“Lysa Dean said that Josephine Laurant is starring in the picture.”
The demented look vanished and the odd face scowled. “She will by God win awards with this role if she will for Christ’s sake keep saying the lines the way they are written, not the way she thinks they should have been written.”
“She’s an investor?”
He stared at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Lysa said there was a rumor around.”
“There are always rumors around. Yes, we are both investors, friend. We are both betting our asses and all we own in this world on a fine artistic venture which will, because of its message, be a commercial success. I know how to combine those two elements. I bombed out on two films because they wouldn’t let, me go my own way. They controlled me. They turned those two films sour. Now it’s like the old days. Complete artistic control, casting control, direction, production, writing, everything. Because we staked everything, the two of us, the distributor and the banks came into the picture for nine mil, and wished upon me a godawful little ferret-faced money man to watch every cent spent, checking every scene against the story boards, setting limits on the number of takes, cutting down the camera angles on both units. So all my wonderful control doesn’t mean shit. And it keeps raining. Look, let me get to work here.”
So I left, taking with me the memory of Freaky Jean’s placid young freckled face, of the dazed mind riding atop the ripe maturity of the animal body.
At a little before one o’clock I rode out to the rented pasture in Kesner’s rented car. He was a ragged driver, accelerating too soon, braking too late, wandering over the center line, talking with his hands. The rain was dwindling. Sunshine was predicted for afternoon. Kesner was full of optimism.
The thirty or so vehicles were parked in random order under a long roadside row of big maples. The pastureland had been trampled into mud paths that followed the traffic pattern. They had wangled a hookup to the power line, and the wires led down to a temporary meter on a pole. There were camera booms and camera trucks standing in the drizzle, their vital parts shrouded in plastic. There were lights shining through the windows of some of the trailers. People wandered around in rain gear. Kesner led me to the cook tent, to a large helping of excellent beef stew on a paper plate, served with a big tin spoon and a cup of india-ink coffee. He settled for just the coffee and a banana.
He introduced me as “A television person who can maybe set us up for some exposure on a network show, so be nice to him.”
I couldn’t retain the names. They came too fast. Chief cameraman, second unit director, script girl, lighting technician, some actors, some balloon people. Everybody seemed very cordial. And then Dirty Bob came in, in a shiny orange jump suit with water droplets on the shoulders and chest. Unmistakable bland moon face, the fringe of beard now flecked with gray, the small Mongolian eyes, slitted and slanted.
“Hey Desmin. Meet one of your fans. This is Travis McGee.”
I stood up and shook hands with him. His hand was thick, dry, warm, and so slack it felt lifeless. As Kesner explained why I was there, Desmin Grizzel stared out at me through those little blueberry eyes set back behind the squinty lids. And I looked back at him. There was something going on behind those eyes. He was perhaps adding something up, something he had heard, measuring me in all the ways I didn’t fit the present role. Or maybe it was some primitive awareness of a special danger.
I sat down, and he sat down with us.
Kesner said, “I gave Kitty the changes for the pink sheets. Did they get that goddam duplicator fixed?”
“Early this morning. She’s caught up on back stuff.”
“What’s with Josie?”
“She come in here for lunch today. Now she’s doing backgammon with Tiger in her trailer.”
“What about the fellow from Joya’s balloon?”
“It turned out it was pneumonia, and they run him on down to Des Moines in Jake’s wagon.”
“Jesus Christ! It’s clearing and I want to do number eighty-one. Jesus Christ, is he in that one?”
“No. I checked it out with Kitty. No scene, no lines, nothing. That’s why I didn’t call in.”
“How did the special project go after I left last night?”
“Mercer thinks it’s pretty much okay. He just doesn’t like the Mickey Mouse equipment and no chance to make cuts.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“Linda’s looking after her.”
“Good thinking. McGee, if you’re through, I’ll go introduce you to Josie. Dez, what you do is get people going on makeup and have Kitty get the pages distributed for number eighty-one, and get those balloon crews ready to go out there to the takeoff area soon as the sun comes out.”
I followed Kesner through the mud to Josie’s big dressing-room trailer, stepping with care. She let us in, and he kissed her on the cheek and said, “We’ll be able to roll this afternoon. Here’s what we’ll be doing, if we stay lucky.”
When he introduced me, she gave a vacant nod and began skimming through the script pages. I found it hard to believe she was as old as she had to be. A small woman, dainty, dark, fragile, with a lot of energy and vitality in her expression, in the way she moved.
She moved her lips as she turned the pages. Suddenly she threw her head back, dashing the dark hair away from her forehead. She threw the pages at Kesner’s face.
“I told you! I will not do that. I will not!”
“Not do what?”
“I will not go up in that goddam wicker basket!”
“And I told you fifty times, damn it, that you will go up to eight feet off the ground. The damn balloon will be anchored! I want you up there with Tyler for your scene, the big one. The lines that are going to break hearts.” He picked up the pages. “Look. Right here. Where it’s marked. That’s where we take you out of the basket and put Linda in. We back off for a low angle and get Linda when she jumps out of the basket into the net. Then it goes on-up and we pick up the fall after they throw out the dummy, and all the rest is process. Eight feet in the air, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t like the height. It could get away somehow. It would kill me. It would stop my heart. No.”
“I’m telling you, there will be three ropes this big around tied to that basket and tied to three trucks on the ground.”
“The propane will blow up.”
“It is safe! Absolutely safe! I know what I am doing.”
She switched emotions instantaneously, from indignation and fury to cool sardonic query. Posture, expression, voice quality-all changed.
“Do you now, darling? Do you really know what you are doing? Do you really understand the extra risks you’re running?”
“What would you rather have me do, mouse? Wind it all down or try to keep it going?” It seemed to me that he gave her some look of warning, some sign to be careful.
After a moment of hesitation, she said, “it makes me nervous.”
“You don’t have to know anything about it. Or even think about it. Okay? Maybe you don’t even have to think about being in the basket way up there in the air, eight feet. Maybe Linda would be better all the way through. Go back and do your scenes over with her. Her skin tones are better by daylight.”
“You son of a bitch! She’s a stuntwoman. She’s no actress.”
“Listen! You were run out of the industry because nobody could trust you not to fuck up and spoil scenes and cost big money. For God’s sake, it’s your money you’re wasting!”
“So I’ll waste it if I want to!”
“I’ll use Linda for the whole thing. I need a picture in the can more than I need your famous face, lady.”
She hesitated. “Three real strong ropes?”
“Big ropes. This big around.”
“I better start to get ready.”