Stardust (36 page)

Ben glanced at Bunny’s thin file. How long before anyone missed it?

“On a list. Probably nothing. Let me know about the Army though, okay? So I can scratch him off. Do I need to do anything about Ken? I don’t want him to think—”

“He’ll calm down. You’re the only one he’s got now, with the Krauts.”

“I thought he wasn’t interested in them.”

“They meet people. It all connects.”

Like a web, one strand to another. And who else was present, Mr. Kaltenbach? To the best of your recollection. Heinrich must have met people. If he was sympathetic enough to be approached now, invited to return, why not then? A gathering over coffee. One name, then another, until they found one for the newsreels. And who else was at the meeting, Mr. MacDonald? But Bunny would be protected, a friend to the committee. Until it began to eat its own, too hungry to stop.

Ben walked over to the window, looking out at the sunny lot. Cowboys and showgirls coming out of Makeup. Grips moving scenery. Everyone busy, unconcerned. Did any of them know what Minot was planning, what it would mean? For a second he saw the street in a freeze frame, a stopped moment before it all began. They’d turn on each other, running for cover, right into Minot’s hands.

At the gate, there was a commotion as some grips crossed the picket line. More pickets had come out today, not just the usual handful, and the guards had seemed jittery when Ben drove through earlier. Shouts
now, instead of breezy catcalls. One of the grips shouted back, then had to be pulled away. Two of the picketers lunged toward him, then stopped, posturing. More shouts, name-calling. But no sticks or stones. A jurisdictional dispute.

He turned back to the paperwork, then saw her coming out of Makeup. She was in the same kind of white blouse and simple skirt they’d used in the test, but now wore heels, so that her legs stretched up. His eyes followed her toward the actors’ trailers, hair catching the morning light, watching the way she moved, the easy glide Bunny had noticed. But Ben had noticed other things, a leg in a mirror, eyes that darted across your face. He missed the swimming pool, sitting on the chaise still wet in terry robes, then the smell of chlorine on her skin, her thigh half open to its soft side.

She looked up into the mirror of her dressing table when the door opened.

“I saw you pass. Going over lines?”

She nodded to the script in front of her. “Today I meet the sister. She’s jealous.”

He closed the door behind him.

“Don’t. People will notice.”

“I’m family.”

“In my dressing room. What if Connie comes? It’s hers, too.”

“You share? You’re the star.”

She smiled. “Not yet.” She held up both hands to the mirror, wriggling them. “I haven’t put my hands in cement. Why do they do that?”

He shrugged. “Why do they do anything?”

“You think it’s all foolish. Only newsreels.”

He walked over to the chair, standing behind her.

“Next week we do the scenes in Germany,” she said to the mirror. “Did you see what they’re building? I live in a house that was bombed. In a cellar. It’s strange, you know? Where I’d be if I’d never come here.”

“Or dead.”

“Yes. You know my name, the character? Maria. No Saras here, either. Like Goebbels.”

“I thought they were making you Dutch,” he said back to the mirror.

“No, they want the ruins. So when I see his mother’s house—”

He put his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her neck.

“Don’t,” she said, moving forward. “I’ll have to do the makeup all over again. It took hours.”

“To look like this? Not even lipstick?”

“It’s the hardest, Connie says. To look natural.”

He brushed his hand down the back of her hair. “It’s good to see you.”

She looked down. “Maybe it’s good. It gives us time to think.”

“About what?”

She looked at him in the mirror for a moment, then let it go.

“I don’t know,” she said, getting up and turning, so that now they were facing each other.

“How’s Dick Marshall?”

“The perfect gentleman.” She put her hand on his chest, holding him in place. “Not like you.”

“How about I come for a swim?”

She shook her head, still holding him back, their faces close. “He’s taking me to the Grove.”

“After.”

“After I sleep. The camera picks it up. If your skin—”

“There’s nothing wrong with your skin,” he said, moving closer.

“Not here,” she said, pushing her hand against him.

“I can come late. Leave early,” he said, his face almost on hers.

“Don’t,” she said again.

“No one would know.” When she didn’t answer, he waited for another second, then stepped back. “If that’s it,” he said, his voice ironic. He moved away, leaving it, but she reached for his arm, pulling him back.

