Missing Reels (31 page)

Ralph put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Try me.”

She leaned right back at him and lowered her voice. “Got something from
The Mysteries of Udolpho
?”

He whistled. “That big Civitas flop? You know about that one?”

“Mademoiselle is a connoisseur,” said Gene.

“So,” said Ceinwen. “Got that one?” Ralph looked at the ceiling and tapped his chin.

“What’s going on here?” Lorraine had dropped anchor next to Ceinwen.

“Fred’s newcomer is playing Stump the Still Man,” said Gene.

“Hey, who says I’m stumped? Give me a minute.” Ralph pulled over a box and flipped through the folders, commenting on them one by one. “Nope … nope … nope … nada. Okay. Let me think here.”

“He doesn’t have it,” crowed Gene.

“I didn’t say that, my man, I didn’t say that.” Ralph bent under the table, came up with a box and shoved it onto a clear space.

“What did she ask for?” Lorraine wanted to know.

“
Mysteries of Udolpho
.”

Lorraine let out a cackle. “A toughie. I like that in a woman.” Ralph had finished with that box and shoved it back under the table. He scanned the other boxes.

“Just admit it,” said Gene. “She’s got you beat.”

Ralph walked to the end of the table and laid his hand on the last box at the end. “Says you.” He flipped through a few folders, pulled one out and opened it. He began to turn the stills over one by one as they all watched.

“What do you want this for?” asked Gene.

“I have a personal interest in lost films.”

“Not me,” said Lorraine. “Too depressing. I try to focus on the ones that get found.”

“Ah-ha. Ah, ah, ah.” Ralph held up a photo with the back facing out. Ceinwen put both hands up to her mouth. “Who’s stumped now? Who’s got me beat now?”

He flipped the still around and placed it in her hands. She could feel herself shaking slightly so she set it down on the table.

Lights and wires around the edges of the frame. An on-set still. Miriam in a pale, filmy costume, one hand on the back of a chair. Edward Kenny next to her, hands on his hips. A couple more actors, probably the woman who played Madame Cheron. On the far right a dark, heavyset man in a suit, and a slim, long-jawed younger man with his jacket off, holding a script. Left, a bit apart from the others, a man resting his elbow on the camera. Light-haired, tieless, smiling.

She couldn’t remember how much cash she had on her, but she would hand it all to Ralph if he asked, down to the tokens in her change purse. She’d walk home if she had to.

“Where was it?” asked Gene.

“I had it filed with the studio photographer,” said Ralph. “Almost forgot because I only got this batch about a month ago.”

“How much?” breathed Ceinwen.

“Hmm. Let’s say thirty.”

Lorraine exploded before Ceinwen got her hand on the latch of her purse. “Thirty? What did you put in your punch?”

“It’s an extremely rare item.”

“Oh please. Nothing’s thirty. Last time you sold a still from
Beggars of Life
, it had Louise Brooks and people have actually
seen
that one, and you didn’t even charge twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five,” said Ralph.

“We want her to come back,” said Gene. “She knows her silents. She knows how to dress.”

“It’s highly collectible.”

“Like hell,” snapped Lorraine. “Only one in that flicker anyone’s ever heard of is Edward Kenny.”

“And he’s in the shot!” said Ralph, pointing at the photo. “Look, right there. And you have to admit, the leading lady was an eyeful.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, she’s cute. Take ten, you know that’s all it’s worth.”

“I can do fifteen. That’s as low as I go. And it’s only because I lust for you in my heart, Lorraine.”

“I’ll tell my old man. Twelve-fifty.”

“I can do fifteen.” She couldn’t stand it anymore, she needed to know it was hers.

“You’re getting hosed, doll,” said Lorraine.

“She knows a treasure when she sees it,” said Ralph. Ceinwen pulled out her wallet. She had been spending so much time at the library she still had cash. Fred walked up while Ralph was putting the still in a folder, then in a paper bag.

“What did you get?”

“
Mysteries of Udolpho
,” said Gene. Fred peered at her but before he said anything, the smoking jacket called out from the door.

“Yo, Freddie.” Fred jumped at the sound of the man’s gruff, nasal voice. “So tomorrow, we gotta date?” The man was going bald in a way that left a Florida-shaped peninsula of hair still jutting down his forehead.

“Yeah, tomorrow at seven.”

