The McBain Brief Page 11

  Was the scene an innovation? The scene in the water?

  It might have been. I can’t recall. If it was not in the original shooting script, as our Hollywood hack claims, then I suppose it was an innovation. By definition, yes, it would have been an innovation, isn’t that so?

  When was it added to the script?

  I don’t recall. I will sometimes get ideas for scenes the night before I shoot them. In which case, I will call in the technicians involved, and describe the set-up I will need the next day, and I will have it in the morning. If there is additional dialogue involved, I’ll see to it that the actors and the script girl have the necessary pages, and I’ll ask the actors to study them overnight. If there is no additional dialogue..

  Was there any dialogue in this scene?

  No. The girl was merely required to swim in to the dock from a speedboat.

  What do you do in such a case? In an added scene where there’s no dialogue?

  Oh, I’ll usually take the actor aside and sketch in the scene for him. The gist of it. This was a particularly simple scene. She had only to dive over the side of the boat and swim in to the dock.

  In shallow water?

  Well, not so shallow that she was in any danger of hitting the bottom, if that’s what you mean.

  Then perhaps the estimates of the water’s depth . . .

  The water’s depth was no problem for anyone who knew how to swim.

  Did the girl know how to swim?

  Of course she did. You certainly don’t think I’d have allowed her to play a scene in water . . .

  I merely wondered if she was a good swimmer or . . .

  Adequate. She was neither Eleanor Holm nor Esther Williams, but the part didn’t call for an Olympic champion, you know. She was an adequate swimmer.

  When did you explain the gist of the scene to her?

  That morning, I believe. If memory serves me . . . yes, I believe the idea came to me the night before, and I called in the people involved and told them what I would need the following morning. Which is when I explained the scene to her. At least, that’s usually the way it works; I assume it worked the same way concerning this particular scene.

  You explained that she would have to dive over the side of the boat and swim in to the dock?

  Which is all she had to do.

  Did she agree to do this?

  Why, of course. She was an inexperienced little thing, this was her first film. Of course, she agreed. There was never any question of her not agreeing. She’d been modeling miniskirts or what-have-you for a teenage fashion magazine when I discovered her. This was an enormous opportunity for her, this film. Look at the people I surrounded her with! Do you know what we had to pay her leading man? Never mind. It still irritates me.

  Is it true he threatened to walk off the picture after the girl drowned?

  He has said so in countless publications across the length and breadth of the world. I’m surprised he hasn’t erected a billboard on the moon. But I imagine he’s petitioning NASA for the privilege this very moment.

  But did he threaten to walk off?

  He did. I could not allow it, of course. Neither would his contract allow it. An actor will sometimes be deluded into believing he is something more than a beast of the field. Even with today’s largely independent production structure, the studio serves as a powerful steam roller flattening out life’s annoying little bumps for any second-rate bit player who’s ever seen his own huge face grinning down idiotically from a screen. The real head sometimes gets as big as the fantasy head up there. Walk off the picture? I’d have sued his socks from under him.

  Why did he threaten to walk off?

  We’d had difficulty from the start. I think he was searching for an excuse, and seized upon the girl’s drowning as a ripe opportunity.

  What sort of difficulty?

  I do not believe I need comment on the reputation of the gentleman involved. It has been adequately publicized, even in the most austere family publications.

  Is it true, then, that a romance was developing between him and the girl?

  I have never yet worked on a film in which a romance did not develop between the girl and her leading man. That is a simple fact of motion picture production.

  Was it a simple fact of this motion picture?

  Unfortunately, yes.

  Why do you say “unfortunately?”

  The girl had a brilliant career ahead of her. I hated to see her in a position that . . . I hated to see her in such a vulnerable position.

  Vulnerable?

  The Italian press would have enjoyed nothing better than to link her romantically with someone of his reputation. I warned her against this repeatedly. We’d spent quite a lot of money grooming this girl, you know. Stardom may happen overnight, but it takes many days of preparation for that overnight event.

  Did she heed your warnings?

  She was very young.

  Does that mean to say. . . ?

  Nineteen, very young.

  There were, of course, news stories of a developing romance between them. Despite your efforts.

  Yes, despite them. Well.

  Yes?

  The young are susceptible. And yet, I warned her. Until the very end, I warned her. The night before she drowned, there was a large party at the hotel, given in my honor. We had seen the rushes on the shooting we’d done the day before, and we were all quite pleased, and I, of course, was more than ever certain that the girl was going to be a tremendous smash. That I had found someone, developed someone, who would most certainly become one of the screen’s enduring personalities. No question about it. She had . . . she had a luminous quality that . . . it’s impossible to explain this to a layman. There are people, however, who are bland, colorless, insipid, until you photograph them. And suddenly, the screen is illuminated with a life force that is positively blinding. She had that quality. And so I told her again, that night of the party, I took her aside, and we were drinking quietly, and I reminded her of what she had been, an unknown model for a juvenile fashion magazine, and of what she would most certainly become once this film was released, and I begged her not to throw this away on a silly flirtation with her leading man, a man of his reputation. The press was there, you know, this was quite an occasion—I had met the host on the Riviera, oh years, ago, when I was doing another film, and this was something of a reunion. Well. Well, I suppose none of it matters quite, does it? She’s dead. She drowned the next day.

