Stardust (14 page)

Ben walked over. Mountains, cities, before you released the bombs. Up close, just plaster and canvas, like a train village under a Christmas tree.

“This must have cost—”

Bunny nodded. “It was the time. We had special effects do it after hours, so you run up overtime. The Army just paid for the materials.” He caught Ben’s surprise. “Our contribution to the war effort. We didn’t just hand out doughnuts at the Canteen.”

“What are you going to do with it now?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? It’s just sitting here taking up space, but Mr. L can’t bring himself to get rid of it. The Army doesn’t want it. They can do actual aerial photography now. Funny thing is, the film quality’s not as good. They were better off with this.”

They made a circle of the back lot past the prop department, a hangar full of furniture, and the New York set. Everyone nodded or acknowledged Bunny, as if he were taking roll call. Lasner caught up with them on Sound Stage 5, in front of a plywood Hellcat fighter, sliced in half. A few grips were adjusting lights, fixed on the painted flat sky, but everyone else had gone to lunch.

“Well, at last,” Lasner said, putting his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Everything all right at home?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Hell of a thing. Anyway, you’re here. Bunny have you all set up? Anything you need, see him. It’s like talking to me.” He turned to Bunny. “What’s this about Rosemary’s dress?”

“Good news travels fast.”

“I happened to be over there.”

“What did you think?”

“What do I know? You’re the one knows this stuff.” He paused. “She never complains.”

“She’s nervous, that’s all. It’ll be fine.” He looked at Lasner. “It’s already paid for.”

“Don’t pinch. This is the picture we put her across. So what’s that worth?”

“I’ll look at the dress,” Bunny said, case closed. Ben watched the play between them, a practiced volley. It’s like talking to me.

Lasner nodded, then turned to the plane.

“Two more weeks on this. Think we can get it out before November?”

“We still have to score it.”

“The longer we wait— Who the hell’s going to want to see a war picture now? Would you?” he said to Ben. “I’m asking you. Seriously. These last two years, you show any goddam thing, you do business. Now we got all these guys coming back, kids over there seeing things, like you did. What do they want? Maybe they’re sick of this,” he said, gesturing to the plane. “War pictures.”

“Not with Dick Marshall,” Bunny said, indicating the pilot seat. “He’s had three in a row.”

“That’s no guarantee. Maybe Hayworth, that’s it. And that prick Cohn has her.” He cocked his head toward the studio across Gower, then looked at Ben. “You got the message about Saturday? Just a few people. Bring somebody. Nice.”

He left them at the door, heading back to his phones.

“It makes him crazy,” Bunny said. “Cohn having Hayworth.”

“Why?”

“They both started out down here. Same street. You don’t expect to get a star like that, not here. Well, maybe Rosemary will do it for him. She’s worked hard enough.”

“I thought it was all magic.”

“It helps if you help. Let’s get you back.”

“I met Cohn in Europe,” Ben said as they walked.

“You get around,” Bunny said, raising an eyebrow, having fun with it.

“I was an interpreter.”

“Cohn into English?”

Ben smiled. “Almost. He’s a little rough around the edges.”

“And he speaks so warmly of you.”

A policeman passed, touching his fingers to his hat. “Mr. Jenkins.”

“Bert,” Bunny said back.

“Not an actor?”

“Studio police. We have our own force.”

“Under you. Operations,” Ben said, thinking.

“It’s a small force.”

“And who deals with the outside police?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, runs interference. If somebody gets in trouble.”

“You think this is Metro? Benny Thau and his house detectives? There, no wonder. Just handling Mickey’s a full-time job. The rest of us just toddle off to bed and say our prayers like good children. Why, do you need to get a ticket fixed? Already?”

Ben shook his head. “Thank somebody.”

“For what?”

“Getting an accident report changed.”

“Changed.”

“To make it an accident. You know Danny Kohler was my brother.”

Bunny looked at him carefully. “Mr. L mentioned it.”

“Somebody at Continental got the report on him changed. Saved the family some embarrassment, so—”

“According to whom?”

“The police.” Ben shrugged. “People talk.”

“Through their hats. We don’t have that kind of influence.”

“Everybody says the studios have an in with the police.”

“Look, before you run away with yourself, let me tell you how things work. Somebody drives when he’s had a little too much to drink and naturally Publicity wants to keep that out of the papers. So we
make a nice donation to the Benevolent Fund and people are nice back. When they can be. Strictly parking ticket stuff. The kind of thing you’re talking about—nobody here can do that.”

“Not even you? I thought you might—”

“Not even me. In fact,
not
me.”

“I just wanted to thank—”

“And I’d hear about it. I hear most things on the lot. Somebody’s telling you stories. Anyway, why would we? Your brother wasn’t
at
Continental.”

“Maybe he had a friend here,” Ben said, looking directly at him.

Bunny returned the look, then sighed. “Do you know what our police do? They check the padlocks, make sure the lights are turned off, equipment’s where it should be, not walking off the lot. They’re guards. They’re not on the phone with downtown fixing cases.”

“Somebody was,” Ben said.

Bunny stared at him, a standoff. “So you keep saying.”

He turned away, leading them around a corner. “Here we are, B building. I gather you asked for Frank Cabot for the narration. I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t take him off a picture if it’s shooting. I put a contract player list on your pile—in case he’s not available. When do you want to record?”

“It’s not written yet.”

“You’ll want to hop to, then. Not really something for the hols, is it? And Hal Jasper likes to take his time. It’s worth it, but you can’t hurry him. You’re just in here.”

Walking a little faster now, eager to get away, but then caught at the door.

