The Cutting Room (23 page)

Gilda was suffering, too. Her little yelps of dismay were coming fast and furious, and she now scratched helplessly at the base of the Kripps’ front door.

“Gilda!” Claude called faintly. “That’s enough now!”

I placed my dirty plate down on a living room chair. Then, trying not to make a sound, I held the bolting dog back with my foot and pulled the door slowly open.

Outside, the moon was covered by clouds, and the single streetlight did little to show me the way. I walked with deliberation, my hand waving out in front of me, as my only guide.

I remembered Webby’s final “bippy” remark, his dated decree of my death after his election. I had been a fool to trust him, I knew now. Somewhere, ski mask in place, he waited in the night to break our deal and take his revenge. After all, with me dead, he had no more to fear from the Filofax. How had I been so stupid as not to know that?

Then I heard the sound of a step.

I stopped walking, my hand still outstretched. My mind played a crazy montage of violent images from the Krippses’ Seventies films, accompanied by a DreamDates score. I had never known what it meant to feel faint before that moment.

Then I felt a hand grab mine. It took me a second to realize that it was a smaller hand, and that its fingers were holding, not pulling, my own.

“Orson!”

Members of the Kripp family, dog included, all embraced one another in the living room. Claude kept rubbing his boy’s hair over and over, as if to make sure that he was real. Alice immediately became her old self, checking Orson for injuries, asking him worried questions, and promising him his favorite meal, which she would cook right away.

“Look who I found,” was all I had said.

Jeanine and I watched for a second, then discreetly walked from the room. We did not say anything. She looked at me with a combination of relief, wonder, and exasperation and then just shook her head.

Then she noticed what I was carrying, the thing that little Orson had given me when I’d found him. The bag’s nylon handle was wrapped around my wrist.

“Oh, by the way,” I said, as an afterthought. “I got
The Magnificent Ambersons
, too.”

PART 6

NEW YORK

PRINT IT!

I’m off to upstate New York this weekend, to participate in the yearly madness known as the Rhinebeck Film Fair. It’s here that critics, collectors, and just plain kooks gather to catch the latest in old movies: rediscovered gems, found footage, new prints, etc. The event that everyone is looking forward to is a “Mystery Midnight Screening” at which we’re promised the “Film Find of the Century”! Even I don’t know what it is, and that’s saying a lot! It comes courtesy of Roy Milano, editor and publisher of
Trivial Man
, a modest publication that you probably haven’t heard of . . . until now.

I didn’t know whether to take Abner Cooley’s mention as a plug or a jibe, and I didn’t much care. I had sent Webby the Filofax after deciding not to simply shaft him. A deal was a deal; and, besides, who knew what a politician who was his own hitman would do if done wrong? Then it became my new determination to share
The Magnificent Ambersons
with the trivial community.

Part of it was guilt, of course. While I felt vindicated in my handling of the Webby matter, I also felt responsible for bringing such horror into the Krippses’ home—without ever telling them why. This had made me feel big-hearted and expansive.

Also, after my long ordeal, I had a sense of a homecoming. I had plunged into another world, one populated by powerful people with big money and bad intentions, and had come out with the prize I sought. I felt I should bring
Ambersons
back where it belonged: to the people who did not want to destroy it or ignore it; to the wastrels, nuts, and obsessive fans who cared about it most. In other words, to the people like me.

I did not regret that I wouldn’t know the movie first. I was simply sorry that I still didn’t know who killed Alan Gilbert.

“Well, this is a new tune,” Jeanine said as we pulled up to the Rhinebeck Motor Lodge.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” I said.

“I’m not
not
pleased. I just wonder if you’re going overboard. We’re not all one big happy family, you know.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Maybe our world isn’t much better than Hollywood or Europe or Washington. There’s still jealousy and backbiting and bitterness, only with fast food, that’s all.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“I never said you were.”

After a second of silence, Jeanine leaned over and kissed my neck. Our quarreling had a new tone to it now—and not just because it usually ended in pecks and petting. Since the Kripps, Jeanine felt sheepish for having doubted me; I felt rotten for having started all the trouble. So we danced warily around each other before coming in for more petting and pecks.

“This is the last of Rosie’s money,” I said. “Did you get one room?”

“Yes.” Then she paused, unsure. “Shouldn’t I have?”

“No, you should have, that’s fine.”

“Oh, okay, good. Because we can always, you know—”

“Get another one?”

“Yes, you know, if that’s necessary.”

“Well, actually, I think the town is pretty booked up.”