“Maybe it’s best. For now.”

He stopped still, just looking, trying to read her expression. Could eyes be trained, like voices?

“I wish I knew what you wanted,” he said quietly.

She returned his look, then let her hand drop, moving away from him.

“I wish I knew that, too.” She went back over to the mirror, a final check. “I have to go. They’ll be ready. You, too. Before anyone sees.” She patted her hair. “I have to meet the sister.”

He glanced at his watch, shifting moods with her. “And I have a meeting. Lasner keeps asking me to meetings.”

“He likes you.”

“I think he does it to needle Bunny. All right,” he said, moving to the door. “Do I go first or do you want me to sneak out after you’ve gone?”

“You think it’s a joke. People look for that.”

“By the way, what I came for? Did Danny know a man called MacDonald?”

She thought for a second. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“I came across his name in some papers.”

“What papers?”

“It doesn’t matter. Papers. He never mentioned a MacDonald?”

“No. That’s what you came for? More Daniel.”

“You’re sure?” he said, ignoring this.

“I don’t know. One name, all those years. How would I remember? MacDonald? Like the man on the farm?”

Ben nodded, waiting.

“I don’t think so.” She looked up. “I wish you would stop with this business.”

“When I know.”

“How? Who’s going to tell you? Daniel?”

“Maybe.”

“From the grave. You keep him alive, with all this. Here,” she said, touching her head, then turned and closed the script, her back to him. “It feels like cheating.”

He said nothing, looking into the mirror.

“Maybe that’s what I want,” she said. “Two in the room, not three.”

“I only see two,” Ben said.

H
E WAS
early for the scheduling meeting. With only one project to manage there was no real need for him to be there at all, but Lasner had insisted, another mark of favor the other line producers took in with nervous wait-and-see glances. Only Sam Pilcer, an old hand at musical chairs, seemed not to care. They were waiting in the conference room next to Lasner’s office, where Bunny had set up a television, the first Ben had actually seen outside magazines. On the small glass screen a clown was performing.

“Again with this,” Lasner said to Bunny.

“Just look at it.”

“Look at what?”

“Found money.”

Lasner waved this off. “You’re like Freeman at Paramount. Remember he set up that Kraut? Right before the war?”

“Klaus Landsberg,” Bunny said. “And what? Two years, minimal investment, and he takes it on the air. W6XYZ. What you’re watching now,” he said, catching Lasner’s puzzled expression. “It’s not an experiment anymore, Sol. The only question is how fast they can make them. Last four years, they’ve all been working for the government. Every electronics company in the country. Army contracts. Now watch. They can start turning these out.”

“To watch this? Clowns.”

“No, Rex Morgan. The Silver Bullet series.”

“That’s ten, fifteen years old.”

“And just sitting there in the warehouse. Pictures nobody’s going to run again. And here’s a new exhibitor. With all day to fill. Why not with Rex? I’m telling you, found money. No prints. No advertising. No overhead. Aunt Tillie just died and left you a little something. Say thank you and cash the check.”

“What kind of money can something like that pay?”

“Not much now,” Bunny said. “But it’s bottom line to us, all of it. Right now we’re making nothing on Rex, just paying storage.”

But Lasner was only half listening, staring at the wooden box, eyes narrowing in thought, and Ben wondered for a moment if he was back in the dry goods store on Fourteenth Street, the fuzzy lines behind the glass just like the jerky figures of light on the tacked-up sheet.

“Of course, the real money,” Bunny was saying, “is going to be in production. But that’s down the road.”

“This is going to be the new pictures?”

“Nobody’s saying that.”

“People say it—I hear it. And we’re going to hand over Continental product for a few bucks? Cut our own throats? Let them stick with the clowns, see how far they get.”

“B product.
Old
B product.”

“And you said production.”

“It’s getting harder with the B’s, Sol, you know that. If they take away the block booking, we’re going to have a problem on our hands. We’re not Metro.”

“And you don’t see Mayer making clown shows, either.” He looked again at the set. “Where are the kids going to neck?”

“In the balcony. At the movies. That’s not going to change. Not with A product anyway.”

“I know, I know. More A’s. You keep saying.”

