Missing Reels (37 page)

“OH MY GOD.”

“And that’s not the worst of it. They’re forcing her to help them with the
costume
Crown Jewels.”

“Do you two bozos want to see a movie?” interjected Ceinwen. “Like, in a theater?”

Talmadge came up close and pointed at her, like Bela Lugosi. “From … what … year?”

“This year, silly. Let’s see what’s playing.”

Jim staggered. “Who are you? What have you done with Ceinwen?”

She wasn’t going to see Freddie Krueger, she couldn’t go that far. But she wasn’t going to see
Radio Days
, either, even though she liked Woody Allen. It was set in the 1940s, and when Ceinwen wanted the 1940s on film, she went straight to the source. She talked them into
Angel Heart
, which wasn’t that hard; Jim confessed to having a thing for Mickey Rourke.
Angel Heart
, it turned out, was set in the 1950s, but at least she’d tried. She attempted to argue them into liking it, though she hadn’t much liked it herself. They were all in bed by 1:00 a.m.

When the phone began to ring, she tried to look at the clock, but knocked it over. She made her way into the living room as she heard Matthew’s voice on the machine saying, “Ceinwen, are you there?”

She picked up the receiver. “Matthew?” The overhead light blazed on. Talmadge was wearing boxers and a T-shirt and scowling at her.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Matthew was saying, “did I wake you?”

“Oh please, you know you did.” She’d been so miserable all week, and suddenly she knew that all she’d needed was his accent, his voice. Not just Talmadge imitating it.

“Tell him,” announced Talmadge, “he can’t be much of a mathematician if he can’t add up the time difference from the West Coast. Shit, even I can do that.”

“Is that Talmadge?”

“Yes, he’s just going back to bed. Give me a minute.”

She waved good-night. Talmadge began to slouch out of the room and paused at the entrance. “Light on, or off?”

“Off, please.”

“Kinky.” He switched it off and when he was safely back behind his screens, she pulled the phone into her room, slid down to the bed and put her mouth close to the receiver. “What on earth were you thinking? Poor Talmadge.”

“I was thinking you might want to know what the weather was like today here in southern California.”

He called to flirt? The timing was weird, but he must miss her, too. She played along. “I’m assuming it was sunny.”

“Correct. Sunny. About 24—that’s 75 in your money, I suppose. Low humidity, no clouds. And I had the morning off.”

“I’m happy for you, sugar,” she drawled.

“Are you,
honey
. Perhaps you’d like to know how I spent my one morning’s holiday in warm, sunny, dry Los Angeles.”

She yawned. “I hope you wore sunblock.”

“Oddly enough, there is very little direct sunlight in the archives of the
L.A. Times
.”

“Matthew!” She cringed at how loud that came out and went to shut the door. “You were looking up something?”

“Yes.”

“Something for me?” It was a second chance at Christmas.

“Yes again.”

He wanted her to ask, and he had more patience than she did. “Who, what?”

“Norman Stallings.”

She fell flat on her back with a bounce, and spoke without caring what was in her voice. “You’re wonderful. Did you find anything?”

“I did. I’m so wonderful, I even made a copy.”

“He’s alive?”

“Since you’re basically an optimist, let’s say yes. I found an article from 1984.”

“What did it say?” she demanded, then suddenly felt remorse. “This could get expensive. Do you want to tell me when you get back?”

“I do not. I want to drag you out of bed in the wee hours and force you to listen to the entire story. It’s called revenge. And it’s worth the charges.” She heard some papers rustling. “It’s about Norman’s career as an assistant director. ‘In many far-flung corners of the country there live people whose Hollywood ties go back decades, to a more romantic and glittering time. Their names were never in lights, they never won the Oscars, but they were the people who kept the star machine spinning. One such veteran lives alone in a vast New York apartment, his neighbors passing him every day without realizing the memories he cherishes. His name is Norman Stallings. In the days before sound—’”

“I can’t believe it! It’s him!”

“Since you want to pause here anyway, I have something to say. I know you have a low opinion of the London press. But if you think they’d run this swill in the
Guardian
…”

“He’s in New York!”

“If he’s alive, yes, probably. The article’s dated—”

“But he must be,” she said, talking over him. “Miriam told me she plays mah-jongg with some old friends uptown. I bet you anything that’s Norman.”

