“And pocket a tidy finder’s fee for yourself?” I asked.
“If they think I deserve it,” Vic grinned.
“You sincerely believe that the festival of disembowelment we just saw could be attractive to a real movie studio, and be shown in actual theatres?” I’d seen more complicated stories told in books with titles like
Pat the Bunny
.
He grinned, and almost bit through his unlit cigar. “I think I’ve got him set up at Monitor Films,” Vic said.
I stood up and closed the door behind him. Considering the size of my office, Vic might have thought I was trying to get a little more intimate than he considered comfortable, because he said, “Hey, Elliot . . .”
“You’ve got to do me a favor, Vic. Don’t tell Anthony about Monitor yet.”
You might have thought I’d asked him to set his pants on fire and sing “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” “Are you crazy?”
“Vic, Anthony’s a twenty-year-old kid who’s riding high on the rush of showing his movie to an audience that loves him and was going to say it was great no matter what. He’ll be stupid tonight and do anything that feels good. Let him have some time to think, some time to realize this isn’t
Citizen Kane
he’s got on his hands here. Just give him a week, okay?”
“Elliot,” Vic said, “there are many fine decaffeinated brands on the market.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s what worries me. Nobody’s even offering him a deal, for crissakes. We’re talking about him taking a
meeting
.” Vic sneered at me with the exact expression he’d use on someone who told him
Plan 9 from Outer Space
was a better movie than
Duck Soup
.
“What’s worse—he takes the meeting and gets a small-time deal that’ll push him out of the nest way before he’s ready, or he takes the meeting and gets shot down, and blows his self-esteem all to hell? Show me how this plays out well.”
“What are you, jealous?”
“Oh, please. I did the Hollywood thing, and didn’t like it,” I told him, remembering
Split Personality
, the movie made from my one-and-only novel, despite it not having even a shred of resemblance to the original story. “Besides, where do you get contacts outside a catalog of fifty-year-old comedies?”
“What, I can’t have friends?”
“I’m your friend,” I told him. “And I’m asking you as a friend, don’t tell Anthony about the Monitor thing, just for a week or two.”
“No chance, Elliot. I’m not going to ruin my credibility with Monitor because you’re worried the kid is ‘too happy’ tonight.” Vic scowled, and turned to push open the door; which would be a cute trick, since the door opens in, and it is, as I might have mentioned, a very small room.
My mind raced, and I had to catch up with it in a hurry. There had to be some way to get Vic off this obsession for a minute. I figured that if I changed the subject to business, Vic would be distracted, but the first thing it occurred to me to say was: “You guys don’t have
Cracked Ice
, do you?”
It was a desperation move.
Cracked Ice
(1956), the crowning achievement of the comedy team of Harry Lillis and Les Townes, was a rarity in 35mm prints. It was a favorite of mine, but not something that there could be much demand for, even in comparison to the vintage movies I usually order from Vic and his company.
The ploy had the effect I’d hoped for; Vic’s hand slipped off the doorknob, and he turned to me with a major grin on his face. “Sure, we have it,” he said, without having to check his BlackBerry. That’s why I like Vic. “But that’s not the half of it.”
I knew that tone. “Okay, what’s the half of it?”
“You’re a Lillis and Townes fan?” he asked.
That was a question? Harry Lillis and Les Townes were the bright shining light in one of comedy’s most bleak periods, the mid-1950s to early 1960s. In reality, Lillis himself was the comedic genius, while Townes was an unparalleled straight man, a decent singer (his recording of “Rainy Day Love” was a number one hit for six weeks in 1954), and the romantic lead in their movies, or at least the ones that had romantic leads. Townes wasn’t the most handsome man who ever lived, but he had great charm, absolutely perfect timing, and he knew a good thing when he saw it.
And Lillis—well, Lillis was a force of nature.
Combining Groucho’s rapid-fire wit with Harpo’s brilliant physical comedy, Harry Lillis was the Marx Brother who
should
have been, if Zeppo hadn’t been selfish about being born into the family. Not to mention that Lillis was a good thirty years younger than the youngest Marx
frere
.
