I eyed the way she was looking at Dr. Pepper on stage. "So…" I elbowed Brainert, "is Maggie Kline the mysterious 'who' that's turned Dr. Pepper into a giddy schoolboy?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Once again, Brainert rolled his eyes. "They've been phoning and e-mailing for months-ever since Dr. Lilly suggested that Maggie Kline be contacted for a guest speaker slot. According to Pepper, they hit it off from the first phone call. Maggie even came out here a week early, just so they could spend time together. He's besotted with her, although I can't imagine why."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked, automatically feeling defensive. After all, I myself wasn't getting any younger. "She's obviously accomplished-attractive, too, for that matter. Sure, she's no spring chicken, but it's not like Dr. Pepper up there isn't eligible for an AARP card."
"No, no, Pen. You misunderstand me," said Brainert. "My objection has nothing to do with her age or looks. She lives in Arizona. End of story."
"Excuse me?"
"What's he going to do after she goes back there? Take a six-hour plane ride for a dinner date?"
"Love isn't a function of convenience, Brainert. The heart doesn't work like that."
"Well, it should. Otherwise, what's he in for? Heartache. Longing. Either that or jet lag."
"What does it matter to you, anyway?"
"It matters to me because the second that woman leaves, the dean's going to be in an even fouler mood than he was before, and he always takes his temper out on me! 'Parker, I hope you fully appreciate what I've done, going out on a limb with the college, helping you secure that much-needed funding.' ' Parker, what's your plan for the financial viability of the theater?' " Brainert massaged his temples. "I tell you, Pen, I can't take it anymore."
Before I could suggest reasonable alternatives to Dr. Pepper and Maggie Kline splitting up, Pepper's voice boomed. "Now, without further ado, I'm delighted to give you Wrong Turn…"
The crowd applauded loudly and Bud Napp, the lanky, silver-haired widower and owner of Napp Hardware, hustled to move Dr. Pepper's standing microphone back into the wings.
"What's Bud doing on stage?" I whispered.
"Oh, Bud's been a big help," said Brainert, "along with his part- time construction crew."
"I didn't know he handled the restoration."
"He didn't. He just came in for some last-minute stuff- painting and wiring, hanging that public address speaker…"
Brainert's voice trailed off as the house lights dimmed and the movie started. On the big screen, the Gotham Features logo appeared-white clouds parting to show the dark silhouette of the Empire State Building-and then came the view of a road at night, shrouded in shadowy fog.
Bright white headlights cut through the mist. A large black sedan rumbled by-the only vehicle on the empty road. Inside the sedan, the driver looked like an average Joe, coming home from a day of sales calls. He wore a cheap suit and battered fedora. His tie was pulled loose and his five o'clock shadow made him look haggard and beaten.
Then the sedan's headlights lit up a stunning sight. Hedda Geist, the female lead, raced forward, onto the deserted Long Island road.
The crowd began to applaud. "Hedda, we love you!" cried a young man's voice from the audience.
She was young and beautiful, with waves of gold flowing over shoulders as creamy smooth as a marble statuette. She looked scared and vulnerable running along in bare feet, wearing a form-fitting gown of shimmering satin, with a plunging neckline and a bow on the bodice.
"Stop, please!" she called. Her gown was torn off one shoulder. She held it up with one hand while waving at the oncoming car with the other.
The Joe in the sedan gasped, his leather shoe slammed on the brake, and his car squealed to a halt.
What's the pitch, sister? Last time I saw this flick, it was 1948. Did somebody dial back the cuckoo or what?
The gruff voice I'd heard hadn't come from the screen. And it hadn't come from the audience. The voice had come from inside my own head. After a long day of slumber, the ghost of Jack Shepard had finally woken up.
CHAPTER 2. The Big Drop
NICK BENKO: You wait around long enough and sooner or later everything falls right in your lap. EDDIE WILLIS: Like rotten apples.
– The Harder They Fall, 1956
"KEEP IT DOWN, Jack," I silently warned. "I'm watching a movie."
I can see that, doll. I'm just surprised Hollywood took a turn for the worse. I thought by now they'd be making new pictures, not recycling the same old lamplit celluloid.
" Hollywood 's made plenty of new pictures since you… since you… you know… "
Since I got lead poisoning? Got my ticket punched? My lights put out? What is it with you square Janes? Always tiptoeing around the bare truth. You're completely bughouse about prettying things up-
"Jack, please! Why don't you just settle back and watch the movie?"
Because I've seen it before, doll. And it's a B picture-not that the A pictures were that much better. At least New York was filming on the cheap. In my day, Tinsel Town was spending like drunken sailors-$600,000 for one movie. What a scam job. Leaking that kind of scratch for what? Costume and cardboard? A couple of chippies reciting lines off a pile of papers?
"Jack, we're not in your day anymore. And I'm sorry to tell you that budgets have only gone up. Six hundred thousand won't even cover a Hollywood production's catering bill, which is beside the point anyway. This film isn't being recycled for lack of product. It's part of a retrospective on the film noir genre." The film what genre?
"Film noir. Don't tell me you've never heard of it. I know you were alive when it first emerged." I named some of the genre's titles to jog his memory.
Yeah, Okay… Jack admitted. I remember seeing some of those movies, but I can't believe twenty-first-century eggheads are getting hot and bothered about a bunch of B pictures that couldn't afford color. Fancying them up with a French name's about on the level with your generation's buying water in a bottle.
"Film noir simply means that these films all shared the same dark style and sensibility, especially the black-and-white palette, the morally ambiguous narrative viewpoint, and the realistic locations. All of that was new, revolutionary."
Realistic locations revolutionary? Listen, I knew some of those Poverty Row guys, working out in Queens. They set up in the streets instead of sound stages for one reason-because they were shooting on the cheap.
"Okay, but what about the films that featured anti-hero detectives like The Maltese Falcon or The Big Sleep?"
What about 'em?
"Weren't you a fan of them?"
Sweetheart, I didn't need to see 1,001 frames of Humphrey Bogart to tell me how the world turned. Sure, I watched those pictures-when I was tailing cheating spouses or sniffing out blackmailers and scumbag suspects. The balcony always was a nice, dark place for dirty deeds. And the only thing that made those movies worth my dime were the broads. I can't deny those long-legged starlet types were serious whistle bait.
"You mean like Hedda Geist up there?"
I waited for Jack to answer. He didn't.
"Jack?"
But there was no reply. The ghost had abruptly withdrawn- an annoying habit of Jack's. Shrugging off his sudden departure, I turned my full attention back to the movie screen, where Hedda was playing one of her most famous parts, the femme fatale Sybil Sand.
With her shimmering, torn silver gown, Hedda flagged down the car driven by the haggard salesman "Joe." He pulled his car over and she pulled him into a web of lies about her "abusive" husband. By the time she was done with him, Joe had murdered Sybil's spouse for her, so Sybil could inherit the man's fortune. Unfortunately, the husband's older sister became suspicious, and Sybil once again called on Joe to kill for her.