Missing Reels (32 page)

“I don’t think so at all,” she said. “I agree with all of that. I bet Isabel does, too.”

“Isabel …” He trailed off. Was he imagining something? Like Isabel in a bikini, cataloguing film fragments with him? “Um, I don’t know how much she cared about this stuff when she took the job. She was a lobbyist before.”

Well, that fit, for sure. “Who for?”

“The American Bar Association.”

She better not laugh, he might slam down his beer and leave in a huff. “She’s a lawyer?”

“Yeah. Never practiced. Didn’t have to, her family’s loaded. But, um, she’s the kind of person who has to work and she’s gotta do everything perfect. And me being so over-the-top made her think I was the same way. She called me and said I had exactly the right attitude, even though I was just an assistant, and she flew up to see me work. I spent a day, um, showing her the stuff I’d done and next thing you know I’m back in New York and I’m in charge of restoration and preservation at the Brody.”

He was hammering his beer almost as fast as the bourbon. She drained the last of her first wine and started on her second.

“Did she go after the collectors?”

“Nah. Not worth it. They returned everything, they always meant to. We need them, anyway. I mean, hey, Kevin Brownlow was a collector. Old Brody was a collector. Collectors are the only way a lot of this stuff survives. But archives and collectors, they, um, have this weird relationship. They think we’re stuffy academics, and we think they’re crazy obsessives.”

“Who’s right?”

He grinned. “We both are.”

She thought of all the people at the Bangville meeting, and the tables piled with reels. “Do you know who Bixby was working with?”

“One of them was Gene.”

“Wow. Did you ever say anything to him?”

“Nope. He knows I know, though. And I’m sure he knows who else was doing it. They all know each other, from things like Bangville and that convention up in Syracuse.”

Finally, her opening. “Like maybe that guy in Vermont? What was his name?”

Fred squinted, and she was afraid he was going to clam up, or ask her why she cared about the Vermont collector. Instead he put a hand under his chin, blew some smoke into the middle distance, and said, “Anderson. That was his name. I don’t know, maybe, but I think Chris wanted the collection so he could feed it to other guys. Not the other way around. A hardcore, big-time collector, he doesn’t give up his stuff. Not unless something forces him to.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Like, you know, death.”

No Andersons in the cast or crew, and none that she knew of at Civitas, either. Damn. She’d have to dig more, somehow. At least she had the still.

And she was enjoying Fred. He was working his way up to saying something else; she could tell because he was clearing his throat for the third time.

“Ah, you’re not a student, right? Because, you know, I think it’s great you want to do restoration. Not that many of us. Everybody wants to run off and, um, be the next Scorsese. But these places want a film degree. I don’t think you need it, myself, but they’ll want it.”

“No, I’m not a student. But I’m thinking of going to film school. I just need to find the money. They tell me the aid parameters are changing all the time.”

“I hope so,” he said glumly. “I’m still paying off my loans. You, um, you also have to do a lot of physical stuff. There’s a lot of chemicals and sometimes mold so you can’t have allergies or anything.” She had her hand braced on the side of the booth, and he was looking at the curve of her arm. “And, um, you do a lot of hauling things around, like film canisters.”

“What, you think I can’t carry things?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly. “It’s just that it’s heavy and stuff, and you’re …” His eyes wandered for a minute and he snapped them back to meet hers. “You’re, um, petite.” He looked back at her arm. “Your build is petite. You’re a very petite woman.”

Ceinwen had noticed that when men found an adjective to describe you that they thought was tactful, they liked to repeat it a few times.

“Is there food here?” she asked.

They ordered French fries and calamari and more drinks, and he told her some more about the Brody, about the difference between preserving a film, where you just made sure a copy was made and stored properly, and trying to restore the movie to what it used to look like. He drank his beer, a bit more slowly, and he told her about the places collectors got their prints—a lot of 16-millimeters from TV stations, it turned out. She mopped up some cocktail sauce that had dripped off her last piece of calamari, and she thought of a network of collectors, who all knew each other. And maybe, too, they knew how, and where, everyone got their stuff.

“Isabel’s not going tomorrow night,” she said.

“No way.”