“It’s certainly possible, although it could be—”

“She told me somebody wrote an article about a friend of hers and she didn’t like it. I guess she thought it made him out to be sad or something. This was it. Don’t you think?” No response. “Matthew?”

“Mm. Still here. If you’ll let me finish.”

“I’ll shut up now.”

More rustling. “What was I saying?”

“Swill.”

“Right. Anyway, nothing about Arnheim and very little about silents, but he worked for some of your old friends. Lubitsch, Wellman, someone named Bor-zhayj—”

“That’s Borzage.” Silence again. “I’m sorry. Keep going.”

“Bor-ZAY-gy, then. After I made a copy, I had the bright idea of going up to reception and asking if the reporter still worked there. You wouldn’t think he would be, writing that sort of prose, but he was and they let me see him.”

“Doorstepping,” she said, giddy.

He grunted. “I suppose. I don’t think it counts if you’re doing it to a reporter. He was friendly enough until I showed him the article and then he put his head in his hands. I thought it must be remorse over all those clichés in one article, but no, he said a few days after it ran ‘some old bat’—that was his phrase—some old bat rang him up and shouted at him for half an hour. Said she was a friend of Norman’s and he should be ashamed of himself, making Norman out to be a pathetic old relic like that. Told him he had no respect for his elders, wanted to know if his mother knew he was out in the streets of New York exploiting people …”

She couldn’t help interrupting again. “Miriam.”

“Most likely, although he didn’t remember the name and he wasn’t sure she bothered to state it. He said ‘Good morning,
Los Angeles Times
’ and it was off to the races. I asked him how he happened to write this and he said he’d spent a holiday at his uncle’s apartment on Park Avenue up in the seventies and got acquainted with Norman. He was a lowly assistant trying to write features, so he interviewed Norman, and when he returned, they took it. Why, I can’t imagine. You heard the beginning and the whole thing’s like that. ‘In 1932 he met the great Ernst Lubitsch, then and now a byword for sophistication …’”

“Park Avenue. In the seventies. Which Street exactly?”

“Unfortunately, I overplayed my hand, because I asked the same thing and he started to get suspicious and wanted to know why I was asking about this article. I’d introduced myself by saying I was trying to track down an old friend and I repeated that, and he suddenly seemed to think I was working for the lady who’d called him. Refused to say another word. Told me it would be unethical.”

“That’s all right, I can check the phone book.” She turned the clock over. It was past 3:00 a.m.

“In any event, Miriam has her revenge. They promoted him, but he’s reporting on the bond market.” She stared at the door to her bedroom and wondered whether she could grab the Manhattan White Pages from the living room without waking up Talmadge again. “You’re not saying anything. Are we happy?”

“You don’t know how happy. Thank you.” She inhaled and decided there was no point in holding back. “I know you didn’t want to be doing this while you’re working. What made you change your mind?”

A pause. “I have a feeling Norman may be definitive.”

Somehow that didn’t sound right. “Definitive?”

“You told me an assistant director knows everything. And we know he was at Emil’s house. So if he knows the studio people took the print, well, that’s that.”

She’d been standing on top of the Ziegfeld Follies staircase, ready to strut like Lana Turner. And now she was bumping all the way down, smack on her derriere. “Yeah. That would be that.”

“Ceinwen?” He was trying to get her to give up. Knowing she’d been thinking the same thing for days only made it worse. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you rooting for me to fail here?”

“I’m not rooting—that means something else in some parts of the world, by the way—”

“Like what?”

“All I’m
rooting
for is a final answer, because ‘we’ll never know’ is never going to satisfy you.” Obsessive. He was calling her obsessive again. “Ceinwen.” Gently. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. Not being content with a question mark. It isn’t bad at all.” He waited, then, “It’s a scientific sort of attitude, in fact.”

“Thank you. I think so too.” She felt herself relax a bit. He’d been out there in Los Angeles doing something for her, not Anna. He didn’t spend his only morning researching the causes of the Great Depression, or whatever it was you did to help out an economist. “I always thought we’re alike in a lot of ways,” she said.

“Maaay-be.” He thought that was funny. Well, let him. “I don’t think I have quite the same obsession with lost causes.”

