Laura Lippman - Another Thing to Fall

“Still, do you have to be such an asshole?”

A fair question, under the circumstances.

“I don’t mean to be a jerk. The broad outlines of this show you’re doing – I’ll admit, I just don’t get it. It’s history, it’s time travel, it’s comedy, all set in the context of the never-never land of a thriving steel company in the twenty-first century.”

“Girl’s house gets swept up by tornado and she’s transported to a magical land where she expends all her power trying to get home again.”

“Okay, yeah, but The Wizard of Oz is a fantasy.”

“Billionaire media mogul whispers a mysterious name on his deathbed, launching a journalist’s attempt to understand the private man behind the public figure. Yet the truth about Rosebud doesn’t really solve any of those mysteries.”

“Although it was rumored to be William Randolph Hearst’s pet name for Marion Davies’s nether regions,” said Tess, grateful to have one of Crow’s bits of trivia so readily at hand. “Okay, when you reduce anything to a thumbnail description, it sounds a little silly, but-”

“Woman will do anything for the love of her ungrateful daughter – including confessing to the murder that the daughter committed.”

“Mildred Pierce and there’s no murder in the book, which is a thousand times better.”

“Man builds a baseball diamond in a cornfield behind his house and Shoeless Joe Jackson appears-”

But now Flip had gone too far. A bridge too far, a baseball diamond too far.

“I HATE THAT MOVIE!” Tess said, and the bare brick walls sent her voice bouncing into every corner of the restaurant. She regained her composure. “Sorry, but do not get me started on that cornball mush.”

“How can you hate Field of Dreams ?”

“It’s a male weepie, as I think Pauline Kael or some other critic said. And, you know, I’m okay with the male weepie. We all deserve our weepies. My issue is that what makes men cry is elevated to profundity, while what makes women cry is denigrated as sentimental. When you take my corn seriously, I’ll grant yours equal respect.”

“What makes you cry? Beaches ?”

“ Major League, which is a better baseball movie than Field of Dreams, by the way.”

Even as Tess’s mouth provided that glib reply, her brain was thinking about what really did make her cry. There was a certain expression on her greyhound’s face, a wisp of a seeming smile. The Bromo-Seltzer Tower, glowing blue in the night. Old television footage of Brooks Robinson being inducted into the Hall of Fame. And there was the matter of a young woman, beaten to death just last night, but Tess wasn’t hypocrite enough to admit that she felt anything but shock and dismay over that. The only thing that resonated was the violence of the death. A fatal beating took time – and not a little passion.

Besides, Flip was talking about cinematic tears. Okay. Then – little Dominic dying in Noodles’s arms in Once Upon a Time in America, but also Noodles coming back through the bus station door, thirty years of time summed up in a single shot. The Wild Bunch . The memory of a carrot-haired man who had loved The Wild Bunch, living – and dying – by the codes distilled from his beloved westerns. Had it really been just a little over a year ago? She reached for her knee. Maybe one day the scar wouldn’t be there. Maybe one day, it would all be a dream. Just like in the movies.

“Strictly Ballroom,” Tess admitted. “When the music goes out, and the father starts to clap, and they show they can do the paso doble without any music at all…”

Her eyes started to mist, making her seem truthful, but she was still thinking of that carrot-haired man, dying on the cold cement of a parking lot, leaving her to fight for her own life – and avenge his.

“You haven’t shot down my central point. Anything sounds ludicrous when boiled down to the pitch. But it’s all in the execution. Why do you think Hollywood produces so much crap?”

“Because there’s seldom any economic penalty?”

“No. Well, yes. I mean, no . People’s careers do suffer from doing critically disdained work-”

“If it’s also commercially inert.”

“The point,” Flip said irritably, as if unused to being interrupted, and he probably was. “The point is that the writing, the performances, the visuals – those will combine to make this show something really special. That’s why we’re starting small, on a C-list cable network with only eight episodes. People forget, but there was a time when getting a series on HBO was considered second-rate. The Sopranos was pitched to the networks first, and they all passed. By the way, has anyone ever proposed adapting your life story?”

Food arrived – a house salad for Flip, a much heartier steak salad for Tess – and she was spared answering right away. “Last year – I was involved in a case of some notoriety, and some producers circled for a while.”

“You make them sound like vultures.”

Tess forked up a mouthful of steak and greens that required much judicious chewing.

“They were just doing their job,” he persisted. “Look, you go to the movies. You read newspapers and magazines, right? Well, the material has to come from somewhere.”

“A friend of mine was killed in front of me. I killed a man. I never thought of it as material . A woman you know was killed in your office last night. Are you going to make a miniseries about that?”

Flip blushed, and she warmed to him. She knew he was pure Hollywood, bred and buttered, as the old Baltimore saying went. Flip’s father was the one who had the claim to Charm City normalcy, a claim he had pretty much squandered years ago. But Flip did seem relatively down-to-earth.

“How-”

“Shot him.” Over and over again, until the clip was empty. Shot him, but only after gaining advantage by almost gouging his eye out with scissors . She withheld these details as a courtesy.

“That must have been awful.”

“It was. That’s why I feel for Lottie, walking in on Greer.”

“I can’t imagine – this is going to sound heartless-”

“Go ahead.”

“I can’t imagine Greer engendering that kind of passion in anyone. She was a little machine. We used to joke about it, Ben and I, call her Small Wonder, after that sitcom.” He glanced at Tess to see if the cultural reference connected for her. “The one about the robot? Voice Input Child Identicant, Vicki for short?” Tess couldn’t even fake knowing what he was talking about now. “Well, anyway, she was just extremely competent, her feathers never ruffled.”

“Still, they like the fiancé for it. Ex-fiancé, maybe. There seems to be some confusion about whether they were on or off.”

“Never met him. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I would have believed he even existed if it weren’t for the ring on her hand. Certainly, she wasn’t spending any time with him, once we got into production.”

“How did you find Greer, anyway?”

“She found us, poor thing. Called my father’s production company. My dad has a policy. If you have an area code beginning with four-one-zero, you get treated with respect and deference by his office. Maybe that was my problem. I had the wrong area code, so my dad never had time for me.”

Oh, poor little rich boy . “So how does that connect you to Greer?”

“Her dad was a teamster, worked on one of my father’s early films. She called my dad’s assistant, and I told Lottie to interview her with an open mind. She started off as an unpaid intern in the writers’ office, basically an assistant to my assistant. Then my assistant left, and Ben came to me, said I should give the job to Greer, that she was actually fantastically competent. And, for once, Ben was right.”