It was getting a little frosty standing there, so I said goodbye and left. I had the distinct impression that I had made no impression. But at least I had formally and publicly said my piece. If Orgell shot his mouth off, it was no longer my fault.
I went out to the lobby to get on the bus to go to the location. There was Jerry Fisher, in his usual nicotine cloud, wheezing toward me. “Jason,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. When are you going to make a statement?”
“What statement?”
“I gather that Perkins has finished his investigation and gone home. Isn’t it time for a press conference to clear this mess up and get Clete off the hook?”
“Perkins has gone home?”
“Jesus Christ, Jason. You’re paid to stay on top of things.”
I was still stunned. “Perkins has gone home?”
“Well, he checked out this morning. His room is empty. He left at five a.m., and he asked the desk to get him a taxi to take him to the airport. I’d say that means he’s gone home.”
“I’ll have to get back to you, Jerry,” I said.
“You keep saying that.”
“It’s all I know to say. Let me check it out.”
“Jesus Christ, Jason.”
I went over to the desk and inquired if Mr. Perkins had checked out. Indeed he had—they repeated what Fisher had told me. Mr. Perkins had left the Holiday Inn early that day and taken a taxi to the airport around five in the morning.
That didn’t make sense. First of all, Perkins’s plans for the night before didn’t accord with a hasty departure. Second, there were no flights out of the airport until seven a.m. Why would he go there two hours early? And third—well, I didn’t know any third of all, but there must be lots of other reasons why it didn’t make sense.
I looked back at Jerry, who was watching me. I shrugged. He glowered and stamped a butt into the ground with his heel.
Then I went and called Greenblatt’s room at his hotel. There was no answer. And then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I got on the bus and went to the location, wondering how long it would take for me to be fired for the second time that day.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
You know how corporations are legally considered a single person? Well, a movie company is usually a corporation, and I can tell you, it may be a hundred people, but it acts like a single person, with one personality, and one mood at any time.
Going out on the bus, the mood was subdued and foreboding. An air of doom hung over everybody. I’d never felt anything quite like it before. Some days a whole company seems to have drunk too much the night before and is more than a little hung over the next day on the bus. Some days the whole company is jovial and joking. Some days the whole company is tense because it’s a tough day ahead. Some days the whole company is bored. Some days the company is thoughtful—like about a week before a picture ends, and everybody is starting to think about going home, ending their little affairs and returning to the wife or husband or whatever.
Those are all normal moods. But I had never experienced this sort of air of impending disaster. Everybody was frightened and confused and off-balance. People didn’t know how to act, so they did nothing except stare out the bus windows.
I guess a lot of people thought we were a jinxed company by now. Some movie companies are. Some companies have everything go right—everybody gets along, the picture goes smoothly and comes in on time, the little obstacles work themselves out, and the final picture is good. Other times it’s exactly the opposite on every count. Things go wrong from the beginning—there are constant foul-ups, the weather is terrible, the production falls behind, the work isn’t very good, tempers are short, and everybody is angry with everybody else.
We seemed to have that sort of production, with too much uncertainty and too much lingering speculation. We had been in limbo too long.
At least, that was how I felt about it. Then, too, everybody was tense about Greenblatt and Robinson visiting the set. That never fails to happen. If the big brass visits the set, people get uncomfortable.
So, all in all, it was not a happy ride out to location. Midway during the trip, the limousine whizzed past us and streaked forward down the road. The limo takes the stars and the director and the producer and any special guests to the location. The troops, like me, ride the bus.
Then a few minutes later, a second limo went past us. I didn’t know what that was, but I guessed it was Greenblatt and Robinson. So did everybody else. There was a moment of murmuring on the bus, and then more silence.
* * *
The Old Tucson set was freezing when we arrived. The crew stomped their feet and clapped their hands and lined up for coffee. Then they got to work, slowly. Greenblatt and Robinson were over in a corner, watching, and it was not an impressive performance.
The rule of thumb is you get your first shot as soon as possible after eight a.m. That makes you a sharp, on-your-toes production company. Lots of companies are so conscious of this that they plan some crummy little insert shot each day, and knock that off at eight, then go on to the day’s regular work—but on the reports, it shows the first shot at eight, and everybody can relax.
Well, our first shot was a multiple-camera setup involving the nitrogen ram, and it was complicated, and we weren’t ready for an hour. During this time, Mann talked with Robinson and Greenblatt. Mann was very talkative. Greenblatt kept nodding and smiling in a distantly friendly way. Robinson said nothing at all and hardly seemed to pay attention to the discussion. I was sure it was about production delays.
Franklin set up the cameras and then went into the storefront with Chadney to look at the nitrogen ram. I went along. So did Mann, who disengaged himself from the brass.