“Aces.” He made a little salute and was gone.

“What in the hell?” asked Gene. “You’re seeing Steve?”

“We have some, um, business,” said Fred. “So, ah, Ceinwen, you ready to head out?”

She slid the still between the pages of her monograph Xerox, to protect it. “Yes, let’s.”

As they swung out onto 82nd Street Ceinwen thought about quitting while she was ahead, but then she remembered why she wanted to talk to Fred. He was yanking off his tie and staring bleakly down the street toward First Avenue. She did a half-pirouette to face him.

“Hey. You wanna get a drink or something?”

He stuffed the tie in his coat pocket. “I’d love one.”

F
RED LED HER UP A FEW MORE BLOCKS AND AROUND THE CORNER TO
a downstairs place barely visible from the street. It used to be a speakeasy, he told her. Inside it was tiny, with a long, carved bar and wooden booths along the opposite wall, the seats so high-backed that when you sat down you felt as though you had a private room. They found an empty booth and Ceinwen ordered her usual wine. He asked for a bourbon and downed about half as soon as it arrived. If she wanted to get anything out of Fred before he got what Matthew called rat-arsed, she better figure out why he was so miserable.

“Why do you have to meet with this screwball?”

He took another gulp. “Raymond Griffith, know who he is?” She shook her head. “You’ve seen
All Quiet on the Western Front
, right? He’s the French soldier, the one who dies in the trench with Lew Ayres. He was a comedian in silents, a really good one. We’ve got a two-reeler of his in the collection and I’m trying to restore it. I got one reel okay but the other one had some heavy damage and it isn’t going to look very good. Steve, he’s got a big collection and I know he’s got some Griffith. On a hunch I call him and Steve’s all coy and ‘why don’t you hop on over to the screening tonight, Freddie, whaddya say.’ And tonight he says yeah, he’s got it all right. Says his copy is in great shape and I could probably even use his print to make what I’ve already done look better.” Fred was the only person she’d ever met who stammered less when he got a glass of liquor in him.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, maybe it would be if he’d drop off the reels or let us send a messenger like a normal person. But no. He wants me to go to his place.” She got it now. She felt herself blushing for Fred. He knocked back all but a half-inch of his drink and gestured to the waiter for another. “I don’t usually drink this fast, by the way.”

“Are you saying …” This was terrible. No wonder he was so upset. He eyed her grimly and she fumbled for the right turn of phrase. “Steve, he, um, he likes you?”

Fred backed himself into the corner of the booth like he was Tippi Hedren being attacked in
The Birds
. “
What
? NO.” He swallowed the last of his bourbon and scooted toward her, his voice a bit lower. “I—god, no. No, no, no.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you were saying …”

“I didn’t mean anything like that. I like silents, I like my work, there’s a lot I’ll do, but not that.” The waiter arrived with the drink and she could have sworn it never actually made table contact before Fred grabbed it.

“Okay, okay. So why do you have to go to his place?”

He propped his head against the booth and closed his eyes. “He wants to show me Topo Gigio.” Another hit of bourbon, eyes still shut.

“I don’t know his movies.” How bad could they be?

He choked and had to grab his napkin. “Topo Gigio isn’t a director. He’s a mouse. A puppet. He was on TV.”

“Oh. Mostly all I watch on TV is movies.” She was dying for a cigarette.

“He hasn’t been on in years.
The Ed Sullivan Show
. I guess he was on Italian TV too. It took four people or something to move him around on the show. Um, can I bum one of those?” She handed him a cigarette and lit them both. “Steve’s obsession besides old movies is Topo Gigio. And he has his own puppet, and he’s really proud that he can move Topo Gigio all by himself. And if you go over there to get a print out of him, that’s the price you have to pay. You sit there for hours while he waves his fucking mouse puppet at you.” She couldn’t manage it any longer. The laugh rolled out with the smoke. “He does the voice too.” She let out a howl. “It’s got an accent, this mouse. I’m glad you think this is funny.” She wiped her eyes with her napkin. “Yeah, Isabel thinks it’s funny, too. Last year she let me set up a meeting with Steve, by myself, even though she knew I’d have to meet the puppet. Never said a word.”

She got her voice under control and said, “Don’t you think maybe you’re making too big a fuss over this? It’s just one night.”