Was I a Lillis and Townes fan?
“You could say that,” I told Vic. “My mother threatened to disown me in high school if I didn’t stop talking like Harry Lillis. So, spill. What’s the big story?”
Vic’s grin was all the more smug. “I
met
Harry Lillis,” he said.
“When you were a kid?”
He shook his head. “Last Wednesday.”
I can be cool when I put my mind to it. This wasn’t one of those times. My mouth dropped open a couple of feet, and I stammered “Wha . . . wha . . . wha” for a few moments. “
Where
?” I managed to croak.
“He’s living in Englewood, at the Actors’ Home.” Vic was so in control now that he could have lit his cigar with the deed to my theatre and I wouldn’t have stopped him. “Guy’s gotta be pushing eighty, from one side or another. But if you squint and imagine a little, it’s like being on the set of
Cracked Ice
.”
“What were you doing in Englewood?”
“I went up to the home. They want to have a little entertainment for the residents, you know, and there aren’t a lot of distributors have the catalog we do, so they asked about a few films. They can’t get everything they want on DVD. I went up to talk to the guy in charge, and sitting there in the dining room, large as life, was Harry Lillis.”
I wanted to simultaneously touch Vic’s hand, the one that must have shook Lillis’s, and strangle him for living out my fantasy. “What’s he like?” I asked.
“Just like you’d imagine. You know, they didn’t get those nicknames for nothing.” In the trade press, Lillis and Townes were known as “Arsenic and Old Lace,” because Lillis would never compromise and was constantly at war with whatever studio the team was contracted to, while Townes was the peacemaker, smoothing out the rough spots in negotiations and relations with the press.
“A little acerbic?” I guessed.
“He told me I looked like a beach ball smoking a cigar,” Vic said.
“Wow! An insult from Harry Lillis! You’re so lucky!”
“I know,” he said, too cool to exist in my universe. “Told some great stories, too. Did you know he dated Vivian Reynolds before she married Townes?”
I waved a hand. “Everybody knows that.”
“Yeah, well here’s something everybody
doesn’t
know: Lillis and Townes are planning a comeback.”
That salvo did some damage. I sat, stunned, for what seemed like an hour. “Lillis and Townes are coming back? At their age?”
Vic nodded, and rotated his cigar. “He’s got some idea for a movie about two old guys robbing a bank, and he says Townes is interested.”
I couldn’t believe it: either Lillis had one masterstroke left in him, or this would be the most embarrassing coda to a brilliant career since Ethel Merman recorded a disco album. Oh yes, she did.
But the wheels in my head were turning. “Cancel
Back to the Future
, Vic,” I told him. “Get me
Cracked Ice
. I’ve got an idea. And think about what I said regarding Anthony. ” And before he could protest, I maneuvered my way around him and out into the lobby.
Most of the guests had left. Sharon approached when I entered the lobby. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” she said, and then saw my expression. “What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I said. “Lunch at C’est Moi!?” She nodded.
Anthony was still near the staircase to the balcony, talking to a man I recognized as his father, Michael. The conversation didn’t appear to be a happy one, despite the occasion.
“All I’m saying is, take some time and think,” Pagliarulo the elder told his son as I approached. “Don’t do something rash.”
“I’m not being rash; I’m seizing the moment,” Anthony said, a contemptuous tone in his voice that the young reserve only for their parents.
“Ant’ny . . .” his father began.
“It’s
Anthony
!” my projectionist hollered. “You gave me my name; pronounce all the letters in it!”
Michael shook his head sadly and walked toward the outside door. I stood next to Anthony and spoke quietly. “He’s your father,” I said.
“He wants me to deny who I am,” Anthony said.
“Really? Who are you?”
“I’m a filmmaker,” said my employee. “Not a student.”
“Anthony. You’re not thinking of leaving school, are you?”
Anthony looked away. “John Ford never got a degree,” he said.
“Neither did Charles Manson, and look how well
he
did. Look, it’s a big night for you,” I told him. “Don’t let it be the night you fought with your father. Go make up with him.”
“I can’t. I have to close up the projection booth. I rewound the film, but it’s not in the cans yet.”