  What happened? At the party?

  They managed to get some photographs of her. There is a long covered walk at the hotel, leading to the tower apartments that overlook the dock. The papparazzi got some pictures of the two of them in a somewhat, shall we say, compromising attitude. I tried to get the cameras, I struggled with one of the photographers . . .

  Were these the photographs that were later published? After the accident?

  Yes, yes. I knew even then, of course. When I failed to get those cameras, I knew her career was ruined. I knew that everything I’d done, all the careful work, the preparation—and all for her, you know, all to make the girl a star, a person in her own right—all of it was wasted. I took her to her room. I scolded her severely, and reminded her that makeup call was for six a.m.

  What happened the next morning?

  She came out to the barge at eight o’clock, made up and in costume. She was wearing a bikini, with a robe over it. It was quite a chilly day.

  Was she behaving strangely?

  Strangely? I don’t know what you mean. She seemed thoroughly chastised, as well she might have. She sat alone and talked to no one. But aside from that, she seemed perfectly all right.

  No animosity between you?

  No, no. A bit of alienation perhaps. I had, after all, been furious with her the night before and had soundly reprimanded her. But I am a professional, you know, and I did have a scene to shoot. As I recall, I was quite courteous and friendly. When I saw she was chilled, in fact, I offered
her my thermos.

  Your thermos?

  Yes. Tea. A thermos of tea. I like my tea strong, almost to the point of bitterness. On location, I can never get anyone to brew it to my taste, and so I do it myself, carry the thermos with me. That’s what I offered to her. The thermos of tea I had brewed in my room before going out to the barge.

  And did she accept it?

  Gratefully. She was shivering. There was quite a sharp wind, the beginning of the mistral, I would imagine. She sat drinking the tea while I explained the scene to her. We were alone in the stern, everyone else was up forward, bustling about, getting ready for the shot.

  Did she mention anything about the night before?

  Not a word. Nor did I expect her to. She only complained that the tea was too bitter. I saw to it that she drank every drop.

  Why?

  Why? I’ve already told you. It was uncommonly cold that day. I didn’t want to risk her coming down with anything.

  Sir . . . was there any other reason for offering her the tea? For making certain that she drank every drop?

  What do you mean?

  I’m only reiterating now what some of the people on the barge have already said.

  Yes, and what’s that?

  That the girl was drunk when she reported for work, that you tried to sober her up, and that she was still drunk when she went into the water.

  Nonsense. No one drinks on my sets. Even if I’d worked with W. C. Fields, I would not have permitted him to drink. And I respected him highly. For an actor, he was a sensitive and decent man.

  Yet rumors persist that the girl was drunk when she climbed from the camera barge into the speedboat.

  She was cold sober. I would just love to know how such rumors start. The girl finished her tea and was sitting alone with me for more than three hours. We were having some color difficulty with the speedboat, I didn’t like the way the green bow was registering, and I asked that it be repainted. As a result, preparation for the shot took longer than we’d expected. I was afraid it might cloud up and we’d have to move indoors to the cover set. The point is, however, that in all that time not a single soul came anywhere near us. So how in God’s name would anyone know whether the girl was drunk or not? Which she wasn’t, I can definitely assure you.

  They say, sir . . .

  They, they, who the hell are they?

  The others on the barge. They say that when she went forward to climb down into the speedboat, she seemed unsure of her footing. They say she appeared glassy-eyed . . .

  Rubbish.

  . . . that when she asked if the shooting might be postponed . . .

  All rubbish.

  . . . her voice was weak, somehow without force.

  I can tell you definitely and without reservation, and I can tell you as the single human being who was with that girl from the moment she stepped onto the barge until the moment she climbed into the speedboat some three and a half-hours later, that she was at all times alert, responsive, and in complete control of her faculties. She did not want to go into the water because it was cold. But that was a simple fact, and I could not control the temperature of the ocean or the air. Nor could I reasonably postpone shooting when we were in danger of losing our light, and when we finally had everything including the damn speedboat ready to roll.

  So she went into the water. As instructed.

  Yes. She was supposed to swim a short distance underwater, and then surface. That was the way I’d planned the scene. She went into the water, the cameras were rolling, we . . . none of us quite realized at first that she was taking an uncommonly long time to surface. By the time it dawned upon us, it was too late. He, of course, immediately jumped into the water after her . . .

  He?

  Her leading man, his heroic move, his hairy-chested star gesture. She was dead when he reached her.

  What caused her to drown? A cramp? Undertow? What?

