Double Exposure Page 4

  The gaffer (the crew’s token female) moved from point to point, aiming the Spectra light meter’s bulging eye back at the camera: “The fire itself is f-eleven; f-four overall - no, make it a hot four.”

  Cameraman: “Okay, pull the 85 filter. Wilma, lose the dikes and see if you can split five-six and eight around the fire.” She pulled blue/gold glass filters from the banks of lights.

  The talent lounged around the fire: Boy and Girl Next Door; Sexpot whose prosthetic cleavage should be named “Silicone Valley;” pudgy comic relief; and the obligatory Black Couple, a toffee fraternity president and a bikinied Zulu princess with a belly flat and shiny as a Steinway lid.

  Hummel was pacing the strand with an expostulating client in water-stained loafers, trailed by an assistant with a clipboard. Too far away to hear them - even Hummel.

  I’d returned from Candy Wishbourne’s to find Hummel’s civil request on my phone machine: “Get your ass out to Malibu. We’re shooting the cola spots.” Since I was on detached service to Denise Tolman, I thought I’d better go sort Hummel out. So here I was, shivering in the late afternoon fog, waiting to be summoned into the Presence.

  Client and Clipboard wandered off, still gesticulating, and Hummel waved me forward like a traffic cop. I trudged past the prop man guarding ten cases of Product, skirted the laboring generator, and tramped down to Hummel at the water’s edge.

  “Where the hell ya been?”

  “I love our little reunions, Harry.”

  “Jeez, I left a message hours ago. You knew we were shooting.”

  “You’re shooting. I’m chasing feelthy pictures.”

  “Yeah, I wanna talk about that.” He started along the surf line, expecting me to follow. Twenty yards on, he stopped. “You gotta... Where the hell are ya?” I took my time approaching. “Can’t you keep up? Listen, I need you here on the shoot.”

  “But you’re not paying me; Denise is.”

  “Yeah, well we worked that out. She’ll let me have you like part-time.”

  “Only part-time; well, well. And she wasn’t keen on having me visit her studio. What’s happening, Harry?”

  “Never mind. But she’s right: you be careful about that.”

  “Why?”

  His blank glare suggested mental struggle, then: “Cause I said so.” He stared at his shoes as if suddenly wondering why they were sandy. “Another thing: don’t tell people you’re looking for the kid.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you’re looking for the tape.”

  “And how do I explain that?”

  “I dunno; who cares? Look: direct the shoot here, okay? Then you can start looking again.”

  “I’ll check with Denise.”

  Hummel exploded: “The hell you will! You get your ass over there and set up the next fucking shot!”

  “What shot?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  “Winston!!” But the ocean claimed Hummel’s attention by covering his shoes. “Oh holy shit Jesus!” He pranced away up the beach.

  Slow deep breath time. “Hummel?”

  He hopped back toward me. “Why the hell don’t you look where you’re going? How goddam dumb can you get?” He wiped at his shoes with pages from his shooting script.

  “Hummel!”

  “I mean, jeez, Winston; what do I have to...”

  “Hummel. Shut. Up.”

  He froze, goggling.

  “I’m quitting, Hummel.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m tired playing games.”

  “What?”

  “First you needed me to direct your commercials; then you didn’t; now you do again. Denise is so desperate to get that tape, she’s half hysterical. But not desperate enough to keep me looking for it. You and she are ‘friends,’ a term fraught with ambiguity...”

  “What?”

  “...and the whole situation feels phony. So I’m quitting.”

  “You’re getting paid.”

  “Sue me. Entail my worldly goods.”

  “What about the spots?”

  “Yes, what about them? Two days ago, you didn’t need me for them. Why am I suddenly so important?”

  By now, Hummel’s reactions were stacked up in a holding pattern too congested to let any land.

  “And in this mood of constructive frankness, I should add that I won’t be bullied by two-a-penny yahoos like you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Let me rephrase that in your vernacular: Harry, go shit in your hat!”

