She turned to look at me. “Seven Brides? Are you sure?”
“You’re right there in the barnraising scene,” I said. “Why?”
She had turned back to the screen, frowning at Shirley Temple, who was dancing with Alis and Jack Haley in military uniforms. “Maybe—” she said to herself.
“I told you dancing in the movies was impossible,” I said. “I was wrong. There you are.”
As I said it, the screen went blank, and the oldate said loudly, “How about that guy who says, ‘Make my day!’ Do you have him?”
I reached to start the disk again, but Alis had already turned away.
“I’m afraid we don’t have Clint Eastwood either. The scene from Magnificent Seven has Steve McQueen and Yul Brynner,” she said. “Would you like to see it?” and busied herself punching in the access.
“Does he have to shave his head?” his friend said.
“No,” Alis said, reaching for a black shirt and pants, a black hat. “The Digimatte takes care of that.” She started setting up the tape equipment, showing the oldate where to stand and what to do, oblivious of his friend, who was still talking about Charles Bronson, oblivious of me.
Well, what had I expected? That she’d be overjoyed to see herself up there, that she’d fling her arms around me like Natalie Wood in The Searchers? I hadn’t done anything. Except tell her she’d accomplished something she hadn’t been trying to do, something she’d turned down standing on this very boulevard.
“Yul Brynner,” the oldate’s friend said disgustedly, “and no Charles Bronson.”
On the Town was on the screen again. Alis switched it off without a glance and called up The Magnificent Seven.
“You want Charles Bronson and they give you Steve McQueen,” the oldate grumbled. “They always make you settle for second best.”
That’s what I love about the movies. There’s always some minor character standing around to tell you the moral, just in case you’re too dumb to figure it out for yourself.
“You never get what you want,” the oldate said.
“Yeah,” I said. “ ‘There’s no place like home,’ ” and headed for the skids.
VERA MILES: [Running out to corral, where RANDOLPH SCOTT is saddling horse] You were going to leave, just like that? Without even saying good-bye?
RANDOLPH SCOTT: [Cinching girth on horse] I got a score to settle. And you got a young man to tend to. I got the bullet out of that arm of his, but it needs bandaging. [RANDOLPH SCOTT steps in stirrup and swings up on horse]
VERA MILES: Will I see you again? How will I know you’re all right?
RANDOLPH SCOTT: I reckon I’ll be all right, [tips hat] You take care, ma’am. [Wheels horse around and rides off into sunset]
VERA MILES: [Calling after him] I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me! Never!
I went home and started work. I did the ones that mattered first — restoring the double cigarette-lighting in Now, Voyager, putting the uranium back in the wine bottle in Notorious, reinebriating Lee Marvin’s horse in Cat Ballou. And the ones I liked: Ninotchka and Rio Bravo and Double Indemnity. And Brides, which came out of litigation the day after I saw Alis. It was beeping at me when I woke up. I put Howard Keel’s drink and whiskey bottle back in the opening scene, and then ff’d to the barnraising and turned the pan of corn bread back into a jug before I watched Alis.
It was too bad I couldn’t have shown it to her, she’d seemed so surprised the number had made it onto film. She must have had trouble with it, and no wonder. All those lifts and no partner — I wondered what equipment she’d had to lug down Hollywood Boulevard and onto the skids to make it look like she was in the air. It would have been nice if she could see how happy she looked doing those lifts.
I put the barnraising dance on the disk with the others, in case Russ Tamblyn’s estate or Warner appealed, and then erased all my transaction records, in case Mayer yanked the Cray.
I figured I had two weeks, maybe three if the Columbia takeover really went through. Mayer’d be so busy trying to make up his mind which way to jump he wouldn’t have time to worry about AS’s, and neither would Arthurton. I thought about calling Heada — she’d know what was happening — and then decided that was probably a bad idea. Anyway, she was probably busy scrambling to keep her job.
A week anyway. Enough time to give Myrna Loy back her hangover and watch the rest of the musicals. I’d already found most of them, except for Good News and The Birds and the Bees. I put the dulce la leche back in Guys and Dolls while I was at it, and the brandy back in My Fair Lady and made Frank Morgan in Summer Holiday back into a drunk. It went slower than I wanted it to, and after a week and a half, I stopped and put everything Alis had done on disk and tape, expecting Mayer to knock on the door any minute, and started in on Casablanca.
There was a knock on the door. I ff’d to the end where Rick’s bar was still full of lemonade, took the disk of Alis’s dancing and stuck it down the side of my shoe, and opened the door.
It was Alis.
The hall behind her was dark, but her hair, pulled into a bun, caught the light from somewhere. She looked tired, like she had just come from practicing. She still had on her lab coat. I could see white stockings and Mary Janes below it, and an inch or so of pink ruffle. I wondered what she’d been doing — the “Abba-Dabba Honeymoon” number from Two Weeks with Love? Or something from By the Light of the Silvery Moon?
She reached in the pocket of the lab coat and held out the opdisk I’d given her. “I came to bring this back to you.”
“Keep it,” I said.
She looked at it a minute, and then stuck it in her pocket. “Thanks,” she said, and pulled it out again. “I’m surprised so many of the routines made it on. I wasn’t very good when I started,” she said, turning it over. “I’m still not very good.”
“You’re as good as Ruby Keeler,” I said.
She grinned. “She was somebody’s girlfriend.”
“You’re as good as Vera-Ellen. And Debbie Reynolds. And Virginia Gibson.”
She frowned, and looked at the disk again and then at me, as if trying to decide whether to tell me something. “Heada told me about her job,” she said, and that wasn’t it. “Location assistant. That’s great.” She looked over at the array, where Bogart was toasting Ingrid. “She said you were putting the movies back the way they were.”
“Not all the movies,” I said, pointing at the disk in her hand. “Some remakes are better than the original.”
“Won’t you get fired?” she said. “Putting the AS’s back in, I mean?”
“Almost certainly,” I said. “But it is a fah, fah, bettah thing I do than I have evah done before. It is a—”
“Tale of Two Cities, Ronald Colman,” she said, looking at the screens where Bogart was saying good-bye to Ingrid, at the disk, at the screens again, trying to work up to what she had to say.
I said it for her. “You’re leaving.”
She nodded, still not looking at me.
“Where are you going? Back to River City?”