There was a knock at the door. I opened it. Claude Binyon, the production manager, was standing there, looking very tired. He waved past me to Brenda and said, “Morning, Miss Conrad.” Then to me: “Got a minute?”
“Sure,” I said.
I left Brenda and walked down the hall with Binyon.
Claude was heavyset and usually rather jolly, but he seemed to have lost his sense of humor today. He didn’t seem to have gotten much sleep either.
Claude is eminently practical, maybe the only practical person in the production. Truth was, you could probably consider him as the real producer because Charles Mann was usually in his hotel room banging away with Sally while Claude held things together.
“It’s going to be a rough day,” Claude said. “We have three lawyers coming in from the studio at noon. You’ll need the limo to pick them up.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Reporters are flying in from all over the country.”
“I understand.”
“I talked to Appelbaum about whether we should try to arrange accommodations and we decided no.” Appelbaum was the studio publicity head. “He wants you to call him, by the way.”
I nodded.
“The police will be talking with everybody during the day,” Claude said. “I’ve told all the crew to be absolutely honest. I’ve also told them not to talk to reporters.”
I nodded again.
“You’ll probably want to keep an eye on them. A few of them like to talk. You put a couple of beers in Carl”—Carl was the makeup man—“and he’ll tell every piece of gossip he’s heard over the last quarter century. Right?”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I said.
“Now, we’ve canceled the day’s shoot, but we have to pick up tomorrow. I’m looking for Franklin to plan that. Oh, and the insurance people will be arriving today at three p.m. on the flight from Chicago.”
“Okay,” I said, and then I remembered. “Speaking of insurance, Greenblatt has hired Harlow Perkins to act as a sort of private detective.”
Claude didn’t break stride. “Greenblatt is a genius,” he said admiringly.
“Are you kidding? Perkins will tear us apart.”
Claude shook his head. “Perkins is the best insurance investigator around. What Greenblatt did is steal him away. If we have him, that means the insuring company can’t use him. It’s brilliant.”
“I never thought of that,” I said.
“Meet the lawyers,” Claude said. “I have to cast extras for tomorrow. Oh, one other thing. Better play it safe and get a suite for Greenblatt.”
“He’s coming in?”
“If I had to bet,” Claude said.
Just then, Tom Franklin, the director, came down the hall. Franklin and Claude together make a funny pair, because Franklin is about five three and slender to the point of skinny. He’s hyper, too, always moving quickly and talking fast.
“Hi, Harvey,” he said to me. Then to Claude: “You know about the film?”
“What film?”
“The lab just called. They’ve lost a magazine.”
“Lost a magazine? Which one?”
“I don’t know yet,” Franklin said. “Ellsworth is talking to the lab now. You probably want to get onto that. Now, about tomorrow... I want to pick up with a day of minimal principals. We’ll jump ahead to the point-of-view shots around the saloon. The only principals there are Clete and Sally, no dialogue. We’ll try and stay over the shoulder as much as possible and fill in the close-ups later in the schedule. Right?”