  Long, long pause (fade up wave and gull sound effects) while Hummel’s face went through several skin tightening exercises. Then, “Okay, okay. About the spots, well, I run into some trouble - hey, nothing I can’t handle, right? But, well, maybe you better direct.”

  “What about Denise?”

  “I don’t know, I swear. You gotta ask her that.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Call her, willya? Please!”

  Please? From Hummel? It was my turn to goggle.

  “She can tell you.”

  Ripple-dissolve to flashback of Denise, hand on my forearm, lone tear leaking down her cheek. Corny but potent. “All right, Harry; but I’m still off the shoot.”

  “Whatever.” Hummel took a deep breath, like an actor resuming his character before a take. “Okay, what’re ya hanging around for? Get outta here!” He dismissed me with a sweeping turn and marched away toward the cast and crew around the fire.

  * * * *

  Stuffed into a phone booth on Pacific Coast Highway, phone on one ear, finger in the other, to mute the traffic demonstrating Doppler effects ten feet away.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, Denise; Stoney.”

  “What? Stoney! You sound like you’re in a factory.”

  “Pay phone. Denise, Harry says you’ve called it off. Is that right?”

  A considerable silence, then an almost pleading tone: “Stoney, why did you say I was selling the studio?”

  “To give me a reason for being there. It seemed plausible.”

  “No wonder! Because I am selling it - well, trying to.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Harry told me not to talk about it. I don’t have a firm buyer yet, and till I do, I have to keep production going. Harry says I’ll never sell the lot if it’s standing empty.”

  “I don’t follow you, Denise.”

  “Oh Stoney, you’re supposed to be smart. If my staff finds out, they’ll leave for other jobs. I had a terrible time with Pepe after you told him.”

  “I didn’t tell him exactly, but I see what you mean. All right, I’m sorry; it was an innocent mistake.”

  “I’m not criticizing, Stoney. I know how helpful you’re being.”

  “Then why don’t you want me looking for Lee?”

  Another lengthy pause, then Denise said something in a voice too small to penetrate the passing traffic.

  “Say again?”

  “I can’t tell you, Stoney. I’m afraid to.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Please, Stoney. I’m sorry.”

  Click.

  I stabbed the phone buttons savagely; brusque dialogue with the operator; receiver picked up again. Then silence.

  “Denise? Is someone with you? If you can’t talk now, say some thing phony - anything.

  “Denise?”

  Silence.

  “Denise, I have to know you’re all right, or I’ll call the Pasadena police from here.”

  A mournful little sigh. “You’re sweet, Stoney.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, everything - but nothing special. Nobody’s here. I’m safe as can be. Really.”

  Another gap while I fumbled for a way to get more out of her. “But it’s nice to know someone worries about me. It’s been a while. Goodbye, Stoney.”

  Click.

  Hummmmmm.

  Chapter 4

  Creeping along
parallel to the Ventura city beach, I peered at street signs through the foggy twilight. Right turn onto Sea Vista toward the ocean, past a jumble of bungalows, mini-ranches, and seaside caprices in every state from newly built to near-collapse. Amiable curs shambled out of the Rabbit’s path down the narrow lane to 1229, last on the right, where the street dead-ends on the sand. A distant jogger and her two romping mongrels owned the whole beach. Even the gulls had packed it in for the day.

  Lee Tolman’s mother lived in a pseudo-Tudor cottage with machine-cut half-timbering pasted on stucco, surrounded by a post-and-panel fence six feet high. Two dings on the little ship’s bell beside the gate brought instant response: “Wait a minute.” Then Rachel Gershon appeared, fiftyish and stocky in a stained sweat suit. Meaty, weather-beaten face with sharp green redhead’s eyes. The hair itself now a carrot and cabbage salad of orange and grey, pulled back and tied like George Washington’s.

  “Ms. Gershon?”

  With a look designed for process servers: “Yes?”

  “My name’s Winston. I wonder if you could tell me where to find Lee Tolman.”

  “Nope.” She sucked on a cigarette, Bogart-style.

  “I see. It’s a bit complicated. Could we discuss it a moment?”

