The Rocketeer (11 page)

Technicians from all over now emerged onto the set, preparing to recheck the lights and sound equipment. Cameramen leaned back and chatted with each other, comparing notes on how the master shot looked through their respective lenses.

In the meantime the director, a generally patient but easily frustrated man named Victor Brannon, approached the noblewoman who had delivered her line so abominably, and said, “Honey, you’re a lady of the court, not a barfly from Philly!”

Still lying on the mattress, looking nonchalant, Sir Alec called, “Victor, how many times we gonna
do
this?”

Brannon ignored him, instead concentrating on the actress. “Now, look, acting is acting like you’re
not
acting. So act—but don’t act like you’re acting. Get me?”

The actress, who until two weeks ago had been a barfly from Philly, looked at him blankly.

On the side of the movie set, Jenny and Irma—dressed as servant extras—looked at each other. Irma rolled her eyes.

“Boy oh boy, is
she
a block of wood. Your audition was
so
much better.”

“Irma,
everyone’s
audition was better,” said Jenny. “It doesn’t matter when you’re the producer’s ‘niece.’ ”

Irma sighed loudly. “So
she
gets to play a scene with Neville Sinclair while we play scenery. I love Hollywood.”

Jenny was glad that Cliff was nowhere nearby. He’d sure be having a laugh at her expense.

Cliff wandered around on the studio lot, feeling hopelessly lost.

He’d had a tough enough time sneaking in. The guard at the front gate had not been particularly inclined to let him in . . . to be specific, he’d told Cliff that if he saw him hanging around again, he’d personally boot the flier from here to Pasadena. Still, through dedication, Cliff had gotten past him. He’d simply waited for the right moment and it had presented itself: While hiding in the bushes, Cliff saw Mae West drive up to the gate in a low roadster.

She pulled up and immediately began to engage in what was clearly some sort of teasing banter with the guard. Maybe he was asking her what she’d said in that Adam and Eve sketch she’d done with Don Ameche on the radio a few months before. Whatever it was, it had gotten the FCC so steamed that they’d issued an official scolding. Or maybe Mae West was just being her usual sociable, slightly bawdy self.

Whatever it was, Cliff couldn’t hear from where he was hiding, but he knew now was the moment. He bolted for the far side of the gate to which the guard had his back turned. Mae saw him go, but clearly the blond bombshell thought he was just an autograph hound or some other harmless guy, and she did nothing to tip the guard of what was going on. Cliff grinned, waved, and squeezed through the gate and onto the lot.

Once he was there, though, he knew he was going to have a problem. All around were large buildings that he knew, from Jenny’s descriptions, were soundstages. But they all looked alike. There were people walking past him or riding past him on bikes, all clearly with someplace to go and something to do, and his attempts to get their attention failed miserably.

There was a woman standing a few feet away, and she didn’t seem to be going anywhere. She was wearing what appeared to be a large black dress of some kind with large, puffy black sleeves. He walked up to her and tapped her on the back. “Excuse me,” he began . . .

She turned and Cliff jumped back three feet with a yelp of alarm.

Her face was pea green, and her nose was long and ugly. Her entire face seemed to be filled with evil.

“Jeez!” exclaimed Cliff. “I . . .”

She put up her equally green hands. “I’m sorry. I was just catching some fresh air. I’m here for makeup and costume tests. That’s all. I don’t normally look like this.”

“I . . . I didn’t think so,” said Cliff, already starting to feel foolish. “It’s . . . effective, I’ll tell you that.”

“You think so?” She examined her hands. “It’s not too much?”

“No, it’s fine. What are you supposed to be? A troll?”

“A witch, actually.”

“Look, uh . . .”

“Margaret.”

“Margaret, I’m looking for where they’re filming some movie. Something with Neville Sinclair, I’m not sure what it’s called.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m not sure. I wish I could be of help. Say, I’ve been practicing my laugh. Want to hear?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Cliff, looking about distractedly.

She laughed, a nasty, brittle-sounding cackle. Cliff listened carefully and then said, “Try it a little higher pitched. And put more of an
eh-eh-eh
sound into it. Like a plane engine revving up.”

