“That’s me.”
“I’m Tim Corbin, assistant production manager; I’ll get you oriented, then I’ll take you to wardrobe and makeup. Follow me.” He led the way around a corner into a street between soundstages, dug a key out of his pocket, and unlocked a medium-sized recreational vehicle. “This is number twenty-one; it’s yours for the duration.”
Stone followed Corbin inside. There was a living room, a bedroom, a kitchenette, a toilet, and a small room with a desk, a phone, and a fax machine. The refrigerator was stocked with mineral water, juices, and fruit. “Very nice,” he said.
“It’s a cut above what a featured player usually gets,” Corbin said. “You been sleeping with the director?”
“He’s not my type.”
“This is where you’ll hang out when they’re not using you. Unless you’re told different, you’re expected to be on the lot from eightA.M. until sixP.M., and if you haven’t been told to be on the set, this is where they’ll always look for you. You’ve got a phone line and a fax machine with its own line. By the way, the keys are in the ignition, but don’t ever ever crank it up and move it; that’s a Teamster’s job, and we don’t want to annoy the Teamsters, do we?”
“Certainly not.”
“You’re going to find that a lot of stuff on the set gets done by union guys, so don’t ever move any furniture, or even a prop, unless it’s called for in a scene, okay?”
“Okay.”
“When in doubt, ask me.”
“Okay, Tim.”
“Now let’s get you to wardrobe.” He led Stone to a golf cart and drove quickly to another building.
Bobby Routon greeted him, sticking out a hand. He was short, plump, and gay. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “I think we got you togged out.” He grabbed a suit off a rack, and Stone slipped into the trousers and coat. “You were right, a perfect forty-two long.” He pinned up the trousers, and Stone tried on three more suits while a woman hemmed the trousers of the first. “All actors should be so easy to fit,” Routon said. “Okay, get into suit number one, and I’ll find you a tie.” He handed Stone a lovely ivory-colored Sea Island cotton shirt. “You’ve got a dozen of these, in case you sweat or spill something. For Christ’s sake, don’t eat lunch in any of the suits; if you spill catsup on it, we don’t have a backup, and it could cost an hour’s shooting while it’s cleaned, and an hour’s shooting is more bucks than either of us can imagine.”
“I’ll be neat, I promise.”
“A dream actor,” Routon sighed. Stone got into a shirt and Routon got a tie around his neck. “Let me tie it, I can do it better than you; it’s my job to make you look good.”
Stone checked himself in a mirror while Routon folded and stuck a silk pocket square into his breast pocket.
“Shoes,” Routon said, holding up a pair of Italian-looking captoes. He helped Stone into them and tied the laces. “Comfy?”
“Comfy,” Stone said, walking around.
“You’re ready to be famous,” Routon said. “All the suits will be put in your dressing room, and you’ll be told which one to wear on which day of the trial you’re shooting, but I think you’ll be in this suit all day. When you have as much as half an hour to yourself, go to your RV and take the suit off; a wardrobe lady will press it. Get used to being seen in your underwear by strange women.” He waved goodbye.
“That was easy,” Stone said as he and Corbin left.
“Bobby’s the best in the business,” Corbin said. “Now makeup.” He drove a couple of buildings down.
Inside, Stone was greeted by a pretty young woman in jeans who relieved him of his jacket and sat him down in a barbers chair. “I’m Sally Dunn,” she said, “and I’m going to make you even more beautiful.”
“What, exactly, are you going to do to me?”
“Not much,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt collar and lining it with tissues. “Your problem is you’re the world’s whitest white man.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Can’t tell you how long it’s been since I saw a real blond, male or female. You have fairly blond skin, too, although I see you’ve picked up a little sun since you’ve been in town. You’re going to have a lot of light dumped on you on the set, and without makeup, you’d look like a corpse, especially next to Vance, who’s so tan he doesn’t need makeup. My job is to make you look like a living person under those lights.” She tilted his head back onto the headrest and went to work.
When she had finished Stone opened his eyes and looked into the mirror. “I’m orange,” he said.
“You won’t be under light. I’ll be on the set to touch you up between takes. Try not to get too hot and start sweating; it just makes everything hotter. I’ll have a fan for you. At the end of the day, you can come back here for cleanup, or there’s cold cream in your trailer. Use that before you shower.”
Corbin drove Stone back to Stage Twelve, and escorted him inside.
It was as cavernous as the first stage Stone had visited, but instead of the farmhouse, there was a warren of sets-offices, a conference room, a jury room, a bedroom, and, finally, a courtroom.
There was a lot of action in the courtroom-technicians of every sort swarmed over the set, adjusting lights and props. Gradually, actors arrived, dressed as lawyers, cops, jurors, and spectators, then Mario Ciano made his appearance.
“Good morning, Stone,” he said. “We’re going to shoot Scene 14A, where you question your first witness, the junkie.”
“Right,” Stone said, finding the right page.
“We’re not going strictly in chronological order; I don’t want you to have to shoot your opening statement to the jury first time out of the stall. We’ll get you warmed up with a rehearsal, then your little scene, then we’ll shoot Vance’s cross-examination, then we’ll get reaction shots from both of you. You’ll have to be on the set most of the day, because you can be seen in backgrounds.”
Stone was introduced to the actor playing his second chair, then rehearsals began. Stone learned to stop on a mark and ignore the camera, then they began shooting. It was more difficult than he had imagined it would be, but he got it done.
He had a sandwich in his RV dressing room at lunch; his suit was pressed, and Sally Dunn came and redid his makeup. “I hear it’s going well,” she said.
After lunch, Vance Calder did his scenes, then Stone sat and did reaction shots while Vance read his lines off-camera, then Stone read while Vance reacted. By the end of the day they had finished five pages of script, about five minutes on film, which Stone was told was a good day. When shooting was done, he removed his own makeup, showered, and surrendered his new suit to wardrobe, which would press and, if necessary, clean it overnight. By the time he arrived back at the Bel-Air, he was exhausted.
He opened the door to his room and found two little envelopes on the floor containing his day’s messages. The first was from Bill Eggers.
“So how’s the movie star?”
“Exhausted. You wouldn’t believe how hard actors work.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“What’s up?”
“I made a few calls about Onofrio Ippolito.”
“What did you find out?”
“It was really weird;nobody would say anything about him, good or bad.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, every time I asked somebody about Ippolito he’d say, ‘Oh, he’s a banker, I think,’ and then he’d get Alzheimer’s. And these are people who should know stuff about him, people who know stuff abouteverybody. ”
“So they’re protecting him?”
“More likely, they’re scared shitless of him.”
“Maybe I should have been nicer to him at dinner.”
“I hope you didn’t spill anything on him.”
“I hope so, too.”
“It worries me, Stone. I’ve never run into anything quite like this before. Usually I can find out anything about anybody with three or four calls.”