“Then you can always bunk with someone. Or I can. Actually
you
should, because the ratio of men to women here will be like the U.S. Army, or something, so—”

“It’ll be fine. We won’t need to.”

“Okay, okay, I don’t think so, either.”

Then there was a long pause. This was, I guessed, how trivial people dated.

I had arranged with the Film Fair organizers for the special showing, but had not divulged the identity of my find. They agreed reluctantly, still burned by a recent “World Premiere” that had turned out to be a waggish trivial man’s slides of his vacation. The obscure midnight slot was a precaution in case I pulled such a prank.

Rhinebeck was an affluent Catskills town that featured the country’s oldest inn. It was also home to prominent show-business figures who gave it a Hamptons-in-the-mountains type feel. The annual influx of trivial people was a boon for the local economy, and usually generated press coverage. Today there was even a banner hanging over its main street.

WELCOME, FILM FREAKS!
it read.

The Rhinebeck Motor Lodge was not the country’s oldest inn; it was, in fact, a sterile high-rise on the outskirts of town, and the only place where trivial people could afford to stay.

A shabby yellow schoolbus with an aged driver was donated by the Chamber of Commerce to take us from there to a mall movie Plex, one screen of which was reserved for our Fair. Tonight it would play host to the opening film, which was a new print of a classic. Then it was back to the Lodge’s lobby for the reception, held in an old bar renamed especially for us: The Cutting Room.

It was on the bus that night, entering like kids going to camp, that Jeanine and I saw our old colleagues again.

There was Abner Cooley himself, passing around the latest Hollywood trade paper to quote one of his scoops . . . Ron Gaylord, his Spanish theater closed, back in the States looking for work, a high turtleneck covering his suicidal belt mark . . . Taylor Weinrod, dressed to the nines, scoping out films for LCM and seeming as if he were slumming . . . and the Kripps, as ever cuddling, trying unsuccessfully to lead everyone in a round of “Row Your Boat.”

All greeted Jeanine warmly, except for Abner, who still smarted from her desertion of him—and he didn’t even know that she had stolen his contacts when she’d left. Word of my mystery presentation for the next night had spread, and I was received, as Jeanine had predicted, with a mixture of jealousy, mistrust and, at best, grumpy courtesy.

“Can’t you just feel the warmth?” Jeanine whispered.

Let them be small now, I thought, as we took our seats. Once they see what I’ve unearthed—and have decided to share with them—they’ll come around. This would be the beginning of a whole new feeling of community.

“Hey, Milano,” Abner said, taking up a whole row. “Tomorrow better be good. I don’t want to look stupid in front of America.”

“It’s too late for that,” I answered.

“You’re killing me. Look, just be happy I printed the mention at all. And don’t bother to thank me for plugging your little newsletter.”

I had debated whether to call Abner from Boston with my news. Now I regretted that I had, especially since—if there was new demand for
Trivial Man
—I had not published an issue all season.

“You won’t be disappointed,” I said. “I promise.”

“Well, if it’s as good as you say,” Abner went on, “next time, lunch is on you.”

I laughed—and not just because Abner was famous for sticking others with checks, more often as he became more famous. I did not want
Ambersons
to bring me celebrity, not in the way Alan Gilbert obviously had. I had seen what celebrity—from movies to sports to politics—did to people. Obscurity was looking better all the time.

But try telling that to Abner.

“Yep, I don’t know if this town’ll be big enough for the both of us,” he said smugly, brushing his faint blond beard.

“That’s true every day, pudgeball,” Ron Gaylord threw in.

Through the bus, there was a ripple of amusement. I perversely admired Ron for not curbing his miserable mouth, even though he was now a supplicant, begging for work. It was a strange, self-destructive form of integrity.

“It’s nice to have you back,” Abner answered. “I see that the liquor store in town has a ‘Welcome Ron Gaylord’ sign outside.”

“I’ll kill you!”

Ron lunged out of his seat and had to be restrained by bulky Claude Kripp.

“That’s enough, you two,” Claude said in his paternal way.

“I’ve been on the wagon for weeks!” Ron said angrily. “But
you
can’t kick
your
addiction to fudge!”

Nearby, Taylor Weinrod rolled his eyes as if he weren’t sure how he had come to be among these lowlifes.

“Will you all just please shut up?” he asked quietly.

Still held in Claude’s embrace, Ron leaned forward and snapped Taylor’s suspenders once, thwaking his chest loudly.

