down at the dead bullock and the half-naked guides and the shadowed tangle of undergrowth along the stream where the tiger was. “Sound?” he asked. “Sound's okay,” somebody said. Lighting, too. Bright on the hill where Caresse would fire the first shot and then stumble and fall; subdued in the jungle, golden shafts broken and mottled by the fronds of twisted plants. Some of the action would be lost there, but it didn't matter. Most of the hunt had been filmed on location in India. In Monitor A he saw the tiger, apparently asleep, but even in sleep looking sullen and dangerous. He felt along his spine the chill he always felt with a key scene, and turned to Herbie. “Rehearsal,” he said, and at once, mouth to the portable mike, Herbie began the familiar muezzin chant:

“
Quiet, please. This is a rehearsal. Everybody quiet. Quiet on the set, please.
”

Karl Fabro

Struggling to conceal sugared bearclaw and coffee, hide the crossword puzzle she had been working on, remove lipstick, mirror and open compact from the green blotter, and simultaneously appear to be busily opening mail, Miss Earnshaw made a complete shambles of her desk in the few seconds it took him to cross from the corridor door to his office. She also uttered a gasping “So early …!” but he didn't bother to reply.

He put the package on his desk, tossed the reversible raincoat and the black homburg on a chair, noted it was ten past nine, peered into the humidor and pressed a lever on the communication box.

Miss Earnshaw was still unstrung. “Fes, Mister Yabro,” she mumbled, and tried again, “Mes, Fister Mabro.” She might have gone on forever if he hadn't cut her off.

“Get Lorrance. And the head carpenter. And Jenkins on Stage 17.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And bring in some coffee, if you haven't spilled it all.”

He had two Alka-Seltzer tablets bubbling in a glass of water when she came in with the coffee and the morning copies of the trade papers. “Have you seen
Variety,
Mr. Fabro?” she asked and when he grunted negatively she put the paper in front of him. “Wonderful news!”

She would have fluttered around indefinitely if he hadn't glared at her. He picked up the glass, watched the white tablets dissolve into nothingness. He saw his hand was shaking and grunted again. No wonder, after that damned scene with Caresse. He hadn't slept a wink, pacing and tossing all night, cursing himself for being a fool, realizing as soon as his brain cleared that it was an act. He'd even figured out where she'd gotten the idea: from the time he had told her about being scared when he was seven. A picture of Mrs. Wicherly slashing at him and the other kids with the broken shears flashed into his mind. He shuddered, gulped down the Alka-Seltzer. That bitch Caresse!

Turning to
Variety,
he saw Miss Earnshaw must have been talking about the lead story, the trade paper's annual Academy Award predictions. Quickly he ran down the list, past
Best Production, Best Actor, Best Director, Best Musical Score
to
Best Screenplay
and saw in letters that seemed blacker than all the others: Karl Fabro for
Fox in the Vineyard.
It was no surprise, people had been telling him for weeks to get his speech ready, but he felt a sudden glow of satisfaction.
Variety
never missed.

He took a cigar from the humidor. He could see himself coming out on the platform to accept the Oscar, could see the faces of those who'd whispered the first win was a fluke. He chuckled. Half the dress shirts in Hollywood would be stained with blood from cut throats.

He was looking at the other Oscar, a gleaming gold figure standing on a shelf under a jewel-encrusted dagger, when T. J. burst into the office.

“Have you seen
Variety,
Karl?”

He nodded noncommittally.

“
Sky Without Stars
,” T. J. said in an awed voice. “And now
Fox in the Vineyard!
”

“You got a good memory for titles.”

T. J. stared wonderingly. “How do you stay so calm?”

“What's two Oscars? You can't breed 'em.”

Whatever further inanity T. J. was going to voice was silenced by a buzz from the communication box. Fabro flipped the key and Miss Earnshaw said, “Mr. Selig.”

“Who?”

“The head carpenter, Mr. Fabro.”

“Send him in.”

Selig came in, an angular, red-faced man in white coveralls. “Ya want me?” he demanded around a nail he was chewing.

Fabro thrust the package at him. “You put that dagger on the wall for me, didn't you?”

Selig eyed the dagger, said, “What's wrong with it?”

“There's nothing wrong with it,” Fabro said. “I just want a couple of things put up. Open the package.”

Selig opened the package. “Guns,” he said in an aggrieved voice.

“Pistols.”

“And ya want 'em on the wall?”

“Next to the dagger.”

Lorrance picked up one of the pistols, examined it admiringly. “Beautiful!”

“Have to drill some holes,” Selig said.

“Recognize them, T. J.?” Fabro asked.

Lorrance studied the weapons, then brightened. “The dueling pistols from
Fox in the Vineyard.
”

Nodding, Fabro said, “Bought them at Orthman's this morning.”

“What a splendid idea!” Lorrance turned to the other Oscar. “The dagger from
Sky Without Stars
… and now the pistols. But is the shelf big enough?”

“Big enough for what?” Selig asked suspiciously.

“The new Oscar.”

“What new Oscar?”

“Never mind, never mind,” Fabro growled. He took the pistol from Lorrance, thrust both weapons at Selig. “Next to the dagger. Barrels crossed. Do it Thursday morning before I come in. And,” he let his voice rise in a shout, “get the hell out of here!”

“Me?” a voice said near the doorway. It came from Jenkins, confusedly trying to back through the already closed door. “I'm sorry. I thought the girl said—”

“Come in,” Fabro said.

“He meant me to get the hell out,” Selig said. He winked at Jenkins, went out with the pistols.

