Stardust (37 page)

“Jesus Christ,” Lasner said, but quietly, his face pale, eyes fixed on Gower Street.

Then Ben saw Hal trying to skirt around the crowd to reach the gate. Strikers swerved around to block his way, the crowd now moving by instinct. More shouts, grabbing him as he tried to rush in, the studio police shrinking back. Someone landed a punch, maybe unintentional, and Hal swung back, drawing the others on him. A lucky hit to the face, suddenly a spurt of blood, so startling that everything stopped for a second, a freeze before crossing the line, then a blur of rushing hands. Ben looked down the street. A siren wailing, squad cars. Not one, a stream of them. Like MPs with clubs. Now there wouldn’t be any sides. Just bodies in the way.

He ran out of the conference room, clumping down the stairs and tearing through the gate. A small group of studio workers had clustered behind it, watching.

“Help me get Hal,” he shouted at one of them, but didn’t wait, pushing his way into the crowd.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“The cops are coming. Get out of here. Everybody.”

“Yeah? Friends of yours?”

He kept going. Hal and the striker were now in a kind of wrestling lock, too close to get any punches in, pounding each other’s back.

“Get the fuck out,” the striker said as Ben tried to separate them.

“Let go. The cops are coming. Want to get your head cracked?”

Hal stepped away, the opening the picket had been waiting for. A quick jab to the face, Hal’s nose running blood, then another punch as Hal held his hand to his nose, stunned and reeling now.

“You stupid fuck!” Ben yelled, jumping on the picket, hitting him hard enough to knock him down, then dropping to his chest, another hard punch, so that the striker turned on his side, cowering, trying to cover his head.

Ben pushed himself up and grabbed Hal by the shoulders, herding him toward the gate, his hand throbbing. A studio cop stopped Hal with his stick, anyone bleeding now suspect, and Hal swung back at him. The cop weaved, clutching Hal’s shirt until Hal managed to pry him loose, flinging his arms away. A flashbulb went off somewhere to the side. The cop fell, taking one of the strikers down with him. But people had begun pulling away, looking toward the sirens, the street jumping with sound. Ben got Hal through the gate.

“Call the infirmary,” he said to Carl. “He’s not going to be the only one.”

He pulled Hal over to a low wall, sitting him down, and handed him a handkerchief to wipe the blood. “How’s the nose? Broken?”

“I don’t know. What’s that feel like?”

“Squishy.”

“My head,” Hal said, touching it. “Son of a bitch actually kicked me.”

A studio cop staggered in, blood streaming down the side of his head. One of the infirmary nurses, rushing to the gate, intercepted him, making him sit.

“You know the good part?” Hal said. “I’m on their side.” He looked at the clotted handkerchief. “We never get blood right. It processes too red.”

“You dizzy, anything like that?”

“No, the posse got there in time.” He looked over at Ben. “Thanks. Where’d that come from?”

The police were wading in with clubs, swinging indiscriminately at everyone. Bodies in the way. Even the studio cops were shrinking back, out of range. Some press had arrived, trailing after the squad cars, and more flashbulbs went off around the edges of the fight. Tomorrow the picture would be a mob out of control, a breakdown, not a confused, spontaneous fight, overwhelmed by police clubs. People were falling down, crawling away before they could be trampled. One of the cops bent over to hit a striker again, not finished, drawing some blood before they began the arrests.

“Jesus Christ. Hal,” Lasner said, his voice shaking. Most of the other producers had followed, drawn like gawkers at a highway wreck.

“I’m okay.”

“What the hell is happening?” Lasner said, not really a question, looking out through the gate, his face bewildered.

Some press photographers raced past. Out to the left, two cops had zeroed in on Howard Stein, who had begun with his hands outstretched in a stop signal but now had thrown them on top of his head, trying to wrench himself away as the cops grabbed his shirt, dragging him. A flashbulb. A club whacked his arm. Another striker came to help but the police ignored him, interested only in Stein, pummeling him now.

“Do you need help to the infirmary?” Bunny was saying to Hal.

“Our own people,” Lasner said to himself, still looking out.

They hit Stein again, this time in the head, and he staggered, falling as a second blow got him on the neck, and Ben saw that they weren’t going to stop, a storm trooper kind of frenzy. Another club, raised high, then swung hard. He glanced quickly at Hal, now being swabbed by a nurse, and rushed through the gate again, grabbing some of the others.