She paused a moment, taking it in, and then let loose with a laugh so hideous that Cliff felt chills up and down his spine. He flashed her a high sign and started off, calling over his shoulder, “Good luck with your movie!”

“Aw, it’s some kids’ film,” she said with a dismissive wave. “But, y’know, what the hell . . . it’s a job, right?”

“All right!” shouted Victor Brannon, clapping his hands sharply. “Everybody back to first position! Let’s see if we can get it right this time!”

“Quiet on the set!” shouted the assistant director, who happened to be Brannon’s son, Fred. “We’re rolling!”

The clapper boy stepped forward, clapper at the ready.
“Sword of the Avenger,
scene 114. Take twenty-eight!”

“And . . . action!” said Brannon.

Cliff saw a man dressed in what appeared to be Civil War-period clothes pacing back and forth near one of the soundstages. The man was muttering to himself, and then Cliff’s eyes opened wide and he cried out, “You’re . . . you’re him! Clark Gable!”

Gable barely afforded him a glance. “Please . . . I’m trying to get my lines down.”

“I thought you were great in
Night Flight
!” Cliff gushed. For clowns like Sinclair he had little patience, but this was Gable, for pity’s sake!

“Fine. Great.” Gable went back to muttering to himself.

“Look, uh, I’m looking for a film that Neville Sinclair is making—”

Gable pointed distractedly to the soundstage directly across the way. “In there. Now, please, this is an important line, and I have to make sure the delivery is right,” and he went back to muttering.

“Okay, thanks. Uhmmm . . .” He felt like a rube, but when was he going to get this kind of opportunity again? “Look . . . I have a friend named Cliff who’d really like your autograph. He thinks you’re just about the best, right up there with Cagney, and—”

Gable, his back to Cliff and, at this point, oblivious of his presence, tilted his head and said loudly, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!”

Cliff took a step back, surprised and embarrassed and then angry. “All right! Forget it, then! And you know what?
I
don’t give a damn either! And for that matter, you couldn’t come close to Cagney on your best day!” And he turned and headed for the sound-stage.

Gable, surprised at the sudden outburst that had interrupted him, turned and watched Cliff go. “Wonder what
his
problem is?” he murmured, and then shrugged and went back to rehearsing.

Cliff ignored the red light bulb that shone brightly just above the door and opened it, stepping into an alien world of darkness and cables and strange props. He might as well have been walking around on the moon.

Somewhere off to his right he heard shouting and the sounds of swords clanging together. He tripped over a cable and then quickly righted himself. Walls of a castle towered nearby, and he felt hemmed in by the labyrinth of stone walls. Someone on the other side was shouting something about a “Sir Reginald,” but Cliff had no idea how to get around to where the shouting was coming from. The wall was an immense barrier, and it was so dark he was sure he’d trip and kill himself.

He decided the only thing to do was wait for somebody to turn on the lights so he could see where he was going.

He leaned against the sturdy castle wall.

On the set, the suave Sir Reginald had just downed his twenty-eighth glass of fake wine that day. Poised at his feet was the noblewoman from Philadelphia, and her little fists clenched in that way she had just before she would deliver her line.

The director, who was not looking forward to take twenty-nine, held his breath. His eyes, along with those of everyone else on the set, were glued on the noblewoman.

And to their utter shock, she said with breathless wonder, amazement, precision, and absolutely no trace of any accent except a perfect British one, “Oh, my prince! Would that you drink of my lips as deeply!”

It was all the director and crew could do not to give a collective yelp of joy. As if galvanized by the hope of finishing the damned master take already, Sir Reginald leapt off the table into the midst of the palace guards, sword poised . . .

And at that moment Cliff Secord discovered that the sturdy castle wall was made of plyboard. Overbalanced by his weight, the wall started to topple.

A grip saw it first and, with alarm, he shouted, “Heads up!”

The castle wall tore right down the middle and collapsed slowly but inevitably. Cast and crew dashed in all directions, screams filling the air, and the flat landed in the middle of the set with a massive
thwap.

Cliff stood there, feeling incredibly exposed. The eyes of a hundred people were staring at him. Ninety-nine, actually—Jenny, standing behind a pillar, had closed hers in pain and mortification.