“Bunny, Lou Katz. You remember Julie? Julie Sherman. She’s making a test.”

Julie nodded and smiled, her lips moist with gloss. She was in low-cut satin, held up by a single diagonal strap. Lou, hovering, glanced nervously at Ben, not recognizing him but not wanting to offend.

“Of course,” Bunny said. “Nice to see you. Everything okay? They take care of you in Makeup?”

“Yes, everyone’s been wonderful,” she said, meaning it. A pleasant voice, modulated, not what Ben expected.

“You’ll be, too, sweetheart,” Katz said. “Bunny, we appreciate this. You’re not going to be disappointed. They said you didn’t want the song.”

“Lou, musicals? Here?”

“I just thought, to get the full range. This is a real talent.”

Julie blinked, her only sign of protest, but otherwise kept smiling, evidently used to being discussed.

“You were on the train,” she said, acknowledging Ben. “With Mr. Lasner.”

“Yes. And you were with Paulette. Selling bonds, right?”

She smiled, pleased to be remembered. Bunny glanced at them, taking this in, his attention diverted.

“Bunny, we’ll catch up with you later,” Katz said, checking his watch. “You’re going to like this one. Maybe they can run it for you with the dailies.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said politely, their cue to leave, then turned to Ben. “Paulette? Is there anyone you haven’t met yet?”

“Whoever called the police.”

Bunny stared at him. “So you can send a thank-you note. Just to be polite. It means that much to you.” He cocked his head toward the building behind them. “Third door down on the left. Nice to have you with us. We could use something different. Mr. L’s right, you know. Nobody on God’s earth is going to want to see Dick Marshall shooting down Zeros. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

He headed to the Admin building, glancing back once over his shoulder.

The office was adequate but basic—typewriter, couch, Venetian blinds—a place for passing through, not unlike the apartment at the Cherokee. Ben sat down at the desk, annoyed with himself for pressing Bunny. The studio string-puller, now wary, protecting his flank.

Things had been stacked on his desk in neat piles: budget, a provisional time-line schedule, technician availabilities, an inventory of film
already sent over from Fort Roach, the contract player list, personnel forms. The Signal Corps had had all the sloppy confusion of the Army, arrangements so haphazard they made the work itself feel improvised. This was a precision machine, waiting for him to set it in motion. To make something important. About millions. And all he could fix on was a police favor, worrying it like a sore tooth. Unable to leave it alone.

He picked up the phone and got an outside line.

“Meet any movie stars yet?” Kelly said when he heard Ben’s voice.

“Who made the call from Continental?”

“You tell me.”

“He didn’t give you a name? Whoever you talked to?”

“That would make it real. I get a tip. But that doesn’t mean it ever happened. My lucky guess. And nobody asks how I got there. Anyway, who would it be? Somebody in Publicity. Whoever. Who do you think makes these calls?”

“It wouldn’t be somebody further up the food chain?”

“Not likely. They like the cleaner air. We’re down here with the messenger service. The point is, who’d they call
for
. Who do they protect? They protect themselves. They protect the talent. This case, I’d go with the talent. He’s not renting an apartment for a business meeting. Just keep your ears open. Something like this happens, there’s always talk. I like the makeup girls. They always know who’s been out the night before. One look. Ask them out for a drink, you’ll hear what’s going on. Get in their pants, you’ll hear everything. You don’t even have to pay. Speaking of which, I could use a little contribution.”

“Why?”

“I got the resident list you wanted from Joel. Past year, right? He got all huffy. Why did I want it? Damned if I knew. Why do I?”

“I told you. Danny wasn’t driving around looking for
FOR RENT
signs. He knew the building. So, how? Maybe she used to live there.”

“Or somebody knew somebody. Or somebody heard—how far do you want to stretch it?”

“He had to know about it somehow. If we’re lucky, there’s a match.”

“Okay, I’ll swing by and leave it for you at the gate. Maybe—you got me curious—maybe I’ll run it by Polly’s files. She never throws anything out. Every rumor since Fatty’s Coke bottle.”

“She lets you go through her files?”

“Are you kidding? But it so happens it takes her hours to drink her lunch, and the secretary’s a friend of mine.”

“You have friends all over.”

“And I’m just the lowlife. Run a studio, you got the whole town in your pocket.”

Except the police, according to Bunny. He sat for a minute looking at the desk, then pulled over the contract list. Work backward. Who would they protect? A woman. Worth making a call for. He checked the credits. At Fox or Metro there would have been a slew of names, but Lasner borrowed stars so the featured players here made a much shorter list. Speaking parts, not hat-check girls or window shoppers. Recognizable. Rosemary Miller. Ruth Harris. Someone who met Danny on the side. Already married? One of these few, easy to check against the Cherokee records. Assuming she’d used her real name. Danny hadn’t. He thought of Lasner on the train: Who changes names? Actors. Or Danny, with something to hide.

He spent the rest of the day with Hal Jasper, a short, wiry man, still in uniform, with a permanent five o’clock shadow that suggested sprouting hair everywhere else. He was one of those technicians for whom film was tactile, a physical thing, not another form of theater. There was a reverence in the way he handled it, each splice a weighed decision. He’d already screened most of the footage, waiting for Ben, and now was full of ideas about it, eager to start.

“For the opening?” he said, framing his hands. “There wasn’t enough in the Dachau reel, but if you add some of the other material— Belsen, I guess, right?—you can go in just the way a GI would. The fence, the gates, everything. First time you see it. Walk in, looking around. What the hell happened here? Let it sink in. The faces. You don’t say a word. Just look. Put a big chalk mark on the floor.”

“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.”