“Get Stein! They’ll kill him.”

At first no one seemed to have heard, then one of them looked toward Stein, the swinging clubs.

“Fuck,” he said, dragging another picket and racing over with Ben.

They came up behind the police, jabbing at them with picket sticks, a quick thrust to the knee that brought one down. The other swung around, his club whacking Ben on the arm. Ben lunged for his throat, a surprise, the cop’s face drawn back in a snarl. Then one of the pickets threw a kidney punch and the cop teetered backward, falling against the strikers. More men came over, blocking the cops from Stein. Ben looked down, winded for a second. Stein was lying on the pavement, a pool of blood spreading under his head, Danny in the police photo, his body flung in the same angle. Or did all bodies fall that way, arms awkward, twisted? He knelt down and felt his neck. Not dead. But now the police would have him, resisting arrest the least of it. Legal clubs this time.

“Help me,” he said to one of the pickets. “We have to get him out of here.”

“You shouldn’t move him.”

“Just fucking give me a hand,” he said, a command, lifting Stein from underneath and waiting for the picket to take the other side.

“Fuck,” the man said, grunting as he lifted.

“Howard, can you walk at all? We can’t do deadweight.”

“Not dead.” Almost indistinct, a growl.

“Just try to walk. We’ve got you. Put your arm there. Hold on.”

They went a few steps, Stein dragging, then pulling himself up, putting weight on his feet. Blood was still running from his head, staining Ben’s shoulders.

“Who called the cops?” Stein said, another mumble.

“Just keep walking. There’s a doctor. Not far.”

Stein opened his eyes, squinting at the Continental gate.

“A doctor,” he said, trying to make sense of this.

“Just inside. Keep moving.”

He swiveled his head to check on the two cops, still down, the others not near enough to help. The crowd was a blur of hand fighting. Some people had begun to run away, yelling curses, but retreating. A flashbulb went off in front of them, the photographer probably recognizing Stein. Another siren. Reinforcements. Ben was straining under the weight, sweaty now, his shirt bloody.

“Almost there. Not far,” he said again, trying to move faster, before the police noticed and could cut them off.

At the gate the crowd of employees were still watching, looking dazed. A battle scene on Gower Street. Casualties. Real blood. Ben realized then that they were looking at him, wet with it. But he’d made it to Carl’s booth.

“You can’t bring him in here,” Bunny said. “Do you know who that is?”

“So what? He’s hurt.”

Stein opened his eyes again, looking at Bunny, then Lasner, and began to smile, as if they were acting out a surreal joke.

“You have a stretcher?” Ben said to the nurse. “He’s heavy.”

She hesitated, uncertain, waiting to be told what to do.

“You can’t be serious,” Bunny said.

“You want the cops to finish him off?” Ben said. “He’s hurt.”

“He’s picketing
us,
” Bunny said.

“Get the stretcher,” Ben said to the nurse, then turned to Bunny. “Look at his head. You can’t just leave him in the street.”

He looked at Lasner, still sitting next to Hal, a vacant expression on his face, like someone after a house fire.

“Fucking Stein,” one of the producers said.

“He could be dying,” Ben said to Bunny. “You want the papers to see Continental throw him back in the street?” He jerked his head, motioning to the photographers outside the gate. “How would you fix that?”

For a moment no one said anything, then Lasner got up, his eyes on Ben. “Get a stretcher,” he said to the nurse. “And the doc.” He turned to one of the studio cops. “Tell Charlie to get the men back in. That’s it.”

They waited together for a few seconds, an awkward silence, louder than the yells and sirens behind them, then Lasner patted Hal on the shoulder and turned to go. “See if anybody else needs an ambulance,” he said to Carl. “Before they start throwing them in the wagon.” He looked at Bunny, expressionless. “The cops stay off the lot.”

The nurse was running toward them, bringing two aides with a stretcher.

“Get him to Cedars,” Lasner said to her. “When the doc says it’s okay.” Then, his face drained, almost vacant, he started back to the Admin building.

“I suppose you know what’s going to happen when our people see him,” Bunny said to Ben.

“Maybe you should switch unions. Or would it cost you?”

“You don’t know the first thing about it.”

“I don’t care,” Ben said, helping the aides lift Stein onto the stretcher. Stein groaned, eyes half-open.