The confused flier looked around and then said, “Uh . . . sorry. Is Jenny here?”

Victor felt as if his temples were about to explode. But he knew that if he lost control now, it would mean, at the very least, a stroke.

“Jenny,” he said with great quiet. He turned and raised his voice. “Is there a Jenny here?” he asked, sounding sweet as pie.

Jenny had been shutting her eyes even more tightly, hoping that when she opened them it would all turn out to be a bad dream. Such, however, was not the case. Slowly she emerged from behind the pillar and, wishing that she would simply die there and then because anything was preferable to this, she raised her hand.

Victor made an elaborately gracious bow to Cliff, sweeping his hands toward Jenny in a be-my-guest manner. Cliff walked toward her, noticing how ashen she had become, and it was at that point that the director suddenly realized that the camera was still rolling. He glared into the camera and with a throat-slashing gesture—which was what he felt like doing at the moment—he said, “Cut!”

A swarm of crew members were helping Neville Sinclair to his feet. He deflected their concern with good humor. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m fine. Never let it be said that a Neville Sinclair performance failed to bring down the house!”

This generated a round of laughter while the assistant director, Fred, went to the sprawled Sir Alec. “Charlie, you can get up now . . .” He prodded the actor with his toe. “Charlie?”

Charlie Middleton rolled off and groaned, and Fred’s eyes went wide with shock. “Somebody call the nurse!” he bellowed, stumbling back. “Charlie’s been stabbed!”

Immediately there was shouting and yelling as the crew rushed over. Sinclair and Victor pushed their way through the crowd, and Sinclair dropped to one knee next to Middleton.

“Charlie, my God, forgive me!” he said. “I had no idea!”

His voice gurgling with pain, Middleton nevertheless managed to force a weak smile. “Did you think I was stealing the scene?”

Even though the director was master of the set, it was Sinclair who jumped to his feet, immediately taking charge. “John!” he called out to the second assistant director. “Use my car and driver! Get Charlie to the Queen of Angels!” To the nurse who had showed up and was quickly working on staunching the flow of blood, he said, “Gladys, you ride along with him. I’ll have my personal physician meet you there!”

Sinclair pulled the director aside as everyone around rushed to do as he had instructed.

And when Neville Sinclair had the director over in a private corner, the actor’s face changed. His expression hardened, his eyes brimmed with fury, and all the compassion vanished, to be replaced by a cold and icy demeanor. He looked now, in every way, the way he had the previous night in his home in the Hollywood Hills, when he had been holding champagne in one hand and running through the sword motions that he would be using in this day’s filming, when he had told Eddie Valentine exactly what was what.

When he had phoned Lothar and arranged for the murder of the helpless Wilmer.

That man was the one who now faced the director, and Neville Sinclair, swordsman supreme, ignored the director’s apologies and said tightly, “Next time find me a worthy adversary. Someone who can fence.” He paused only a moment to call out in a sweet, caring tone to Charlie, who was being carried away on his shield, “Chin up, old boy! You’ll be all right!” The moment the others were out of earshot he turned back to the director, still seething. “And this is supposed to be a closed set. No visitors. I want that girl banned from the lot!”

Somebody waved to Sinclair, a sympathetic expression on his face. Instantly all warmth, he waved back and then moved off, giving one last significant glance at the director. It was not lost on him, and Victor quickly waved for Fred.

Standing safely off to the side, Jenny was shaking her head as Cliff tried to explain what he was doing there. “Jenny, I said I’m sorry. I want to patch things up.”

“You’re off to a great start!”

“But I had to see you . . . something big has happened.”

“Couldn’t it wait?”

“No! Look, you’re always saying you’re the last to know! This is important.”

She couldn’t understand why his sense of priorities was so warped. “So’s this acting job!”

“Acting? Honey, c’mon, you’re walking through scenery!”

“At least I’m not knocking it down! Cliff, you’re not being fair! This is a good job. The director thinks I’m very talented.”

At that moment Fred strode up and handed her a slip of paper. She looked at it in confusion. “What’s this?”

“Pay voucher. You’re off the picture. Director’s orders. You know this is a closed set.” They were not words he said easily. He didn’t like firing people, especially lookers like this one. But rules were rules.