“That’s too bad. I can’t imagine anyone forcing a puppet show on Isabel, can you?”

He snorted. “No.”

This was not a man who was going to take a hint. She pulled out her cigarettes and offered him one. She lit his, then hers, exhaled and said, “Would you feel better if you had some company?”

F
RED WAS MEETING HER OUTSIDE
S
TEVE
’
S BUILDING AT SEVEN, BEFORE
her shift ended. That meant she couldn’t go to work. The only way you left early from Vintage Visions was on a stretcher. Lily’s attitude was that if you could pick up a phone, you could sell old clothes. Ceinwen felt pretty rough already, but she chain-smoked three cigarettes to get her voice to the right level of husky. She cracked her knuckles and dialed the number.

Roxanne put her on hold. Then Lily: “I’ve got a store to run here.”

And good morning to you, too. “I can’t make it. I’m sick.”

“What, were you drinking? You need to work today. I got no one else for the counter.”

“I can’t. I’ve been throwing up.” Jim had walked in and was listening.

“You’re pregnant?”

“I’m
sick
. I think it’s stomach flu.”

“You know what I think?” Oh god, another one of Lily’s questions. “I think—”

She lost the rest because Jim yanked the phone cord and it crashed to the floor. Before she could speak he put a hand over her mouth. From the receiver she could hear Lily shrieking her name. Jim held up his other hand and counted out slowly with his fingers—one, two, three, four, five. Then he took his hand off her mouth and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Lily? This is Jim. Good to hear your voice again … No, I don’t want to chat. She dropped the phone. She had to run to the bathroom.” He pulled the receiver a little further from his ear. “Are you saying you want me to describe what she’s doing? … Oh. Okay then … I’m sure she’ll be better tomorrow. She doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch … Yes … Okay … I’ll tell her. Have a great—” He looked at the receiver, then hung up. “She says if you don’t come in tomorrow, you’re fired.”

“Thanks.”

“Lily’s special way of saying get well soon.”

“I mean it. That was beautiful. I’m so glad it’s your day off.”

“Had to do something. Watching you try to lie is painful. There’s coffee if you want it.” He went into his bedroom.

She carried the coffee back to the living room. Matthew should be at Courant for office hours by now. This was going to teach him a lesson. A lesson in what, she wasn’t sure, but a lesson. She said hello and he launched in before she could say anything else.

“Listen, would it kill you if we switched movies tonight? I know it’s Walsh, but I’m dying for color. What about
Angel Heart
? You could at least try to keep up with what’s new.”

“Matthew …”

“Christ, when was the last time you saw something made after Eisenhower was president? And before you answer, that one about the MGM musicals doesn’t count.”

“I can’t—”

“Neither does
The Men Who Made the Movies
.”

“I can’t make it tonight.”

“What?” The word was midway between a screech and a bark. “We planned this days ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry. There’s something I have to do.” Jim had re-entered, dressed now, the shock in his face mirroring that in Matthew’s voice.

“And what is that?”

She had the phrase rehearsed; she thought it sounded good and British. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re—” There was a noise of him shifting the phone, and she heard him say, “Yes, hello there. Can you give me a minute, please? I’m afraid I have to take this.” His voice came back, lower but even madder. “You’re not at liberty? You sound like the White House press secretary. You stand me up—this is the only night I’m free this week, by the way—and you won’t even tell me why?”

“I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?”

“You don’t sound the least bit sorry.”

He was right. She was happy he was pitching a hissy fit.

“I have something I can’t do any other night. I’ll tell you about it when I can. I promise.”

He must have had the receiver right up to his mouth because she could hear him inhale. “Let me guess. The film. What is it this time? Are we exhuming someone at midnight to see if they got themselves buried with the print?” What kind of a person would do that? Well, there was Dante Gabriel Rossetti, he buried a bunch of poems with his wife. “For god’s sake don’t
ponder
that, I was being sarcastic.”

“You sounded serious. It’s not like I left you cooling your heels at the Bleecker Street. I’m trying to give you some notice here.”

“You’re too good.”

“Call me when you get some time,” she said, adding maliciously, “I’m free Sunday morning.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Click.