“Right. Leave it to me to explain. Make a mess and hand somebody else a mop. And when the police come looking for him? Not exactly Mr. X, is he? They know him.”

Ben stood. “And went at him. I saw it. And I have a good memory for faces. Tell them anybody comes after him with cuffs, I’ll ID
them
. The ones who clobbered him when he was down. And me.” He touched his arm. “Beating up soldiers. I’m still in the Army, remember?”

“Out of uniform.”

“Not when I testify. We can play it that way, if you want. You think this is a mess? You wouldn’t have a mop big enough.” He turned to the aides. “Got him? On two.”

Bunny watched them lift the stretcher. “Why are you doing this?” he said.

“I owe him a favor.”

Stein opened his eyes, watching them both as the group moved past the Admin building toward the infirmary.

“A favor,” Bunny said.

“Plus he’s bleeding.” He turned. “I’d do the same for you.”

In the infirmary, the aides transferred Stein to an examination table, high enough to do stitches. As the nurse swiped his head, stanching blood, Stein reached out his hand, grabbing Ben’s wrist.

“Don’t leave me,” he said.

Ben started, back in the other hospital, another hand on his wrist, a stopped moment.

“You’ll be all right,” the nurse said, reassuring.

A hand with the same urgency, but it was Stein, not Danny, a different meaning.

“Not with them,” he said, looking at Bunny and one of the aides.

Bunny rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Now I’m Chester Morris. Where did I put my gun?”

“You’d all better scoot,” the doctor said, “while we patch him up. This is going to sting. We can’t use anesthetics until we know what’s going on in there.” He gestured to Stein’s head. “Here, hold on to these.” He put one of Stein’s hands on the gurney frame.

Ben moved the other hand off his wrist. “I’ll be just outside.” He looked toward Bunny, already at the door. “They’re going.”

“What favor?” Stein said, his voice raspy. “Why do you owe me a favor?”

“I figure Danny owes you something. A little payback.”

“Payback?” Stein said, vague.

“He should have been a better friend.”

“Well,” Stein said, shrugging this off, then winced at the antiseptic.

“One more,” the doctor said. “Just a sting.”

“I’ll be right outside,” Ben said.

In the hallway a nurse was wrapping an Ace bandage around a studio cop’s wrist while another lay on a gurney, holding a pad to a cut on his forehead. The aide had gone but Bunny was still there, smoking just outside the screen door. He stepped aside as another stretcher was brought in.

“Christ, Scarlett down at the rail yard,” he said, offering Ben a cigarette. “Looking for Dr. Meade.”

“Thanks,” Ben said, lighting it.

Bunny nodded at the splotch of blood on Ben’s shirt. “Yours?”

“No. Carrying him.”

“How’s the hand?”

Ben made a fist and opened it. “Nothing broken.”

“All very
Boy’s Own,
I must say. Wading in like that. Who’d have thought?” He looked toward the gate. “The problem is, it won’t solve anything. They’ll be out there again tomorrow. And now we’ve got this little situation here.” He looked back to Stein’s room.

“He’ll be out of here in an hour. What situation.”

“The unions are a little prickly at the moment. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Nobody’ll accuse you of switching sides. Act of mercy. The papers got some pictures, by the way. You might want to see what they’re planning to run.”

“Right,” he said, making a mental note. “It wouldn’t do to have Charlie’s boys looking—well, looking unfriendly. Just the big Boy
Scouts they are.” He drew on the cigarette. “God, I hate this. IATSE, all of them. We’re supposed to be making pictures, not—whatever they think they’re doing. I suppose you know your new best friend in there is a Red. Just to make things that little bit more complicated.”

“Does it?”

Bunny circled around, not rising to this, then looked over at Ben. “I hear you’ve been talking to Minot.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Just listening to the drums. Lunch at Chasen’s. Hardly a secret.”

“It was just lunch.”

“What did you talk about?”

“My brother, mostly.”

“Your brother?”

“He worked for Minot. One of his legmen. You know that. You made the call for him. Can we stop this? All the cat and mouse?”

Bunny said nothing for a second, drawing on his cigarette. “All right. I don’t like Tom and Jerry much, either. Dennis asked, I called. Nothing earthshaking. It was an easy favor to put in the piggy bank, that’s all.”