“Why don’t you go back to L.A. and sell out some more!” he shouted.

Audible sighs of dismay now came from Alice Kripp, who put down her knitting to remark, “Well, I think you’re all acting like a bunch of children.”

“Yes,” Jeanine said mischievously. “Let’s all just settle down and be happy for Roy.”

She glanced at me, as if to say,
Still proud of your plan?
Then she touched my hand, to take the sting away.

This gesture, small as it was, did not go unnoticed by the bus’s other passengers. Now, reducing camaraderie even further, there was jealousy of Jeanine and my relationship. The Kripps were one thing—they were parents, chubby, and middle-aged. But Jeanine and I were still hovering on the edges of youthful sexual function, and so must be destroyed.

“Well,” Abner said lewdly, “I see
someone’s
going to have his own special midnight show tonight.”

“Yeah,” Ron chimed in, “and there should be more laughing than at
Rocky Horror
!”

A general air of malicious merriment took hold, seeming to rock the bus. Then, “Driver!” Taylor called comically. “Let me out! Right here on the highway, it’s fine!”

The nasty buzzing grew quieter, the Kripps having abstained and smiling at us with a parental glow.

Then Taylor came and sat on the seat behind me.

“Well, Roy,” he whispered, “don’t you think you owe me something for my little favor?”

“What favor?” I honestly didn’t remember. “Oh, you mean working for Webby.”

“Yes. You know, if your find is something LCM would be interested in, I’m sure Ed Landers would love to know about it. I assume you’re still interested in a job? I can’t promise anything right now, but . . .”

A real job at LCM was now the farthest thing from my mind. Still, there was the question of what to do with
Ambersons
after it premiered. I didn’t even know where Erendira was.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

Taylor winked. He assumed I was being cagey, not merely confused. “I see you’re learning the ropes of the biz. Good for you.”

“No, it’s not that, I genuinely don’t—”

“Okay, you player, keep it to yourself. But remember my offer. There’s voice mail in my room, in case you want to spill the beans and make a deal, before tomorrow.”

Unlike the rest of us, Taylor was staying at the country’s oldest inn, courtesy of Ed Landers and LCM, and the bus had made a special detour to pick him up. Before I could comment, he had slipped his business card into my front shirt pocket. Then he slithered back to his seat, filled with new, totally mistaken respect for me.

Among the hostile group, Taylor was not the only one nosing around. In Boston, Abner had already grilled me about what I was presenting. But his ego was so great that he couldn’t conceive of any discovery “out there” that was unknown to him, so he had shrugged it off. Still, I knew that his banter about my becoming his equal had been based on fear, not excited anticipation.

Ron, on the other hand, had less ego and more need. He was in my ear now, having taken Taylor’s spot behind me. His breath smelled of as many mints as he could consume to disguise a decade of heavy drinking, so I guessed he was serious about sobriety.

“You don’t know what a pleasure it is,” he said, “to insult someone again in English.”

I smiled. “It’s good to be back home, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Especially since I’ve got some backing to start a new revival house. Did I tell you that?”

“No.” Ron’s backing seemed to have come through as soon as he’d heard about my screening. “That’s lucky.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna be out of the city, in a small town like this one. I won’t be hiring much more than maybe one other person.” Strangely, Ron seemed to believe that he and I now had a bond, just because I had cut him down from a ceiling fan. “Any interest?”

Jeanine was seated beside me, all but ignored by these—shy and sort of sexist—trivial men. Silently, she drew two words on my open palm:
no
and
way
.

“Well, let me think about it,” I hedged. “Maybe you’ll see the thing and you won’t be so excited, anyway.”

This sounded as lame to me as it obviously did to Ron. He shook his head with barely concealed disgust. Then he rubbed his lips agitatedly, as if a cold one would go down real good right now. Then he dragged his sorry self back to his seat.

Only the Kripps were left to approach me as we made our way to the Plex. They, too, I was surprised to see, were soon in the coveted spot near my ear.

“So, have you shared your little secret with Jeanine?” Alice asked, purling one on a garment I later learned was a hat for her dog, Gilda.

“She knows,” I admitted.

“Does that mean I hear wedding bells?”

“That was just the bus horn,” Jeanine answered, and I smiled, relieved.

“Leave them alone, for goodness’ sake,” Claude said good-humoredly.

Alice’s agenda was complex: As our fairy godmother, she wanted to keep Jeanine and me together, and as a trivial person, she wanted to know what the movie was.

“Little Orson sends his greetings,” she said, to further build a bridge.