Desert Spring (16 page)
Authors: Michael Craft
When Larry and I arrived at the Regal Palms Hotel, we crossed the lobby to the main dining room and announced ourselves to the hostess, explaining that Mr. Arlington was expecting us to join him for lunch.
“He stopped by a few minutes ago,” she explained, “and asked me to let you know that he's waiting for you in the lounge.” She gestured across the lobby to the hotel bar.
Recalling that Gabe Arlington had been boisterously feeling his champagne the previous morning, I wondered if he had a little problem. The pitfalls of alcohol had ruined more than one career in the theater; the movie business, I reasoned, was no different. Had Gabe's once spectacular directing career been scuttled by booze? It was a reasonable explanation. Still, if Gabe wanted to drink his lunch today, he could do it in the dining room as easily as in the bar. He'd been staying at the hotel for a few days; maybe he wanted a change of scenery.
“Ah! There you are.” Recognizing me as I entered the lounge with Larry, Gabe rose from a corner booth and stepped in our direction. At least I assumed it was Gabe; my eyes had not yet adjusted to the room's subdued lighting.
When he drew close enough for me to discern the crop of silvery hair, I greeted him in turn, then introduced Larry, who thanked him for making time for us.
“Anytime, Detective.” Gabe shook Larr y's hand heartily, telling him, “I hope I can be of use to youâthough I'm not sure how.” His tone was bouncy, his manner backslapping, as if meeting old pals at the club for a rusty game of golf. Gabe continued, “Hope you don't mind eating in the bar. The bill of fare is lighter than the dining room's, and the service is quicker.”
“This is fine,” said Larry. “In fact, this room seems better for conversation. Nice and quiet.”
“Exactly.” Gabe led us to his table, which was set for three. Near the middle place setting sat a half-empty highball.
At that hour, the cushy lounge was indeed quiet. A couple of well-dressed women sat at the bar, drinking and chatting, fortifying themselves for an afternoon of shopping. A bartender fussed with glassware; his natty uniform resembled a tuxedo, except that he wore a vest instead of a jacket with his pleated shirt and black bow tie. The thick carpeting and dark wood paneling gave the room a muffled intimacyâperfect for imparting secrets or arranging assignations.
Some maneuvering was required for the three of us to get settled at the small round table in the corner booth. Gabe took my hand and assisted me as I slid into one of the end positions; my rump squeaked on the polished oxblood leather of the crescent-shaped banquette. Then Gabe entered from the other side, jostling to the center position, also squeaking up a storm (the ladies at the bar turned, looked, and tittered, then returned to their whispered gossip, nose to nose). Larry slid in next to Gabe, across from me. We unfurled our linen napkins, spreading them in our laps.
The bartender stepped over and took drink orders. Gabe was still nursing his Tom Collins (I hadn't seen anyone drink such a concoction in years); Larr y asked for iced tea (he was on duty); I opted for a glass of well-chilled chardonnay (why not?).
We avoided serious conversation while the drinks were prepared,
discussing instead the several lunch options listed on a card at the table. Club sandwiches, hamburgers, hearty saladsâeverything was priced at twenty dollars even. Cheese on the burger was an extra five.
discussing instead the several lunch options listed on a card at the table. Club sandwiches, hamburgers, hearty saladsâeverything was priced at twenty dollars even. Cheese on the burger was an extra five.
When the drinks arrived, we ordered lunch. When the bartender left us, we raised our glasses.
Sobered by the moment, Gabe said earnestly, “To the memory of Spencer Wallace.”
“To Spencer,” Larry and I seconded.
We tasted, set down our drinks, and fell silent.
As it was time to get down to business, Larry took his notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it on the table. Squinting to read his own writing in the dim pool of light cast by an ornate overhead lantern, he asked Gabe, “Can you tell me about your relationship to the deceased?”
Gabe leaned back in the booth, eyeing the dark ceiling for a moment. “Well,” he said, uncertain where to begin, “we had lately entered into a working relationshipâon his new film,
Photo Flash
âbut beyond that, I wouldn't say we had a ârelationship' at all.”
Photo Flash
âbut beyond that, I wouldn't say we had a ârelationship' at all.”
“Somehow,” said Larry, “I was under the impression that the two of you were old friends.”
Gabe shook his head. “We rubbed shoulders in the same indus-tr y for many years, but no, we rarely socialized, never one-on-one.”
Larr y tapped his notes absentmindedly. He hesitated, then asked, “Am I mistaken, or has your career been ⦠âinactive' for a while?”
Gabe broke into a grin. “I appreciate the sensitivity with which you worded that question, Detective. Truth is, my directing career ground to a halt some years ago. Pictures are a tough businessâit can be merciless and unforgiving.”