  I haven’t the foggiest idea. Accidents happen. What more can I say? This was a particularly unfortunate one, and I regret it. But the past is the past, and if one continues to dwell upon it, one can easily lose sight of the present. I tend not to ruminate. Rumination is only stagnation. I plan ahead, and in that way the future never comes as a shock. It’s comforting to know, for example, that by the time this appears in print, I will be editing and scoring a film I have not yet begun to shoot. There is verity and substance to routine that varies only slightly. It provides a reality that is all too often lacking in the motion picture industry.

  This new film, sir . . .

  I thought you’d never ask.

  What is it about?

  I never discuss the plot or theme of a movie. If I were able to do justice to a story by capsulizing it into three or four paragraphs, why would I then have to spend long months filming it? The synopsis, as such, was invented by Hollywood executives who need so-called “story analysts” to provide simple translations because they themselves are incapable of reading anything more difficult than “Run, Spot, Run.”

  What can you tell us about your new film, sir?

  I can tell you that it is set in Yugoslavia, and that I will take full cinematic advantage of the rugged coastal terrain there. I can tell you that it is a love story of unsurpassing beauty, and that I have found an unusually talented girl to play the lead. She has never made a film before, she was working with a little theatre group on La Cienega when I discovered her, quite by chance. A friend of mine asked me to look in on an original the group was doing, thought there might be film possibilities in it, and so forth. The play was a hopeless botch, but the girl was a revelation. I had her tested immediately, and the results were staggering. What happens before the cameras is all that matters, you know, which is why some of our important stage personalities have never been able to make a successful transition to films. This girl has a vibrancy that causes one to forget completely that there are mechanical appliances such as projectors or screens involved. It is incredible, it is almost uncanny. It is as though her life force transcends the medium itself, sidesteps it so to speak; she achieves direct uninvolved communication at a response level I would never have thought existed. I’ve been working with her for, oh, easily six months now, and she’s remarkably receptive, a rare combination of intelligence and incandescent beauty. I would be foolish to make any sort of prediction about the future, considering the present climate of Hollywood, and the uncertain footing of the entire industry. But if this girl continues to listen and to learn, if she is willing to work as hard in the months ahead as she has already worked, then given the proper vehicle and the proper guidance—both of which I fully intend to supply—I cannot but foresee a brilliant career for her.

  Is there anything you would care to say, sir, about the future of the industry in general?

  I never deal in generalities, only specifics. I feel that so long as there are men dedicated to the art of making good motion pictures—and I’m not talking now about pornography posing as art, or pathological disorders posing as humor—as long as there are men willing to make the sacrifices necessary to bring quality films to the public, the industry will survive. I intend to survive along with it. In fact, to be more specific, I intend to endure.

  Thank you, sir.

  Accident Report

  There was a blanket thrown over the patrolman by the time we got there. The ambulance was waiting, and a white-clad intern was standing near the step of the ambulance, puffing on a cigarette.

  He looked up as I walked over to him, and then flicked his cigarette away.

  “Detective Jonas,” I said.

  “How do you do?” the intern answered. “Dr. Mallaby.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “Broken neck. It must have been a big car. His chest is caved in where he was first hit. I figure he was knocked down, and then run over. The bumper probably broke his neck. That’s the cause of death, anyway.”

  Andy Larson walked over to where we were standing. He shook his head and said, “A real
bloody one, Mike.”

  “Yeah.” I turned to the intern. “When was he hit?”

  “Hard to say. No more than a half-hour ago, I’d guess offhand. An autopsy will tell.”

  “That checks, Mike,” Andy said. “Patrolman on the beat called it in about twenty-five minutes ago.”

  “A big car, huh?”

  “I’d say so,” the intern answered.

  “I wonder how many big cars there are in this city?”

  Andy nodded. “You can cart him away, Doc,” he said. “The boys are through with their pictures.”

  The intern fired another cigarette, and we watched while he and an attendant put the dead patrolman on a stretcher and then into the ambulance. The intern and the attendant climbed aboard, and the ambulance pulled off down the street. They didn’t use the siren. There was no rush now.

  A cop gets it, and you say, “Well, gee, that’s tough. But that was his trade.” Sure. Except that being a cop doesn’t mean you don’t have a wife, and maybe a few kids. It doesn’t hurt any less, being a cop. You’re just as dead.

  I went over the accident report with Andy.

  My eyes skipped down the length of the card, noting the date, time, place of occurrence.

  I kept reading, down to the circled items on the card that told me the body had been taken to the morgue and claimed already. The rest would have been routine in any other case, but it was slightly ironic here.

  I read the rest of the technical information about the direction of the traffic moving on the lights, the police action taken, the city involved, and then flipped the card over. Under NAMES AND ADDRESSES OF WITNESSES (IF NONE, SO STATE) the single word None was scribbled. The officer who’d reported the hit and run was Patrolman P. Margolis. He’d been making the rounds, stopped for his usual afternoon chat with Benson, and had found the traffic cop dead in the gutter. There were skid marks on the asphalt street, but there hadn’t been a soul in sight.

  “How do you figure it, Andy?” I asked.

  “A few ideas.”