Beverly Hills Dead Page 3

  “Okay.”

  “And get the film to the lab tonight; I want to see it before noon tomorrow.”

  “Will do.”

  Rick hung up and left for the studio.

  When he walked into his office there were half a dozen people seated around his conference table, drinking coffee and eating pastries. “Morning, all,” Rick said. “Sorry I’m late, but I have a good excuse.”

  “What’s that, Rick?” somebody asked.

  “I’m not going to tell you.” Rick pulled up a chair, poured himself some coffee and chose a Danish from what remained. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get started.”

  Everybody pulled out legal pads and pencils and settled down.

  “As you’ve already heard, we’ve postponed Pacific Invasion in favor of Sidney Brooks’s new original script, Bitter Creek.”

  “It’s a great script, Rick,” somebody said.

  “I think so, too. Unless somebody at this table comes up with some necessary changes because of logistics, I’m not even going to give Sid notes. Anybody got anything like that? Speak now, or…”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Okay. Let’s start with locations.”

  “There’s nothing in the script that can’t be shot on the back lot, Rick,” somebody said.

  “We’re not going to shoot a foot of film on the back lot.”

  “Where do you want to shoot it?” the man who was in charge of location scouting said.

  “I want you to tell me,” Rick said. “I’d prefer a place where nobody has ever shot anything before.”

  Everybody was very quiet.

  “Manny,” Rick said to the location man, “I want you to leave tomorrow on a scouting trip. Call my father at Barron Flying Service at Clover Field and charter an airplane. Look at the Sierras, look at Colorado, look at…I don’t know, Montana, some place like that.”

  “How about Monument Valley?” Manny asked.

  “That’s John Ford’s backyard,” Rick said. “He owns it, and he can keep it. This is a cattle and water western, so I want enough grass to support cattle and a river worth fighting over, and Monument Valley doesn’t have either of those. I wouldn’t mind some snow-capped mountains in the background, either. We’re probably going to have to build some early ranch houses, so if you can find some that will do, that’ll be a plus. They’ll need to be simple, though, maybe even raw. I want you back here in ten days, a week, if you can manage it.”

  “Anything else?” Manny asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Then I’d better go home and pack and get out my atlas.” Manny gathered his things and left the room.

  “Costumes,” Rick said, turning to Elsa Cameron, the studio’s chief staff designer.

  “We’ve got it all in my warehouse,” Elsa replied.

  Rick shook his head. “I don’t want to see so much as a hat or a dress in this picture that has ever been used in a picture before. I want you to research the era, which is the 1870s, get photographs and work from the clothes real people wore.”

  “This is going to be fun,” Elsa said.

  “Then go get started,” Rick said. He turned to Ruth Gannon, the casting director. “Ruth, I expect you’ve already got a list of actors for every part.”

  Ruth slid a memo across the table, and Rick caught it and slid it back. She looked surprised.

  “I want this film cast with a lot of actors who’ve never been seen before in a feature film; look for stage actors and people new in town, maybe some old-timers who haven’t worked for a long time. Look at acting teachers at the schools around town for middle-aged types; look at kids in their classes. I want fresh faces.”

  “Okay,” Ruth said. “Who do you have in mind for the leads?”

  “For the girl, the young widow, I want a young character actress, not gorgeous but not unattractive, one who’s willing to bring her looks down a peg for the part. As for the male leads, I’m testing an actor today who may be right for the second lead; I’ll know more tomorrow. Again, I want fresh faces, even for the star’s role.”

  “I’ll go call some agents,” Ruth said.

  “Call the acting teachers first. See who among their students they recommend.”

  She gave him a wave and left.

  His associate producer, Howard Cross, spoke up. “Who do you want to shoot it?”

  “I hear Basil Weathers is shooting something at RKO.”

  “He’s a Brit and a first-timer here. You want a Brit to shoot a western?”

  “I want a fresh eye; a Brit would kill to shoot a western. Find out when Weathers wraps on the RKO film, and if it’s soon, get him over here to see me.”

  “I’ll call his agent. What about lighting?”

  “We’ll let our cameraman pick him.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “I’m going to produce and direct. I’ll give you single-card coproducer, though.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want you to handpick the stunt guys on this one. There are going to be some rough scenes, and I want them to look really rough.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “That’s it, then. Keep me posted.” With everybody gone, Rick started on the paperwork on his desk. Vance Calder wasn’t due for an hour.

  Calder was announced and brought into Rick’s office at eleven sharp. He was wearing a Savile Row suit and expensive linen and shoes. His hair was beautifully cut. The two men shook hands, and Rick sat him down on the sofa and took a chair.

  “I hope you haven’t made any plans for the rest of the day,” Rick said.

  “No, I’m out of work now.”

  “Not for long. An assistant director I like is going to come and get you in a few minutes, and you’re going to shoot a screen test, two scenes from a film we’ve just finished shooting, one with an American accent, one English. The clothes you’re wearing will be fine, and that will save time.”

  “All right,” Calder said.

  “Then he’s going to take you out to the back lot for some outdoor stuff, and we’ll provide you with the proper clothes. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “I had a pony as a child, spent a lot of time pretending to be Tom Mix. I rode to the hounds a couple of times in my teens and didn’t die.” His accent was stage English now.