I sputtered. “I’ll do it. Go.”
Anthony started to answer (I’m convinced he was worried about leaving his baby in the care of a philistine like me), thought better of it, and I watched as he walked quickly toward the door to the theatre. I could see Carla waiting for him at the front, and then the two of them hurried toward where Michael Pagliarulo must have been.
Sophie was closing up the snack bar when I walked over. She’d never admit it, but she took great pride in her high-caloric domain, and was very fussy about where everything was kept. I watched for a moment while she wiped down the top of the counter, where a bit of popcorn butter had left tiny smears. When it was spotless, she smiled a private smile.
“You like the new snack bar, Sophie?” I asked.
Her face froze in an expression of indifference, the official emotion of high school seniors. “It’s just a glass box,” she said.
“Were there any stains on the rug from the wine-substitute? ”
“You wish. Just what a man would want to see, the woman on her knees cleaning stains off the rug. You’re all alike.” She huffed, and walked away. I was glad to have made her so happy.
Sharon must have left, and Vic was gone, so I was alone in the theatre, tired from this dress rehearsal and ready for tomorrow’s opening night. One last thing to do.
I went into the office and picked up the key to the projection booth, which I was sure Anthony would have locked behind him. I climbed up the stairs to the balcony, where the smell of fresh wood, fresh paint, and fresh carpet were still scenting the air. But I was too weary to enjoy the newness. I unlocked the door to the projection booth and walked in.
The projector was shut down, as it should be, and the audio system was turned off. I looked for the rewound reels and stopped dead in my tracks.
There was nothing on the projector. The empty film cans were not on the floor next to the control table. There was no sign at all that a movie had been projected here tonight.
Anthony’s one and only copy of
Killin’ Time
was gone.
2
BARRY
Dutton is the chief of police in Midland Heights, New Jersey, so I was surprised when he personally responded to the call about a routine burglary. Even in jeans and a sweatshirt, he looked like an African-American version of the Chrysler Building.
“I didn’t expect to see you, Chief,” I said.
Dutton looked around the projection booth and nodded. “I was off-duty, but when I heard the radio call, I had to see for myself,” he said. “You haven’t even reopened for real yet, and you already have another crime. Nice work, Elliot. ”
“I’m a businessman,” I told him. “I’ll do anything necessary to keep you coming back.”
“So what’s missing, exactly?” Dutton asked. “The call said it was cans of film. What does that mean?”
“We still call them ‘cans’ of film, even though they don’t really come in cans anymore,” I told him. “In the old days, the film reels came to theatres from the distributors in metal cans. Now, the reels come here in plastic boxes with locks on them to prevent piracy.” We exchanged a look. “You remember film piracy,” I said.
“I remember.” Dutton grimaced, which made him look like a grizzly bear fretting over fluctuations in the stock market.
“Anthony got his print from the duplicator, and it was in three of the locked plastic containers when he brought it in. He told me he’d left the film, rewound, on the reels, but hadn’t put them back into the boxes yet. Now both the film and the boxes are gone.”
Dutton’s eyes narrowed; he was thinking. “Have you called Anthony?”
“Before I called you, actually,” I answered. “He’s, let’s say, not pleased. He’s on his way.”
Dutton strolled casually around the room, taking in everything there was to see. “So the amateur film is missing. What are these?” He pointed at the boxes of film reels I had placed on the floor.
“Our reopening program for tomorrow night.”
“Did you look to see if the movie from tonight is all that’s gone?” Dutton asked.
“I did check. Strangely, it is the only thing missing.”
“Why strangely?”
“Because we’re reopening for real tomorrow night,” I said. “I got the films today from the distributor, the new Will Ferrell movie and a copy of
My Man Godfrey
. They’re both here, and they’d definitely be a more attractive target for film pirates.”
“Maybe they took the wrong film,” Dutton said. “Did you check the boxes?”
“Yes, and they’re the right films in the right boxes, all marked,” I told him. “Besides, once you’ve broken in, why not take all the films? Why just that one? It’s not even of any value to pirates—it’s not a ‘real’ movie.”