Jonathan Santlofer - L.A. Noire - The Collected Stories

Wattles said, “It’s not a speaking part. I assume Chuck made that clear.”

“He did.” I should have gotten an Oscar right then for pretending that I knew.

Wattles handed me on to a dame named Celia who outlined the plot of the movie. Jimmy Parker was playing the hero. Celia couldn’t believe a big star had agreed to do such a small picture. She guessed that it was Wattles. Actors wanted to work with him.

“So what’s my part?” I asked.

Oh, right. Well, apparently, Jimmy says goodnight to his girlfriend, gives her a kiss at her door. She invites him in for a nightcap, but he has to work early. The girl walks into her apartment. I’m there. I turn and see her. I grab her around the neck and strangle her dead. The rest of the movie is Jimmy Parker being accused of the murder he didn’t commit. I did the crime, but you don’t see me again. Grab, scream, I’m out of the picture.

Celia obviously hadn’t heard about my setting the tone.

I said, “Who plays the girl?”

“Iris Morell,” she said.

“Iris Morell gets eighty-sixed in the first scene?” Iris was the actress Wattles stole from the big-shot producer. The producer made a few calls, both their careers went down like the Titanic. The gossip was they were having problems, that lately she’d been seen around town with the big-shot producer again. Maybe they were working things out.

Everyone gossiped about everyone else, most of it was bullshit. On the other hand, Iris had starred in most of Wattles’s films, but now she was dying so early in the picture that if you were in the lobby getting popcorn, you’d miss her completely. That should have told you something—that is, if you understood that secret Hollywood language.

Celia weighed her annoyance at having to deal with me against her desire to show someone, even me, that she had the scoop on some hot gossip.

“Bettina Raymond plays the tough girl reporter who shows up after the murder and believes in the guy and helps him clear his name. People say that Wattles and Bettina are a hot item, but y’know, people say anything.”

“People are desperate,” I said.

Celia looked at me, wondering if I was nuts or just trying to sound interesting. She went for the second option—and sent me on to costume.

I don’t know why I expected Harry Wattles to stop by for a chat. I don’t know why I thought someone would give me some direction before we started shooting. I was asking the make-up girl. That’s how desperate I was.

“Don’t I need to know why I’m in the apartment? Am I stealing something? Looking for something? Was I hired to kill her? Why couldn’t I just push her and run out the door?”

She said, “You better ask Mr. Wattles.”

I did ask Mr. Wattles. He seemed irritated that I asked. Or maybe it was a bad moment. Iris Morell was on the set. I couldn’t help goggling at how gorgeous she was, and Wattles saw me looking. Which added a personal note to our professional discussion.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Wattles said. “But no one needs to know why you kill her. No one cares why you did it after the scene is over. The point is that our hero isn’t the killer. You are.”

“I understand that,” I said. “But while I’m in her room… am I doing something or just waiting?”

“Jesus Christ,” said Wattles. “Isn’t that the first thing they teach you in acting class? Don’t they teach you how to wait?”

It turned out I had plenty of time to wait. Wattles was famous for how long he spent getting the lighting—and the shadows—just right. He was a pretentious son of a bitch, but his movies looked great. That’s what I kept telling myself. I was lucky to be there.

Finally Wattles got what he wanted or else hallucinated the voices of the money guys yakking in his ear.

“All right, Iris,” he said. “Kiss kiss goodnight. Jimmy drives off. But you can’t get him out of your head. It’s been a fabulous date. And now you’re going to brush your teeth, put on the lacy nightie, crawl in bed, no funny stuff under the covers. That’s what you’re thinking as you walk into your apartment. But something’s a little… off. Maybe you smell something, maybe you sense it. You’re getting really nervous when the guy sneaks up from behind. He grabs you and turns you around. You look into his eyes. You’ve never seen him before. You scream and beg for your life. Cut to his hands around your neck with the maniac squeezing and—”

“Excuse me… So you’re saying I should play this like a maniac?”

“Hold everything,” Wattles said. “Laurence Olivier here wants to know our thinking about Othello. Look, buddy, just kill the dame and pick up your check so we can move on to the suspicious cops showing up at Jimmy’s. I’d like to not go over budget for once, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sorry,” I said. What if the word got out that I was hard to work with? But the word wouldn’t get out. Wattles wouldn’t remember my name.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I said.

“Thank God,” Wattles said. “All right. Let’s see how it looks.”

The cameras started rolling. Iris unlocked the door and walked through her living room into her bedroom. Her feet hardly touched the ground, that’s how in love she was with Jimmy.

I tried not to look at Wattles. I didn’t want to think about how I would feel if she was the girl I’d given up everything for, and now she was going back to her fat-cat producer?

Iris was wearing expensive perfume, I hadn’t counted on that. It threw me.

I thought about the six months since my girlfriend Caroline left. And she’d said I was starting to scare her. She wouldn’t say why, which made me even madder. I used to tell her, Honey, I’d be fine if I could just get some work and stop feeling so desperate.

Iris pulled her dress above her head. I crept up behind her. That beautiful face gazed up at me. Tears of fear and horror wobbled in her eyes.

“All right,” said Wattles. “Grab her throat.” The girl’s real-life boyfriend was ordering me to kill her, and I couldn’t do it.

“Excuse me?” I said. “Excuse me? I think I need a minute.”

Iris jumped back like I’d slapped her. Wattles stalked onto the set, his hammerhead slicing the air like the figurehead on a ship.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Can’t what?”

“Kill her. I can’t kill her.” I knew I was probably losing my job—probably the last work I was ever going to get in this town.

“All right,” Wattles said. “I get it. You need motivation. Okay. You are a maniac. An escapee from a mental asylum. If the girl reports you, you’ll be back in maximum lock-up. So you kill her. That’s it. End of story. Let’s take it from the top.”

We began again. The casual kiss between Iris and Jimmy wasn’t as casual as before. You could feel the strain. Iris was no longer the unsuspecting innocent coming home, but an actress trying to do a scene with a lousy actor. Me. You could see it in her eyes: not with fear of being murdered but the fear of not being murdered.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m not feeling it. Iris, Mr. Wattles. Can I talk to you privately for a second?”

Wattles looked as if I’d asked if I could stick needles in his eyes. He yanked Iris over to the edge of the set, and I followed.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. “It’s not something I usually tell people.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. Another Oscar, please. So what? It was true. I mean the story was true.

I said, “I was in Okinawa. I saw a lot of bad things. Really bad.”

“Like what?” asked Iris, all sympathy and concern.

Wattles looked blue murder at her.

“I had this crazy commanding officer. Lieutenant Mather. I saw him shoot an old Japanese woman point blank in the head.”