“That’s what Isabel said. Why don’t you ladies try it, then. You should have seen her face. ‘I’d go too, but I have an engagement,’” he mimicked, in a pretty good version of Isabel’s refined drawl. “And she’ll have another party tomorrow, just wait.” Another swig. “She likes torturing me.”

Something about the way he muttered that last part made Ceinwen give him a closer look. He was taking a drag off the cigarette and coloring slightly under his five o’clock shadow.

Fred had a
crush
on Isabel.

Maybe this shouldn’t be a shock. Isabel was smart. And she was beautiful. Admittedly, if she felt like it, Isabel might snap a man’s balls off at the crotch and roll them across the floor like Christmas ornaments. But she was definitely beautiful.

“So yeah. Be me when you grow up. Four years at Tisch and, um, two more years for the master’s degree. Some training at MoMA, couple of years at Eastman House and then, when you’re ready for the big time, you go talk to a puppet. Did I mention that?” She started laughing again. “You have to talk back to the mouse or he pouts.”

“At least your honor is safe,” she choked out.

He was almost done with this drink, too. “I’d be better off just sleeping with the guy.” He paused. “I didn’t say that. Never tell anyone I said that.”

“You mean Isabel? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Isabel would kill me anyway. She’s huge on ethics. And I’m huge on not dying. You want to know my big ultimate career goal, me being your role model and all, that’s it. Not getting killed by Isabel.”

Ceinwen imagined Isabel wearing a negligee, propped against satin pillows and ordering Fred around the bedroom. Fred was probably imagining the same thing. Maybe that was what all men wanted. Someone to give them a hard time. Matthew hadn’t broken up with Anna because Ceinwen was too nice to him. She should stand him up.

She would, too. Next week.

“I wouldn’t think Isabel would worry much about ethics. She seems kind of ruthless.”

He sat up straighter and gave her a look like the one he’d given Matthew. Watch it, she thought, this is his dream girl you’re running down. “She’s incredibly ethical. That’s how I got hired.” He was almost done with the second bourbon.

“She hired you because you’re honest?”

“Sort of.” She waited. “I shouldn’t be …” He took another swallow. “All right, if I tell you this, you have to swear you won’t tell anybody. Not one person. Especially not …”

“Matthew?”

“Yeah. Especially not him. You know Chris Bixby, the one I said got us that Vermont collection and retired? It wasn’t true. He was fired. Where’s the waiter?” He motioned to the man again.

“Maybe you should switch to beer.”

“Good idea.” He asked the waiter for a Heineken and another wine for her, although she wasn’t nearly finished.

“Was Bixby stealing movies?”

“Not exactly. He had a side deal with some collectors. They’d pay him a fee, couple of hundred dollars, and he’d lend them a negative to print. Well, the Brody doesn’t have many negatives. So, um, then he started lending out the prints to copy. The guy running things before Isabel never even noticed. But she wanted to know all about how everything was working, and she was, ah, taking inventory. And when she found some stuff out of order and she couldn’t find some other stuff, she got suspicious. So she called in Chris and he, ah, he admitted it pretty quickly. He wasn’t a master criminal, just a film geek in an archive.”

The waiter set the drinks down and Fred took a swallow.

“She fired him?”

“She fired everybody. Two curators, three lab technicians. She even fired the receptionist. Way I heard it, um, she called them into the lobby and you know, there aren’t any chairs, and she stands them up in a row and she says, you’re history.” He pulled up his arms and fired an imaginary rifle.

“They were all in on it?”

“Just Bixby. But she, um, assumed the others had to know he was doing it, so she fired them for not blowing the whistle.”

Whoa. Isabel was one tough hombre. “What was the receptionist doing?”

“I, um, think she just didn’t like the receptionist and figured now was her chance. So I’m up at Eastman House and it was all right. I mean, they do great work, but man, I hated Rochester. Rochester, god, it makes Buffalo look like Paris. And I, um, I had been trying to get out but there’s not that many places, you know? And I heard the Brody was hiring and I sent my CV. And I included a cover letter, um, it was long and I went on a bit about preservation and film, and how if we didn’t keep film history alive everybody was just going to sit around watching, I don’t know,
Friday the 13th
and shit like that. And, um, I closed with some stuff about art and about losing a big part of our legacy as American citizens.” He picked up his beer, looked at the top of the bottle, and set it back. “It wound up being two pages long. Single spaced. I got carried away, kinda.”