Joseph Kanon - Stardust

“Then one of you got lucky.”

A new clip, a fresh cigarette, this time facing him. “I’m telling you, I don’t know.” The ashtray. “He left me.”

“Then one of you got luck.” A second. “Lucky. One of you got fucking lucky.” Laughing now, the crew laughing behind him, somebody yelling cut.

“Wonderful,” Lasner said. “A thousand a week, he’s laughing.”

Another clip, this time without a flub, Rosemary turning away, a more sympathetic nuance, the camera close on her.

“Better,” Bunny said. “How do you like the dress?”

“Another inch and her tits are in the shot.”

“That’s her character.”

“No, what you want here is she should show them but she doesn’t want to show them.”

“Eddie?” Bunny said to the director, a few rows down.

“Keep watching,” a voice said in the dark.

And there it was, in the next clip, Andrews looking down, a gesture with her arm, the camera more aware of her body than before, but her own feelings more ambivalent, just what Lasner seemed to have ordered up.

“That’s it,” he said. “Christ, Eddie, I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“You know where I got that? Andrews. He said, ‘Let’s try it. I look down her dress but don’t tell her I’m going to, see how she reacts.’ And he’s right, the arm goes up, she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. But now we know her. Nice.”

“Actors,” Lasner said.

There was more of Rosemary, reaction shots, close-ups, all gleaming, like her beads, then a kiss with Andrews, which she first resisted, then gave in to. After that, a series without Andrews, simply raising her head, her hair swept up now, the way Liesl’s had been at Union Station. Ben leaned forward. Not unlike Liesl-harder, her mouth thinner and her face lacquered tight in studio makeup, but the same kind of look, the same cheekbones. Men married the same woman, over and over. Or was that just an old wives’ tale? But she’d be someone the studio would protect, worth safety shots and endless close-ups, a simple phone call. Then she looked to the side, a different profile, not Liesl. Grasping at straws. Still.

The woman who’d got out of the taxi was back, now full-face, Ruth Harris on the building’s penthouse terrace, confronting a gangster Ben didn’t recognize. The picture was clearly a B, shot for speed, not star making. No dewy close-ups. The scene seemed barely blocked out, the man uncertain of his marks. He had grabbed Ruth by the shoulders, a prelude to roughing her up, pushing her against the balcony. She fought back, trying to scratch his face, slipping out of his grasp. When he reached for her again, she pushed him hard and then, before Ben could react, it happened. The man staggered against the rail, off balance from her push, wheeled around, his weight now plunging forward, pulling the rest of him with it, too late to reach out, a scream, falling over the side. Close on Ruth’s eyes, wide now with terror. Ben blinked. Could it have happened that way? A fight, a push, the unintended pitch over-then, appalled, running. Ben looked away from the screen. The way he wanted it, not the way it had been.

“This is a woman’s picture?” Lasner said.

“The DA falls in love with her,” Bunny said, deadpan. “Well, here’s your little friend,” he said to Ben as the next clip appeared.

Ben looked back at the screen, but the terrace scene kept playing itself in his mind. Couldn’t it be possible? Not intentional, not someone coming up from behind. A woman, a love quarrel gone wrong. Two men struggling. Over what? It might even have gone the other way, Danny left standing with the appalled face. But it hadn’t.

On the screen, Julie Sherman was getting up from a piano and walking over to an older man in what looked like some variation of Intermezzo. She had been talking earlier, but Ben hadn’t been paying attention. Now her voice caught him, the same surprising modulation he’d noticed when they said hello. Nothing remarkable happened. She kissed the man, patting his arm, then walked across the room, turned, and said good-bye.

“Satin,” Bunny said. “Lou would dress his mother like a hooker.”

“Forget the dress,” Lasner said. “Sam likes her. He thinks he can do something with her.”

“She can’t move her arms.”

“So she can practice yanking his dick.”

“Sol,” Bunny said, then picked up the phone. “Any more dailies? Okay.” He looked down toward the directors. “We’re done here. Thanks. Rosemary looked great, Eddie.” He watched them leave, then turned to Lasner. “Sol,” he said, the rest unspoken.

“Sam’s girl-she looks good,” Lasner said stubbornly.

“She’s last year, somebody you could get into the sack before you ship out.”

“You’re an expert on this.”

“And now they’re coming back. What do they want? A quickie with a waitress or somebody you can bring home?”

“They want to fuck Loretta Young?”

“Sol, I’m serious. We don’t need her.”

“Sam Pilcer’s been with me a long time,” Lasner said quietly, a little embarrassed. “He doesn’t ask much.”

“So let him slip her a fifty every time.”

“We can always use a girl.”

“Fox dropped her.”

“Zanuck doesn’t see it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Lou doesn’t see it, either-he keeps saying she can sing. We could get her for a hundred a week with steps, and he’d be grateful.”

“Not as grateful as Sam,” Bunny said.

Lasner turned to Ben. “What do you think? You’re a guy off the boat. She look good to you?”

“Everybody looks good to me.” He glanced at Bunny, an offering. “She has a nice voice.”

“You want to sign her for her voice?”

“Try a shorter option,” Ben said, the thought too sudden to be filtered. “You don’t have to pick it up.”

Bunny looked at him, surprised, then waited for Lasner’s reaction.

“It never lasts long with Sam,” Lasner said finally, staring at Ben. He turned to Bunny. “Tell Lou you like her voice,” he said, amused now.

“Start her with a voice-over,” Bunny said, thinking. “If we had any.” He looked at Ben. “You could request her. For your picture.”

Ben nodded. An easy chance to make an ally.

“That picture? What voice-over?”

“One of the victims,” Bunny said. “The voice-over tells her story.”

Lasner stared at him for a second, then snorted. “You’re going to tell Lou you want her to play a dead Jew? Let me know what he says.” He stood up, shaking his head. “That’s some pair of balls you got on you,” he said to Bunny, heading for the door.

Bunny picked up a clipboard. “Good night, Pete,” he yelled to the projectionist, then turned to Ben. “Clever you,” he said, his voice without edge, as if he were trying to decide how he felt.

“If it works.”

“With Lou? He’ll grab it. It gets his foot in the door.” He sighed. “My new best friend,” he said, then looked up. “It’s hard for Sol to say no to Sam. They go back.” He hesitated. “You don’t have to use her. If she’s not right for the picture.”

“I can find something. Maybe buy myself a favor.”

“I wonder what that could be.”

Ben looked at him. It wouldn’t be Ruth Harris, not even worth safety shots anymore. “You do any favors for Rosemary?”

“My whole life is doing favors for Rosemary,” Bunny said. “Did you have a particular one in mind?”

His tone, a pretend innocence, drew a line, his eyes daring Ben to cross it. But what would be the point? Ben answered by saying nothing, a kind of standoff.

“I hope you’re not still going on about people making calls. You don’t want to be a nuisance.” He paused. “Rosemary’s been seeing Ty Power, since he got out of the Marines. She’s been photographed seeing him. They make an attractive couple. She’s going to keep seeing him. Until her picture comes out.”