Entering the conversation, I recalled, “Spencer told me you'd
had the misfortune of directing a picture or two that didn't quite set box-office records.”
had the misfortune of directing a picture or two that didn't quite set box-office records.”
“Claire,” said Gabe, beading me with a get-real stare, “if Spencer said that, he was being uncharacteristically softhearted. Let's call a spade a spadeâafter a promising start, I directed a string of flops. My glory days were over, and my career was washed up.” Gabe was correct; Spencer had used essentially the same words to describe Gabe's fall from grace.
“I don't recall how Spencer phrased it,” I fibbed, “but he obviously held you in high regard. After all, he wrote
Photo Flash;
he doted over that script and had great expectations for the production. He wouldn't have signed you on for such a high-profile film if he hadn't respected your talents.”
Photo Flash;
he doted over that script and had great expectations for the production. He wouldn't have signed you on for such a high-profile film if he hadn't respected your talents.”
Gabe fingered his icy cocktail glass, agreeing with a slow nod. “That's what he said. When he first approached me and tried to recruit me for the project, I asked him bluntly, âWhy me?' I mean, he could've had the pick of Hollywood's elite. Why settle for a has-been?”
“You are
far
from a has-been,” I told him.
far
from a has-been,” I told him.
“You're kind. But the fact is, I haven't directed in ten years, so Spencer's offer came as a surprise, to say the least.”
“Then why
did
he come to you?” asked Larry. “I don't mean to sound crass, but I'm grasping at straws. Did he get you cheap?”
did
he come to you?” asked Larry. “I don't mean to sound crass, but I'm grasping at straws. Did he get you cheap?”
“Hell, no.” Gabe laughed, taking no offense. “In fact, he offered far more than I'd have dared to ask. He
paid
for top talent, so he must have thought he was
getting
top talent.” Gabe's mood slackened as he added, “Of course, I hadn't yet learned all the details.”
paid
for top talent, so he must have thought he was
getting
top talent.” Gabe's mood slackened as he added, “Of course, I hadn't yet learned all the details.”
It was my turn to grasp at straws. “Hmm. Don't tell me. No sooner had you signed with Wallace than you found out he'd really wanted someone elseâsomeone âbigger' who was unavailable because of other commitments.”
“No. To the contrary, I found out that both Spielmueller and
Wertberg had
wanted
the picture. According to friends, they were waiting around for the phone to ring. Spencer could've had either of them if he'd wanted them.”
Wertberg had
wanted
the picture. According to friends, they were waiting around for the phone to ring. Spencer could've had either of them if he'd wanted them.”
I concluded, “So he wanted
you.
”
you.
”
“Indeed he did. He paid top dollar and offered me a comeback opportunity to boot. In return, I offered a known name, a once-illustrious track record, and a publicity opportunity for buzz about the comeback. When the contract arrived, I didn't hesitate to sign it. My agent had combed through the fine print and assured me it was all standard boilerplate. Only later, when Spencer and I got into initial discussions regarding budgets and production schedule, did I realize that he had retained complete artistic control over the picture.”
Larry looked up from the notes he was taking. “Pardon my lack of insight, but is that unusual?”
Gabe explained, “Depends. The producer and director often work as a team; sometimes it's the same person. In a battle of wills, the moneyman generally winsâexcept at a certain level of talent where artistic control is presumed absolute. Can you imagine Spielmueller deferring to anyone's wishes? I don't
think
so.” Gabe snorted, then continued, “Spencer had lured me into the project with vagueânot specificâpromises of artistic autonomy. He gave the
impression
I was being hired under those terms, and such an understanding would be expected in a high-budget picture like
Photo Flash.
So it came as a rude awakening when I realized that my artistic concept of the film didn't matter. Essentially, I was hired to aim the camera for Spencer Wallace.”
think
so.” Gabe snorted, then continued, “Spencer had lured me into the project with vagueânot specificâpromises of artistic autonomy. He gave the
impression
I was being hired under those terms, and such an understanding would be expected in a high-budget picture like
Photo Flash.
So it came as a rude awakening when I realized that my artistic concept of the film didn't matter. Essentially, I was hired to aim the camera for Spencer Wallace.”
I gave a long, low sigh. “I'm so sorry, Gabe. That must have hurt.”
Larr y asked, “Why didn't you quit? You could have gotten out of the contract; you'd been misled.”
Through a soft laugh, Gabe said, “Do you honestly think I'd
give up a deal like this? It's the chance of a lifetime to reestablish myself. If I walked out on it, I'd end up even lower than I'd been before, a true pariah. Besides, I need the money. The loss of artistic control was a disappointment, a major one, but I quickly learned to live with it.”
give up a deal like this? It's the chance of a lifetime to reestablish myself. If I walked out on it, I'd end up even lower than I'd been before, a true pariah. Besides, I need the money. The loss of artistic control was a disappointment, a major one, but I quickly learned to live with it.”