That word. He’d used it. “That’s because you’re not Irish.”

“So you keep reminding me. Not my fault, is it? God, it really is late. Go to bed. No, wait—promise me you won’t call this old geezer tonight if you find his number.”

“I’m not even going to look for it until this morning.”

“Of course you won’t. What was I thinking? Good night.”

“Wait, I wanted to ask you something.” She grabbed the book beside her bed and opened it to the first dog-ear. “What’s spunk?”

“
What
?”

“I’m reading
Money
…”

O
F COURSE
N
ORMAN WASN
’
T IN THE PHONE BOOK
. W
HEN HE RETURNED
, before he’d even shown her the article, Matthew demanded to know how she planned to go about about her search. Ceinwen told him she planned to divide the blocks of Park Avenue in the seventies into sections, go into each lobby and ask to deliver a letter for Norman Stallings, then see what they said. She was expecting him to tell her this wasn’t the way to do it, but instead he said, “That sounds like a nice methodical approach.”

His approval was so unexpected she was reluctant to abandon the plan, but she’d spent all day Monday going door to door, and now it was Tuesday, and she was going on her eighteenth building, and she had realized that while Park Avenue doormen and concierges might not be universally unfriendly—some of them were almost charming—they were universally suspicious. There’s no one here by that name, Miss, ah, Miss … Reilly? What makes you think Mr. Stallings is in this building, Miss Reilly? “I must have written it down wrong.” Nobody looked satisfied with that. She’d taken to crisscrossing up and down the blocks, not letting anyone see her go straight from one door to the next, so they wouldn’t think she was … whatever they thought she was doing. Dunning Norman, maybe. Serving a subpoena.

The supply of Park Avenue buildings had to end at some point, but progress was slow, and she was tired. She was also afraid that maybe the doormen all had coffee together someplace, and if they started swapping notes about the crazy blonde looking for some dude named Norman Stallings, she might walk in to discover they had two men from Bellevue waiting with a butterfly net.

She stood on the corner and tried to rearrange her thoughts. Maybe being methodical like Matthew was the wrong approach. Maybe she needed to treat this the way she treated everything else, by pretending it was a movie. The camera told you which building would be the important one, no matter where it was in the frame. She imagined herself as Delgado. No, Emil.

Pan left. She turned downtown. A dog walker with about a half-dozen animals on leashes nearly trampled her in a storm of fur and yapping. She stepped closer to the curb and re-focused. Pan right.

That was the one to try. The dark-brown brick, with the Deco entrance and the black-and-gold awning. That was the place to hole up with your romantic, glittering Hollywood memories.

The uniformed doorman waved her in and she strode to the concierge. “I have an envelope here for Mr. Norman Stallings.”

“All right. I’ll ring him.”

No time for celebration. This was supposed to be a delivery, not a meeting. The meeting was supposed to come later, after he’d read the letter.

“You don’t have to do that. I want to leave this for him.”

The man paused, hand on his phone. “This is a delivery, am I right?”

“Yes, but—”

He spoke slowly. “When we get a delivery, and the tenant is home, we tell them it’s here. Do you have something for him to sign?”

“No, this is a personal delivery.”

“Then if he wants to accept it, he can do that in person.” Was he looking at her scarf? “As long as you’re sure he wants it.”

“I don’t think he doesn’t want it.” She wasn’t making sense even to herself.

“Good. We’re on the same page.” He dialed. She closed her eyes and heard him say, “Morning, Mr. Stallings. Young lady in the lobby with an envelope she wants to give you …Yes.” She opened her eyes and found him looking her over. “Yes. Very … I’ll have her wait.” He hung up and gestured toward the waiting area. “Have a seat.”

She sat on the edge of an ultrasuede loveseat, trying to look as though she’d stopped by on her way to Henri Bendel. A middle-aged man in the most beautiful black coat she’d ever seen emerged from an elevator and stopped at the desk. His watch shone and so did his briefcase. She contemplated the place where his coat hem hit his calf, thinking it must be tailored. Usually men wore their coats—

“Good morning. I understand you have a delivery for me.” The voice vibrated around her ears and bounced off the painting behind her. A slender old man with white hair the same length as Matthew’s was standing in front of her. She hadn’t heard the second elevator or anything else.