  “That’s a start,” Rick said. “Tell me, how does an out-of-work actor with a construction job come up with that suit?”

  “It was made when I was a working actor, in London. I think I may still owe the tailor for it.”

  The door opened, and Rick stood up. “Hi, Billy. Vance, this is Bill Thomas. He’s going to direct you today. Billy, this is Vance Calder.” The two young men shook hands and started to leave the office, but Calder returned.

  “Rick, there’s something I have to tell you. I lied to you yesterday, and I don’t think that’s a good way for us to start out.”

  “What did you lie about?”

  “My real name is Herbert Willis. Calder is my mother’s maiden name, and she had an uncle named Vance. It was legally changed in London a couple of years ago.”

  “Herbert Willis, huh? Glenna’s real name is Louise Brecht. Keep both of them to yourself,” Rick said.

  6

  The following midmorning, Rick got a call from Billy Thomas. “The stuff I shot yesterday is back. You want to me to clean it up or you want to see it raw?”

  “Raw, as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll have it put up in your screening room in half an hour.”

  “See you then.”

  In half an hour Rick walked into the screening room between his and Eddie Harris’s office. Eddie was already there.

  “What, you weren’t going to invite me?”

  “I figured you’d already know,” Rick replied. “You know everything that’s happening around here.”

  “I hear you offered Sid Brooks’s agent a hundred and fifty grand for his screenplay. That’s a big raise over the last picture.”

&nbs
p; “The last one was an adaptation; this is an original. Besides, you said to be generous, and I didn’t want to get into a negotiation.”

  Bill Thomas came in and sat behind them. “We’re ready,” he said.

  The lights went down, and the film popped onto the screen. The scene hadn’t started yet, and Vance Calder was pacing nervously up and down.

  “Uh, oh,” Eddie said. “He’s green.”

  “Oh, shut up, Eddie.”

  Bill Thomas’s voice came from offscreen. “All right, places.”

  An actress walked into the frame, and Calder turned to face her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Quickly, he was very still.

  “Action,” Thomas said.

  The scene began, and Rick was struck by how suddenly calm the actor was. The two traded lines, and the girl turned her back. Vance took her shoulders, turned her back and delivered the funniest line in the movie.

  Eddie Harris laughed out loud, and so did Rick.

  The scene continued for two minutes, then Thomas yelled, “Cut. Print.”

  “How was it?” Vance asked.

  “We won’t need another one,” Thomas replied. “Next scene, places.” Calder, who had begun pacing again, took a breath. “Action.”

  This scene, the dramatic one, played more slowly, and Calder used his own accent.

  “Is he a Brit or an American?” Eddie asked, surprised.

  “What, you didn’t know?” Rick replied.

  The scene ran a little over three minutes, then Thomas cut but left the camera turning. “Face the camera, Vance,” he said.

  Vance faced the camera.

  “Smile.”

  Vance smiled.

  “He’s going to need some dental work,” Eddie said.

  Thomas asked for left and right profiles and a rear shot, then asked Vance to face the camera again. “What’s your name?”

  “Vance Calder.”

  “How old are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Cut. That’s a wrap. Let’s go out to the back lot.” The projector stopped, and the lights went up. “He’s putting up the outdoor stuff,” Thomas said.

  “I’ll send him to the dentist today,” Rick said. “After he meets Hyman Greenbaum.”

  Eddie said nothing.

  The lights went down again, and the film began with the camera pointing down a western street set. A man on a running horse appeared, headed straight for the camera. As he approached, he brought the horse up short, simultaneously dismounting, drawing a six-gun and fanning six shots directly at the camera.

  The scene changed abruptly to a shot from a car with the horse running alongside. To Rick’s astonishment, Calder leapt from the running horse, hit the ground, vaulted over his mount, then back again, then into the saddle. He whipped a Winchester out of a saddle holster and began firing it at a full run, then he brought the horse up short and reared him, his hat raised in one hand. The shot was pure Tom Mix. The film stopped, and the lights came up.

  “That’s it,” Thomas said.

  “I asked you to shoot him roping,” Rick said.

  “He refused to do it. Said he knows nothing about roping and he wasn’t going to make an ass of himself on film.”

  Eddie burst out laughing. “Where the hell did you find this guy?”

  “Glenna spotted him the day before yesterday on the construction crew out at our new beach house.”

  “Is he American or English?”

  “English.”

  “You know what I’m thinking,” Eddie said.

  “You’re thinking of Clete Barrow.” Barrow had been Centurion’s biggest star and Rick’s closest friend until he was killed in the war, at Dunkirk. “He’s nothing like Clete, except that he’s English, a terrific actor and a terrific athlete, but I know what you mean.”

  “I hope you didn’t let him off the lot without signing him.”

  “Later today. He’s having lunch with Hyman Greenbaum. Don’t worry; I’ll have him signed before the day is out.”

  “Be careful of Hyman; he’s the best.”

  “That’s why I sent Vance to him.”

