Joseph Kanon - Stardust

“To watch this? Clowns.”

“No, Rex Morgan. The Silver Bullet series.”

“That’s ten, fifteen years old.”

“And just sitting there in the warehouse. Pictures nobody’s going to run again. And here’s a new exhibitor. With all day to fill. Why not with Rex? I’m telling you, found money. No prints. No advertising. No overhead. Aunt Tillie just died and left you a little something. Say thank you and cash the check.”

“What kind of money can something like that pay?”

“Not much now,” Bunny said. “But it’s bottom line to us, all of it. Right now we’re making nothing on Rex, just paying storage.”

But Lasner was only half listening, staring at the wooden box, eyes narrowing in thought, and Ben wondered for a moment if he was back in the dry goods store on Fourteenth Street, the fuzzy lines behind the glass just like the jerky figures of light on the tacked-up sheet.

“Of course, the real money,” Bunny was saying, “is going to be in production. But that’s down the road.”

“This is going to be the new pictures?”

“Nobody’s saying that.”

“People say it-I hear it. And we’re going to hand over Continental product for a few bucks? Cut our own throats? Let them stick with the clowns, see how far they get.”

“B product. Old B product.”

“And you said production.”

“It’s getting harder with the B’s, Sol, you know that. If they take away the block booking, we’re going to have a problem on our hands. We’re not Metro.”

“And you don’t see Mayer making clown shows, either.” He looked again at the set. “Where are the kids going to neck?”

“In the balcony. At the movies. That’s not going to change. Not with A product anyway.”

“I know, I know. More A’s. You keep saying.”

Bunny made a little nod, backing away, familiar ground. “It’ll never be pictures,” he said. “But maybe the new radio.”

“We’re not in the radio business.”

“No, the hotel business. It’s about turning over rooms,” Bunny said, spreading his arm to take in the lot outside. “Every time one of those stages is empty, we’re losing money. Sam’s going to wrap next week. Stage Seven,” he said, including Pilcer. “Then we’re dark two weeks until Greg does the interiors on Abilene.”

“Move River House from Five,” Lasner said. “They haven’t built the porch set yet. Then you’ve got Five for a longer shoot. Harry, you wanted six weeks, right?”

Ben listened, interested, the whole scheduling meeting already worked out in their heads.

“We can, yes,” Bunny said to Sol. “But the point is, you’re going to have some off weeks. So why not use the room, not waste it?”

“Bunny, we’re not just talking square feet here.” He looked again at the television. “The money’s not there yet,” he said flatly, as if he’d just run through the expense sheet.

“No, not yet.”

“And I should set up a new Second Unit,” Lasner said to Pilcer. “I think he enjoys it, giving me grief.” He turned to Bunny. “You got something, though, with the Silver Bullet s. What the hell. Get one of these for Rex, he can watch himself all day. Fees, right? Not sales. Just another exhibitor.”

“Fees,” Bunny said, a handshake.

“He keeps an eye out for you, Sol,” Pilcer said.

Bunny dipped his head to Pilcer, self-deprecating, like a courtier in one of his boy prince films.

Sol smiled, touching Bunny’s shoulder. “Who else could squeeze another nickel out of Rex? Christ.”

“All right, shall we start?” Bunny said, pulling out some papers with time graphs. “We’re looking at a two-week overrun on River House and that’s before the retakes, so we’re going to have to move things around. Abilene we’re still okay.”

“Nobody ever lost money on a Western,” Lasner said, about to take a seat. “What the hell’s that?”

They all looked toward the window. Lasner went over, following the shouting coming from below. On Gower Street, the pickets had swarmed around a car trying to go through the gate, yelling, a few of them banging on the fender.

“What the hell-?”

“Why so many today?” Pilcer said, joining him, everyone else following.

“Change of tactics,” one of the producers said. “What I heard,” he said when they all looked at him. “Pick one or two studios to make a point. Instead of spreading themselves thin.”

“So they pick us?” Lasner said.

“And Warners. They’ve got a whole army out on Olive. I heard,” he said when they looked again. “We’re the pick in town. One gate. Paramount, you’d need three times the people.”

Below, the studio police had rushed out and were now pushing people away from the car with clubs. Just night watchmen, Bunny had said.

“I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Lasner said to Bunny.

“With our people, no. You can’t pay off two sides, Sol.”

The car had begun to move, but now the strikers were squaring off against the studio cops, shouting in their faces, still a ritual, not an actual fight.

“There’s that fuck Stein,” a producer said.

Ben followed the pointing finger. Howard was near the edge of the crowd, apparently trying to quiet things down as he made his way through. A technician heading for the gate was stopped by picketers, then surrounded by studio police, pushing the strikers away. One shoved back, grabbing the cop, who raised his stick. Two other pickets rushed over and the cop, alarmed, stuck the club into the striker’s chest to hold him off. The striker, taking it as an attack, swung at the cop and then, in an instant, like a fire catching, everyone seemed to be shoving, pushing chests, the line breaking up, people spilling into each other.

Bunny picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Carl, get the police. Ask for Healy. Tell him we’ve got a street fight here. And tell Charlie to keep his men out of there. Away from the gate.”

The shouting was now a roar, and Ben felt his neck stiffen, a startled animal’s reaction. Violence was always sudden. A fistfight in a cellar bar, drunk GIs smashing bottles, jeeps pulling up, white helmets and billy clubs. Combat. The same adrenaline fear, your whole body flushed with it, everything happening fast. It was nothing like the movies, no sound-effect punches, choreographed swings. Clumsy, pulling at shirts, gouging, falling down, like the studio cop below, covering his face to ward off a kick. Ben saw Howard Stein, still trying to pull people away, putting out a brush fire.

“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.