Bunny made a little nod, backing away, familiar ground. “It’ll never be pictures,” he said. “But maybe the new radio.”

“We’re not in the radio business.”

“No, the hotel business. It’s about turning over rooms,” Bunny said, spreading his arm to take in the lot outside. “Every time one of those stages is empty, we’re losing money. Sam’s going to wrap next week. Stage Seven,” he said, including Pilcer. “Then we’re dark two weeks until Greg does the interiors on
Abilene
.”

“Move
River House
from Five,” Lasner said. “They haven’t built the porch set yet. Then you’ve got Five for a longer shoot. Harry, you wanted six weeks, right?”

Ben listened, interested, the whole scheduling meeting already worked out in their heads.

“We can, yes,” Bunny said to Sol. “But the point is, you’re going to have
some
off weeks. So why not use the room, not waste it?”

“Bunny, we’re not just talking square feet here.” He looked again at the television. “The money’s not there yet,” he said flatly, as if he’d just run through the expense sheet.

“No, not yet.”

“And I should set up a new Second Unit,” Lasner said to Pilcer. “I think he enjoys it, giving me grief.” He turned to Bunny. “You got something, though, with the
Silver Bullet
s. What the hell. Get one of these for Rex, he can watch himself all day. Fees, right? Not sales. Just another exhibitor.”

“Fees,” Bunny said, a handshake.

“He keeps an eye out for you, Sol,” Pilcer said.

Bunny dipped his head to Pilcer, self-deprecating, like a courtier in one of his boy prince films.

Sol smiled, touching Bunny’s shoulder. “Who else could squeeze another nickel out of Rex? Christ.”

“All right, shall we start?” Bunny said, pulling out some papers with time graphs. “We’re looking at a two-week overrun on
River House
and that’s before the retakes, so we’re going to have to move things around.
Abilene
we’re still okay.”

“Nobody ever lost money on a Western,” Lasner said, about to take a seat. “What the hell’s that?”

They all looked toward the window. Lasner went over, following the shouting coming from below. On Gower Street, the pickets had swarmed around a car trying to go through the gate, yelling, a few of them banging on the fender.

“What the hell—?”

“Why so many today?” Pilcer said, joining him, everyone else following.

“Change of tactics,” one of the producers said. “What I heard,” he
said when they all looked at him. “Pick one or two studios to make a point. Instead of spreading themselves thin.”

“So they pick us?” Lasner said.

“And Warners. They’ve got a whole army out on Olive. I heard,” he said when they looked again. “We’re the pick in town. One gate. Paramount, you’d need three times the people.”

Below, the studio police had rushed out and were now pushing people away from the car with clubs. Just night watchmen, Bunny had said.

“I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Lasner said to Bunny.

“With our people, no. You can’t pay off two sides, Sol.”

The car had begun to move, but now the strikers were squaring off against the studio cops, shouting in their faces, still a ritual, not an actual fight.

“There’s that fuck Stein,” a producer said.

Ben followed the pointing finger. Howard was near the edge of the crowd, apparently trying to quiet things down as he made his way through. A technician heading for the gate was stopped by picketers, then surrounded by studio police, pushing the strikers away. One shoved back, grabbing the cop, who raised his stick. Two other pickets rushed over and the cop, alarmed, stuck the club into the striker’s chest to hold him off. The striker, taking it as an attack, swung at the cop and then, in an instant, like a fire catching, everyone seemed to be shoving, pushing chests, the line breaking up, people spilling into each other.

Bunny picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Carl, get the police. Ask for Healy. Tell him we’ve got a street fight here. And tell Charlie to keep his men out of there. Away from the gate.”

The shouting was now a roar, and Ben felt his neck stiffen, a startled animal’s reaction. Violence was always sudden. A fistfight in a cellar bar, drunk GIs smashing bottles, jeeps pulling up, white helmets and billy clubs. Combat. The same adrenaline fear, your whole body flushed with it, everything happening fast. It was nothing like the movies, no sound-effect punches, choreographed swings. Clumsy, pulling at shirts, gouging,
falling down, like the studio cop below, covering his face to ward off a kick. Ben saw Howard Stein, still trying to pull people away, putting out a brush fire.