“A crime story,” Ben said.
“It’s the way in. I mean, if you see it that way.”
“A crime,” Ben said, thinking. “Why we need trials.”
“Trials. How the hell do you judge people like this, I don’t know. Unless you string them all up. Then you’re doing what they did.”
Ben looked up at the intensity in his voice. Thinking of Germans in greatcoats with attack dogs, not the kids eating out of PX garbage cans, both things true.
“Signal Corps said there’s more footage coming, but let me start with this.”
Ben nodded, feeling like an assistant, the machinery of the studio already whirring around him.
There were technician reqs to fill out and discarded film to be sorted and sent back to Fort Roach, so it was late by the time the gate called to say there was a delivery for him. Kelly, almost forgotten. It was still light, but the lot was quiet now, only a few distant carpenter hammers banging on a set somewhere. In the Admin screening rooms, they’d be setting up the rushes for Lasner and the producers, but most of Continental had gone home. The east sides of the sound stages were in shadows.
“Anything?” Ben asked, taking the manila envelope.
“Nada,” Kelly said. “Only a Red. If he is. Polly’s got them under every bed, so who knows?”
“A woman?” Ben said, interested.
“No. Guy. No connection. Probably some name she got from the Tenney Committee. They feed her stuff they can’t use-can’t prove. Then she runs it and they watch what happens. What pops out of the hole. Cozy.”
“And nothing else?”
“Not at the old Cherokee. You know what, though? She’s got Frank Cabot as a fruit. That’ll come as a surprise to his ex-wives.” He grinned. “Or maybe not.”
“Where does she get this stuff anyway?”
“Little birds. Chirp, chirp. And once in a while she gets hold of something real and makes him sing. ‘You wouldn’t want me to-’ And of course he doesn’t. Can’t. So he feeds her someone else.”
“Nice.”
Kelly shrugged. “Hooray for Hollywood. Don’t work too late,” he said, making a mock salute with one finger. “Let me know if you get a match.”
But no one on the Cherokee list appeared in the Continental directory. Ben looked at the short list of contract players he’d set apart. Not even similar name changes, like Kohler becoming Collins. Who changed names? Actors. Didn’t any live at the Cherokee, grateful for the phone lines? Somebody there had to be in pictures. He picked up the personnel form from his to-do pile and stopped. One box for Name, one for Birth Name. The office files would have everyone’s real name, maybe the one used to rent apartments. He filled out his own form, an excuse to hold in his hand, then took the lists and walked over to the Admin building.
It was dark behind the translucent glass panel, but the door, luckily, was unlocked, part of the protected village behind the studio gate. Ben turned on the light. A wall of filing cabinets. He started with the most likely featured players, working quickly. Arlene Moore used her real name, but Ruth Harris had been Herschel; Rosemary Miller, Risa Meyer. Ben smiled to himself. Hollywood’s own Aryanization program. But neither of them, nor any other birth name, was on the Cherokee list.
When he heard the voices outside in the hall he pushed the file back in the drawer, closing it gently so it wouldn’t slam. A click, inaudible to whoever was coming down the stairs. How could he have explained it? A clumsy snoop after hours. He was almost at the door when it opened.
“Oh, it’s you,” Bunny said, Lasner behind him. “I saw the light.”
“I was just dropping off my personnel form,” Ben said, indicating the sheet on the desk.
“So diligent and good.” Bunny looked quickly over the room, as if he expected to find someone else. “They should keep this locked.” He went over to the far filing case, test-pulling it open, looking relieved when it didn’t budge. “Well, the salaries are, so that’s all right. We wouldn’t want people dipping into that, would we? Makes for ill feeling up and down.” He switched off the light, following Ben out into the hall.
“You’re here late,” Lasner said, pleased. “You meet Hal?”
“We’ve already started. He’s just what I need. Thanks for-”
“What did I tell you? He’s got an instinct. His father was a cutter, you know. With Sennett. It’s in the blood. Like you. You on your way out? Come look at the rushes.”
“Sol,” Bunny said, his tone suggesting a breach of some unspoken protocol.
“If you’re going to learn the business,” Sol said.
Bunny looked at Ben, annoyed, then bowed to the inevitable.
“Mostly bridge shots tonight. Fair warning. No comments to the directors, understood? They’re touchy about tourists.”
But in fact, slumped down in their chairs, they seemed to expect a barrage of arrows, at least fired by Lasner.
“Eddie, what the hell’s the light on the left? What is that, sun on the wing? Except he doesn’t see it? Just us?”
“We can cover it, Sol,” the director said, not bothering to turn around. “It’ll be fine.”
Sol and Bunny were perched in the last row of the small screening room, everyone else scattered at random, leaving them a buffer zone of space. Lasner talked throughout, a back-and-forth flow, but Bunny sat quietly, looking over fingertips raised to his mouth in a pyramid, a line manager, carefully checking for scratch marks.
On the screen, Dick Marshall was leaning forward in his pilot seat, eyes squinting, taking sights on an unseen fighter plane. Then a closeup, his face registering the hit. A cover shot, another. There was no sound of gunfire or people yelling or the popping of AA fire outside-all the things Ben remembered-just Dick Marshall’s face, taking aim, taut with cold calculation.
After a few more cockpit shots they were in a western saloon, the camera turning away from the bar to take in the front door, the looming shadow behind it. The same shot, another angle. There seemed to be no order to the sequence, just what had come out of the lab first. Now a city street, someone getting out of a cab. The cab pulling away. A woman’s back, squaring her shoulders as she walks into an apartment building. Ben wondered how many pictures were in production, who kept track of the output, not just dialogue scenes but these, bridge shots, filler, seconds of screen time, the whole day’s work reduced to a few nuts and bolts, then welded to other pieces of film, like steel sections in the Kaiser yard, one ship a day rolling down the slipway. When the clip ended, Lasner started squirming, bored by the sudden lull.
“Where’s Rosemary?”
“She’s coming,” Bunny said, his head still resting on his fingertips. The screen crackled to life, the first clip with sound, the snap of the clapper with the take number. Rosemary was standing at a bar, smoking, her low-cut dress lined with beads, little darts of light. Dana Andrews, the star on loan, was questioning her, the kind of detective who didn’t bother to take off his hat indoors.
“We can do this hard or easy,” he said, the rich baritone turned tough.
“I don’t know where he is,” Rosemary said, disillusioned, not meeting his eye.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know.” She rubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. “He left me.”
“Then one of you got lucky.”
A new clip, a fresh cigarette, this time facing him. “I’m telling you, I don’t know.” The ashtray. “He left me.”
“Then one of you got luck.” A second. “Lucky. One of you got fucking lucky.” Laughing now, the crew laughing behind him, somebody yelling cut.
“Wonderful,” Lasner said. “A thousand a week, he’s laughing.”
Another clip, this time without a flub, Rosemary turning away, a more sympathetic nuance, the camera close on her.
“Better,” Bunny said. “How do you like the dress?”
“Another inch and her tits are in the shot.”