  Vance Calder entered the Brown Derby and was shown immediately to a table where a man in his fifties stood up and offered his hand. “Hello, I’m Hyman Greenbaum,” he said. He was a big man who looked like he had played football in college.

  “How do you do, Mr. Greenbaum. I’m Vance Calder.”

  “Call me Hy, Vance, and have a seat.”

  Vance sat down and declined a drink.

  “This is interesting,” Hy said. “The only other time Rick Barron ever sent anybody to me was the girl he married, Glenna Gleason.”

  “Then I’m flattered,” Vance said.

  They looked at a menu and ordered.

  “Rick and Eddie Harris had a look at your test this morning,” Hy said. “I have an appointment out there at two o’clock. That means they liked it.”

  “Who’s Eddie Harris?”

  “He’s the chairman of Centurion Pictures, Rick’s boss.”

  “I thought Rick was the boss.”

  “No. He’s the head of production, which means he’s the boss of moviemaking, except he reports to Eddie.”

  “I see.”

  “Centurion is a good place for you to be,” Hy said. “They’re the newest of the major studios…well, nearly major.”

  “Do you think they’ll offer me a contract?” Vance asked.

  “Yes, but we won’t take it. We’ll take a three picture deal, with options. That means they can fire you whenever they like.”

  “Wouldn’t a long-term contract be safer?”

  “I’m glad you’re concerned about safety; I’m a cautious man, myself. But you don’t want to be a salaried employee of a studio; you want to stay independent, so you can work wherever you like. That’s what the smart stars are doing.”

  Vance nodded. Lunch came, and they ate.

  “Let me give you a little sermon,” Hy said.

  Vance smiled. “I’m accustomed to sermons; my father is an Anglican priest.”

  Hy nodded. “Then you know to sit quietly and not ask questions.”

  Vance looked sober. “Yes.”

  “Here we go. I’ve seen a lot of young people come out here since the advent of talkies—even before—and it goes something like this: most of them end up pumping gas and waiting tables. If they’re beautiful and talented, they get a studio contract, starting at two hundred a week, more, if the studio wants them badly enough.

  “The studio puts them in whatever movies they need them for, never mind quality. If they think they’re going to be hot, they give them better pictures, and their salary goes up to five or eight hundred a week. If they’re star material, pretty soon they’re making two thousand.

  “At first, they buy a new car, a convertible, usually, and get a better apartment. Then, after a raise, they get a mortgage and buy a little house. As the money continues to go up, they buy a more expensive car and a bigger house. Then, if they’re lucky, they go independent.

  “One day, when they’ve been out of work for a couple of months, a script arrives. It isn’t a good script, but it’s being shot in a nice place, say the South of France, and the costar is somebody they want to fuck. Oh, and the mortage and car payments are overdue. The movie doesn’t do well, and the next script isn’t quite as good. Then they’re offered second leads in even worse pictures, and in a couple of years they’re pretty much done, and they haven’t turned thirty-five yet.”

  “I understand,” Vance said.

  “I’ll get you decent money for the first picture, and we’ll hold out for the lead. Here’s what you do: don’t buy a car until you can pay cash for it, and it should be used; you live modestly and don’t go to expensive restaurants, unless the studio or somebody else is paying. You keep putting money in the bank. You don’t marry a costar.”

  Vance laughed.

  “You don’t buy a house until you can pay cash. You don’t e
ver take a job because of the location or the costar or even the director. You take jobs for good scripts, that’s all. If you can stick to that program, you’ll become very rich, and I’ll help you invest your money. You’ll form your own production company and become a partner of the studio, instead of just working for a fee. And you can marry anyone you like.

  “My agency gets ten percent of every dollar you earn, whether it’s from salary, profits, investments or partnership. That will get to be a big number, but we’ll earn it.”

  “Of course,” Vance said.

  “They’re going to want you to see a dentist,” Hy said. “I’ll make them pay for it.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Hy,” Vance said. “I assure you, I’ll take it. Now let me tell you a little about me: I drive a Whizzer.”

  “A what?”

  “A Whizzer. It’s a little engine bolted onto a bicycle, and it goes about thirty miles an hour downhill with a tailwind. I live in a rooming house in Santa Monica, where I’m very comfortable, and I saved money when I was running a pile-driving machine. I promise you I will change my circumstances carefully.

  “I’m very impressed with both Rick Barron and you, but there’s something you must understand: there is no one’s judgment that I trust more than my own, and, while I will always be grateful for your counsel on every aspect of my career, I will always reserve the right to overrule it. If we can proceed on that basis, I would be very pleased to have you represent me.”

  Hyman Greenbaum reached across the table, and Vance Calder took his hand.

  “Check,” Hy said to a passing waiter. “Let’s take a drive out to Centurion. Did you ride the Whizzer here?”

  “No, I phoned for a taxi.”

  “You’ll ride home in a studio car,” Hy said. “One thing: they’re going to offer you a part in a western, an original script by one of the best writers out here, Sidney Brooks. You’ll take the part immediately, without reading the script, but that will never happen again.”

  “All right.”

  “One other thing, Vance: are you, by any chance, a member of the Communist Party, or have you ever been to one of their meetings?”

  “I am not, and I have not.”