“I must say”âI smiledâ“your approach to this difficult situation is stunningly good-natured and practical. I'm not sure
I'd
be able to show your forbearance.”
I'd
be able to show your forbearance.”
“Perhaps your artistic integrity is greater than mine, Claire.”
“Don't be unfair to yourself. You found yourself in a dilemma not of your own making. You dealt with it the only way you could.” I sipped some of my wine, which had gone warm.
“Perhaps.” Gabe paused. “Besides, it doesn't matter now.”
“Oh?” Larry's eyes slid toward mine.
Gabe explained, “With Spencer gone, so is his artistic control.”
I nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“I assure you, it makes perfect sense. I spent yesterday afternoon on the phone with my agent and my lawyer, and
they
spent this morning with the production company's legal team. They first determined that the picture is not in jeopardyâthe show
will
go on. Second, and just as important, they confirmed that artistic control over the production now rests solely with me.” With a satisfied nod, he drank the last of his Tom Collins.
they
spent this morning with the production company's legal team. They first determined that the picture is not in jeopardyâthe show
will
go on. Second, and just as important, they confirmed that artistic control over the production now rests solely with me.” With a satisfied nod, he drank the last of his Tom Collins.
“Hmm,” I said, swirling my wine, “then everything's dandy.”
“It is, isn't it?” agreed Gabe. He hadn't caught the chilling subtext of my idle pronouncement: Gabe Arlington's artistic ego had been tremendously bolstered by Spencer Wallace's death.
The bartender arrived with our lunch just thenâthank goodness, as I didn't enjoy the direction our conversation had taken. Larr y finished the note he was writing, then closed his pad and set it aside.
“Excellent,” Gabe told the bartender, rubbing his hands
together. “I'm famished. Perhaps another Tom Collins as well. Everyone else happy?”
together. “I'm famished. Perhaps another Tom Collins as well. Everyone else happy?”
Larr y and I declined second drinks; then all three of us began to eat. A minute or two passed as we sampled our first bites, pausing to sigh with satisfaction.
At the back of my mind, however, a memory of Saturday evening scratched at my consciousness and distracted me from the pleasures of a twenty-dollar sandwich. Dabbing my lips with my napkin, I turned to Gabe and said offhandedly, “I presume you won't be filming
Photo Flash
in black and white.”
Photo Flash
in black and white.”
Gabe nearly choked. With a chortle, he replied, “Are you kidding ?”
Larry looked confused. He asked me, “Why would he do that?”
I was about to explain that Spencer had openly considered that option at Saturday night's party, but Gabe answered for me, “Now and then, Detective, some artsy-fartsy filmmaker gets the notion that cinema needs to âconnect with its roots' or whatever, and presto, you get some epic shot in grainy black and white. It ends up looking experimental and low-budget, and the ticket-buying public finds it annoying at best. Spencer was a devoted amateur photographerâblack and white, naturallyâand he was flirting with the idea of doing
Photo Flash
in monochrome. I tried to dissuade him, but I knew very well that if Spencer Wallace had a brainstorm, there was likely no stopping it. If you ask me”âGabe laughedâ“the guy must have been sniffing his photo chemicals.”
Photo Flash
in monochrome. I tried to dissuade him, but I knew very well that if Spencer Wallace had a brainstorm, there was likely no stopping it. If you ask me”âGabe laughedâ“the guy must have been sniffing his photo chemicals.”
Larry and I glanced at each other. It escaped neither of us that Spencer may in fact have died from inhaling toxic fumes from his photo baths. This detail of the investigation was not generally known, but Gabe Arlington was intimately familiar with Spencer's screenplay, which had spelled out a precise formula for murder.
The director continued, “Thank God
that
battle's behind us.”
that
battle's behind us.”
Though his opinion was already clear, I decided to draw him out
some, asking, “Did you see no merit at all in filming
Photo Flash
in black and white? The idea struck me as inventive and daring.”
some, asking, “Did you see no merit at all in filming
Photo Flash
in black and white? The idea struck me as inventive and daring.”
“Claire,” he said, resting his fingers on my arm, “I admire your artistic sense greatly, but it stems from the theater, which is intrinsically symbolic and interpretive. Film, on the other hand, is reality; at least that's how audiences see it. Hell, film is rarely even
film
anymore. Many pictures are now shot on high-definition video, then
transferred
to film for projection in theaters.”
film
anymore. Many pictures are now shot on high-definition video, then
transferred
to film for projection in theaters.”
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