  A negligent shrug. “Okay, discuss.”

  “May I come in?” She backed reluctantly away from the open gate and I walked into the little yard.

  The fence panels facing the ocean were glass rather than plywood. She resumed the chore I’d interrupted: attacking them with Windex and wadded newsprint.

  “What do you want with Beverly?”

  “Beverly?”

  “That’s the name I gave her. Lee’s her nickname.”

  “I see. Denise Tolman is thinking of selling the studio and there may be some financial implications for Lee - for Beverly.”

  “I’ll bet. The studio’s near worthless. She won’t get much.”

  “I don’t know the financial details.”

  “I do. I used to run that lot. Roy and I ran it together. It’s nothing to me; I got my share in the settlement; but there’s not much left for Beverly.” She peered at the glass. “Hell. I can’t see what I washed and what I didn’t.” She picked at a spot with a stumpy finger.

  “It’s on the outside.” I walked out the gate and around to the front fence. “Give me the squirter.” She handed the Windex bottle over the fence. “Some paper?” She dropped a section over. “Be easier doing both sides at once. Then you can see what’s clean.”

  She looked at me speculatively, then shrugged and flipped her cigarette away. I polished the glass panel.

  “Give it back.” I handed over the bottle. We stood two feet apart, alternately rubbing the glass and yelling through it. She aimed the bottle at my face and a blue splash spattered the glass. Disconcerting to be fired upon.

  “Ms. Gershon, don’t you know where Beverly is - or don’t you want to tell me?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  A moment of polishing to aid reflection. Then I shouted, “To help get her out of trouble.”

  “You missed a spot.”

  “Sorry.” I scraped at a sea gull dropping.

  “That’s good. Come on back.”

  I returned to the yard. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m going to find her. I do need your help.”

  “But why should I help you?”

  I gaped a moment, then I couldn’t help it: I started laughing.

  “What’s funny?”

  “This conversation: I will if you will. Well I will if you will.”

  The sharp green eyes narrowed briefly, then the corners of her mouth reversed angle. “Come on in. I owe you for the window.”

  The front door opened directly on a square living room with sparse rattan furniture, braided oval rug, and amateur seascapes on off-white walls. She took two glasses from a dish rack in the adjacent kitchen area and polished their rims with a used paper towel.

  “I’m having scotch. You?”

  “That’s fine - with water, please.”

  She dragged out the drink preparation, perhaps to cover a spot of heavy thinking. I took my scotch and leaned against the breakfast bar.

  “Okay, Winston.”

  “Stoney.”

  “As in broke, hah? I’m Ritchie; here.” She plucked a business card from a dish on the bar: Rachel (Ritchie) Gershon. Tax preparation, real estate, investments - and so forth. Ritual advertisements of the hopeful entrepreneur, like “songs, dances, and snappy patter.” Male and female, Ritchie’s breed wears polyester, drives a six-year-old Cadillac, and seems to know everything about making money while never quite doing so. This beach-front house must have cost a packet, but something about its sparseness said she only rented.

  Ritchie looked at the card I’d offered in exchange: “Doesn’t say what you do.”

  “I’m a film director.” Oh yes, and the guy who sprays lane markers on freeways is a painter. “Well to be honest, I’ve done a few commercials.”

  Her green stare softened slightly. “You said Lee’s in trouble?”

  “I don’t know that. So far, it’s just a feeling. Lee left home about eight months back; got some kind of job with a religious organization. Then they let her go for some reason. She stayed with friends in Hollywood until about two weeks ago, then dropped out of sight.”

  “Two weeks isn’t that long.”

  “True, but I get the impression that Lee’s a bit, well, could I say unworldly?”

  “Beverly isn’t crazy.”

  “Oh I didn’t mean that. It’s just that she appears vulnerable.”

  Ritchie swallowed a gulp of scotch big enough to wash in. “You’d be surprised. What’s all this about the studio?”

  This small, solid, grumpy woman deserved the truth - but not about the film. Ritchie’s feeling for Lee seemed to be affection mixed with a sort of puzzled pride. I couldn’t jeopardize it with tales of dirty movies.