“Have a seat, Jenkins,” Fabro said. “How's it going?” He offered the humidor. “Cigar?”

Still confused, Jenkins said, “No, thank you, it's going fine, I don't smoke.”

“I want to hear all about it.” Fabro turned to Lorrance. “Find out if Remigen has gone back to New York. And set up a production meeting on
Dark Circle.
”

“What time?”

“In about …” Fabro hesitated, then swung to Jenkins. “What's this morning's schedule?”

It was a simple enough question, but Jenkins' answer made it sound as though he'd asked for an explanation of Einstein's unified field theory. First he tried to synopsize
Tiger in the Night
and then, headed off, launched into a complex description of closed-circuit television. Finally, a few pertinent facts, drawn one by one like impacted wisdom teeth, were wrenched from him.

Yes, Mr. Gordon was just starting to film the tiger hunt when he left the set. How long would that take? Why, Mr. Gordon should be done by now. Or nearly done, give or take five minutes. Then the scene by the pool, with Miss Garnet and the litter bearers. Where Miss Garnet hears the shots. How long? Twenty minutes, perhaps, provided Mr. Gordon rehearsed again. Less if he didn't. Give or take five minutes. Then the camp scene where Ahri, Miss Carson, tells of the plot and Miss Garnet is brought in by the litter bearers and Miss Carson wounds her and the hunters come and Miss Gamet begins her big speech.

“‘Black's the fashion for dying …'” Jenkins quoted, carried away.

“The time, Jenkins!” Fabro said impatiently. “How long for the scene?”

“Maybe thirty minutes—”

“Give or take five minutes.”

“Why, yes, Mr. Fabro. Just what I was going to say.”

Adding the figures he had jotted down, Fabro mumbled, “Five for hunt … twenty for pool … thirty for camp. Fifty-five minutes.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Nine twenty-five now. Should be done around ten fifteen.” He eyed Lorrance. “Production meeting at ten. Have them wait if I'm not here. I'm going over to the set.”

Jenkins coughed.

“Well?”

“Mr. Gordon said no visitors.”

“Let me worry about Mr. Gordon, Jenkins.” Fabro came around the desk clapped him on the shoulder. “You've done a fine job, and Mr. Standish will hear about it. Now get the—run along. They'll be needing you.”

He gave Jenkins a shove towards the door, picked raincoat and homburg off the chair. “Meeting and Remigen, T. J.,” he said. “And stay out of my cigars.”

In the studio quadrangle, grass and cement walk were still wet, but the morning drizzle was merely fog now. He slung the raincoat, cape fashion, over his shoulders and cut across the quadrangle past the Directors' Building to the row of stages at the back of the lot. He went past 17, noting over the door the red light which meant Gordon was shooting, went through the double doors of 19 and found, back of some scenery piled against a wall, the emergency fire door.

As he entered 17, walking softly now, he heard the shots that meant the end of the tiger hunt, two loud reports followed, after a long interval, by three more. A moment later Gordon's voice came from the loudspeakers. “
Cut! And thank you. Good scene.
” A babble of voices rose from various parts of the stage. Fabro looked at his wrist watch. Nine thirty. Gordon was right on schedule.

He moved from the fire door to the shelter of some exotic flowering bushes and paused there to orient himself. Directly ahead was the camp, three tents set on a grassy clearing in the jungle, and past it was the pool, dark water leaden under the masked overhead lights, and the embankment where Caresse would be left while the bearers drank. He saw people nearing the pool, Billings and his camera crew, already dispersing around the Mitchell attached to the big crane; the head soundman and his assistants carrying a tangle of wires and earphones, and a third group composed of Josh Gordon, Herbie Adams, Jenkins, the script girl, and a couple of crew members. He looked for Caresse, but he couldn't find her.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he drew further back into the bushes. A small, elderly woman in a black dress, obviously coming from the fire door, went by with her head down, weirdly clenching and unclenching her fists and mumbling quite distinctly, “Forgive me, Al. Forgive. Forgive.” He stared after her until she went into one of the tents and then, seeing everyone's attention was centered on the pool, cautiously moved forward.

At the far side of the camp, near one wall of the sound stage, he caught sight of the big wardrobe cabinet the property men were using as a gun rack and storage case. He saw from there he would have a shelter, a clear view of the scene at the pool and a quick avenue of retreat when he decided to leave. He worked his way through trees and underbrush until he came to the wall, then went along the wall until he reached the wardrobe. He was stepping out from behind it when someone said, “Hey! Wassa big idea?”

Approaching the cabinet were the property man and his assistant, each carrying a hunting rifle. “Getta hell away—” the property man began, and then his face changed. “Mister Fabro!”

“That's all right—” The man's name flashed into his mind. “—all right, Alf. Just looking for a place where I can watch.”

Alf nodded. “Is good place.” He took the rifle from his assistant. “Getta chair Mister Fabro, Gus.”

“I'll only be a minute or two.”

“No bother us.” Alf put the rifles on racks. “Is all yours, Mister Fabro.” He opened a drawer, took out two revolvers and a handful of blank cartridges.

The loudspeaker said: “
Miss Garnet. On the set, please.
”

“Gordon,” Fabro said. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention—”

“We don' say nothin',” Alf assured him, loading blanks into one of the revolvers. “Got trouble enough now.”

“Tiger hunters,” the assistant volunteered. “Me and Alf.”

“Tiger hunters?”

“Sound effects for pool scene.” The assistant took the revolver from Alf. “Distant rifle shots.”