Jim was sitting on the couch. He patted the seat next to him. “Come here. Sit.” She picked up her coffee and perched on the edge. “You just called in sick when you’re not. You went to work during Hurricane Gloria, but today you fake being sick. That’s surprising, but no problem, Lily deserves it.”

“I’m a little hungover, truth be told.”

“No kidding. Last night you were out till 3:00 a.m. And it wasn’t with Matthew. You disappear nearly every morning with a book bag. Most nights you barely say hello. You take the phone in your room and have conversations you don’t want me and Talmadge to hear. You never say who you’re calling. Yesterday I got the phone bill, and there’s $68 of calls to LA. I don’t know anyone there. Neither does Talmadge. I didn’t realize you did, either.”

Shit, where was she going to find $68? He paused, then went on.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you just canceled on Matthew. This time last month you’d have done that right around the same time you made us all watch
Casablanca
colorized.”

“He’s been taking me for granted.”

“I’m not complaining. I’m saying it’s unexpected, but go ahead. Cancel him like a postage stamp. By the way, you got a letter from California. I don’t think you saw it last night.” He pulled it from under the coffee table. She reached and he held it away. “Uh-uh. Nope. Not handing this over until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing shady, I promise.”

“So you say. But whatever it is, you’re going overboard.” He stuck the letter under his thigh and pulled out a cigarette. “No. Scratch that. You’re going ape-shit crazy. You’ve even lost weight. It isn’t like you were eating us out of house and home before, but now I never see you with food. You’re too busy making phone calls and writing letters. I never, I mean never, thought I’d say this, but thank god for Matthew, because at least when you’re with him I know maybe you’re having a meal.” He lit up, exhaled, and looked at her. She looked at her hands and tried to remember where her cigarettes were. “I don’t get it, honey. We used to talk.”

“It’s just not my secret to tell, that’s all.” She picked up his cigarettes and took one without asking. “And Talmadge, I love him, but he isn’t very discreet.”

“I am. You know that. Try me. We don’t have to tell Talmadge.”

She lit the cigarette, and she told him. A short version, but all of it, just the same. He listened without saying much, except when she finished telling him about Miriam and Emil, he did quote
All About Eve
: “What a story. Everything but the bloodhounds snappin’ at her rear end.” She told him about the Brody and Fred and the Bangville Police Society. She told him about her still.

“Where is it? Can I see it?”

She’d been drunk when she got back last night, and she hadn’t looked at it again. She fetched it and they sat close.

“This is one of the sets?”

“Must be.” Her finger hovered over the man on the left, and she had to remind herself not to touch the picture. “I think the one with his arm on the camera is Emil.”

Oval shape to the face, small chin. High forehead—hair maybe receding a little—nose prominent, but in proportion. Big eyes. It was a good face. Not the face of a man who’d be cruel to Miriam, much less a man who would break his hand punching a wall. The smile wasn’t wide, but it was confident, a young smile.

The biggest electric-train set any boy ever had, Orson Welles said when he first saw a soundstage. Emil had the smile of a boy who just got his train set.

“Handsome guy.” Jim put a hand on her shoulder. “Do I need to get the toilet paper?”

She touched the corners of her eyes. “I’m all right.”

He leaned back. “You know I don’t like agreeing with Matthew about anything. But I don’t see how this is going to lead anywhere. Meanwhile you’ve got an awful lot invested in this, honey. Too much, if you ask me.”

“If I have to give up, I’ll know when it’s time.” She slid the still back into the paper bag. “Things keep happening, like finding this. It’s all signs. It all means I’m supposed to keep going.”

“You sound like Talmadge.” He sucked in his cheeks and worked his fingers through a bit of Talmadge’s manual-dexterity exercises.

She didn’t laugh. “It isn’t right.”

“What isn’t?”

“All those people. All that money, all that work.” She took another one of his cigarettes. “All that heartache. It isn’t right that it’s gone.”

“You think that’s what Miriam thinks? It’s not right?” She had borrowed his matches and as usual, she was breaking one after another. “What Miriam wants is for you to run around asking everyone where’s her movie? Only she doesn’t know that’s what she wants?”