  I compromised: “Denise Tolman is trying to sell the studio. I don’t honestly know whether that affects Lee. I’m doing some legwork for Denise because things are slow right now.” One of Ritchie’s sharp glances. “As usual, in my case.”

  She smiled her understanding. “Ah, the dear old Industry. I guess I’m well out of it.” But remembering, she looked wistful, then concealed her expression behind her glass of scotch. She engulfed another three ounces and set the glass down.

  “All right, I’ll tell you what I know. Lee worked for a Burbank preacher named Isaiah Hammond for about six months after she left home. Then - well she says she quit, but I think he fired her.”

  “You’ve seen her, then?”

  “About two weeks ago.” The flat mouth wrinkled briefly. “An average visit: she stayed about an hour. Said she was thinking of something new - another religion or guru or some damn thing. She gets saved about every six months. But she didn’t say what or where.” With dignity: “We really aren’t that close.”

  “Did she ask for money?”

  “No, she gave me some: two hundred dollars. Repaid an old loan. Hell, I didn’t want it, but she insisted.”

  “Know where it came from?” Ritchie shrugged. “But I heard Lee was broke.”

  “She gave me cash and there was more in her wallet.” Ritchie’s face changed. “Then she left again and that was that.” She was still reducing her scotch with the negligent regularity of an accomplished drinker.

  “Can you tell me anything else?”

  “Not much. Beverly’s real hard to get close to. She lives inside herself; always has. When she was just a little kid, she used to sit in a big maple rocker we had. She’d stay there for hours, just rocking and humming and rocking.”

  “Have you any pictures of her?” I hoped to find a contrast to the doleful film I’d studied.

  She walked into the bedroom, lightly for such a chunky woman. Rummaging sounds and the audible monologue of a solitary person: “Now where the hel
l...? No, no, I thought I put it ... wait a minute: yeah.” She carried in a cheap drugstore photo album, placed it between us on the breakfast bar, jammed a pair of outsized glasses on her nose, and thumbed the black pages.

  “Years ago I started saving Beverly’s school pictures. Even after the divorce, she sent one every year.” Finding the page, she revolved the book so I could see it.

  Thirteen small color prints identified in a strong, sloppy hand: kindergarten, first grade, second grade - all the way through high school. The color improved over the years and the seamless paper backings went from blue to chocolate to mottled tan to blue again. The blouses matured along with their wearer and the carrot hair evolved from childish tousle to modish cut. Braces appeared and then for two years more, Lee smiled close-mouthed, until they came off again.

  But the face: at five and six and seven, just another little redhead girl. Then an eerie transformation began: from year to year, the green eyes grew larger, the smile more distant, the skin - even in fading Ektacolor - more translucent, so that the backlighting almost seemed to penetrate the body. It was like looking at frames of a film effect: the actress was slowly dissolving out of the shot.

  “She seems frail.”

  Ritchie replenished her scotch with offhand accuracy. “No, that’s just her expression. She’s really kind of horsey.”

  Something funny about that. What?

  “You said Lee sent the later pictures. Didn’t she visit?”

  “Not often. The divorce wasn’t friendly and I had to trade some rights for cash.” Growing truculence, abetted by scotch. “Had to. No job. Never worked, except for Roy. I always did the studio books so I learned accounting - not CPA stuff but enough to find work.” Sudden awareness of her stained sweat suit and bare feet. “I do okay.”

  I looked again at the ranks of grave girls, all training their green eyes on me. I closed the album.

  “What’s the matter with you, Stoney?”

  This is the word of the Lord, which He spake by His servant Elijah the Tishbite, saying, “In the portion of Jezreel shall dogs eat the flesh of Jezebel... “I have to find her. Hammond’s church, I think.”

  “Don’t go blundering in.” Ritchie started a third large scotch, again using the time to come to a decision. “Beverly didn’t just work there; she was Hammond’s mistress.”

  “What?”

  “Well, whatever they call it now. But that’s what she was. She told me.”