Stardust Page 4

  “What’s wrong with shoulders?”

  “What’s wrong with you? I’m trying to tell you something here. You have to know what you’re doing. You make a bad picture, that’s one thing. You make a few—” He spread his fingers, letting the thought slip through them, like luck itself running out.

  Ben stared at the hand, curious. Every gambler’s fear, that it might all go away. Danny’s world.

  “Nothing’s the way you think out here,” Lasner said, his voice weaker, drifting again.

  Ben looked over at him, not sure what he was talking about now, some earlier thought, and saw that the eyes had finally closed, his chest moving slowly, night breathing. Resting comfortably, nurses would say. After his scare. Five minutes of weakness. Their secret. He could go now, leaving only the dim night-light. But he stayed, listening to the wheels, keeping watch, sure somehow that Lasner felt his presence, felt safer. What happened in a deeper sleep? Did you hear anything in a coma, voices, faint rustling sounds around you? Would Danny even know he was there, had come all this way to see him? Maybe Lasner didn’t know, either, breathing steadily now. But when Ben woke, hours later, and finally left, he tiptoed to the door and opened it quietly, without a click.

  LASNER WAS still in bed in the morning, now propped up against pillows in a patterned silk bathrobe.

  “Where’ve you been? The doctor was here an hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “I’m great.”

  “He tell you to stay in bed?”

  Lasner waved his hand in dismissal, but made no move to get up.

  “You want some breakfast?”

  “I already had. What do you keep, banker’s hours? Let’s talk about the picture. There’s nothing to see till New Mexico anyway.”

  Ben looked out the window—endless yellow fields, silos and telegraph poles, a hot, bright day.

  Lasner held up a finger. “It’s not because I owe you. I don’t want you to get that idea.”

  Ben nodded and sat down. “Sure you’re up to this?”

  “How much footage have you got?”

  “Lots. And some captured Nazi film—they actually filmed it. We can also get stock from Artkino, the Russian agency.”

  “You want to use Russian film?”

  “They were the first ones in. The quality’s okay—I’ve seen it.”

  “Never mind the quality. It’s Russian. You use it, that prick Tenney will be all over you.”

  “Who?”

  “Jack Tenney. You’ve been away for a while. He used to write songs. Mexicali Rose, one hit. Now he’s a politician, with a bug up his ass about Reds. He’s got a committee up in Sacramento. Making lists. You don’t want him making trouble for you.”

  “Over some footage?”

  “If the Russians shot it, he’ll say it’s a lie. Which leaves you where? Saying it’s not. People wondering. Don’t go near it. You got plenty of Army film, right? Why buy trouble?”

  The knock came before he could answer, a light rap, then a tentative opening.

  “Sol? You there?”

  “Paulette. Come in, sweetheart. You’re up early.”

  She took in Ben with a quick smile to cover her surprise, then frowned at Lasner. “What are you doing in bed? You all right?” she said, crossing the room. She was wearing cream-colored slacks and a dark jersey top with a single strand of pearls, day wear.

  “Something I ate,” Lasner said.

  “When? At the dinner you ate with me except you didn’t?”

  “You saw Katz.”

  “Don’t worry, I covered. Next time I’m the excuse, let me in on it, will you? I had to have a drink with him. So he could tell me his troubles.”

  “What troubles does he have?” Lasner said.

  Goddard laughed. “What’s going on?” She turned to Ben, who had already caught Lasner’s signal.

  “Doctor says it’s probably just flu.”

  “You had a doctor?” She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at him closely. “You want me to call Fay?”

  “It’s done, it’s done. Ben took care of it in Kansas City. She’s meeting me in Pasadena. Don’t make such a big deal.”

  She put her hand on his forehead, the bright red tips touching his hair. “Tough guy,” she said, then looked at Ben, raising her eyebrows. “No fever. Some flu.”

  “It’s a bug is all,” Lasner said. “Now let me get dressed. How about I take you to lunch?”

  She smoothed back his hair. “We’ll have it in. I’ll bring some cards, what do you say?”

  “What’s my end?”

  “You stay in bed. And don’t cheat.” She tapped a finger on his nose, then stood up, not waiting for an answer. “Help me find his porter, will you?” she said to Ben, blowing Lasner a kiss.

  In the corridor her face was serious.

  “What did the doctor really say?” When Ben hesitated, she brushed past it. “I know, you can’t— He thinks nobody knows. Fay would kill me if anything happened and I was right here.” She looked up at him. “What’s the connection again?”

  “We’re going to make a picture together. For the Army.”

  She shook her head. “You’ll have to explain that to me sometime. Right now, he’s taken a shine to you, so help me keep him in bed.”

  “How?”

  “He can’t resist a game. They’re all like that.”

  Ben thought of Cohn in his Paris suite, throwing chips on the pile.

  “Get a deck from the club car. I’ll order lunch. I know what he likes.”

  She was right about the cards. Lasner only picked at his chicken sandwich but brightened when the trays were cleared and she brought out the cards and score pad, kicking off her espadrilles and sitting cross-legged on the bed, Indian style, to make a circle.

  Outside there was nothing but fields, and Ben lost track of where they must be, cut off even from the rest of the train in their private party. A million miles from Europe, playing cards with a movie star.

  The first shadows made him look up. They were finally leaving the steady glare of the flat landscape for the real West, mountains and stretches of old conifers, dirt the color of bright rust. Lasner checked his watch.

  “We hit Albuquerque in ten minutes. Four thirty-five.”

  “My god, the hairdresser,” Paulette said, getting up. “Why don’t you get some beauty sleep. I’ll check in later. I do not want to see you in the dining car. Use room service—you can afford it.”

  “Now I’m an invalid,” Lasner said, a mock pout.

  She picked up the cards. “No more of these, either. Come on, Ben, let’s take a hike. You rest.”

  “You deserve Milland,” Lasner said, then turned to Ben. “See if they got papers on the platform. Anything. Even local.”

  Ben nodded, already one of the suits on the red carpet, a Lasner man.

  The Los Angeles paper was yesterday’s but he bought it anyway. While he was waiting for change, he noticed a bundle of old papers, tied up to be sent back. His eye stopped. Not even a big headline, just a story near the bottom, easy to miss. He slipped the paper out from under the twine.

  DIRECTOR IN FREAK FALL

  Daniel Kohler, director and head writer of the Partners in Crime series, was rushed to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital after an accidental fall at the Cherokee Arms Hotel in Hollywood. Kohler, who was alone at the time of the accident, had a long history of dizzy spells, according to his wife. Kohler used the hotel room as a writing office. Neighbors in the building summoned police after hearing sounds of the fall in the adjacent alley. Kohler, son of the late silent film director Otto Kohler, had been a Second Unit director at Metro before originating the detective series at Republic Pictures. Herbert Yates, President of Republic, said the studio intended to continue production while Kohler recovers. Partners in Crime features Larry Burke and Bruce Hudson.

  Ben looked up at the metal sides of the Chief, shining like coins. Not even about him, really. An industry item. Was anyone fooled? Not the
reporter, his skepticism poking out between the lines. Why rent a hotel room to write? Didn’t he have an office on the lot? Not really about him at all.

  He got back on the train just as it was leaving, his mood seesawing back down to where it had been when the first telegram had arrived, a quiet panic. But Lasner was too busy dressing to see it, his attention focused on the mirror.

  “Don’t start,” he said, nodding down to the clothes. “Two nights and they notice. Get the paper?”

  “Take the pills with you. Just in case,” Ben said, putting the paper on the bed. “You know Partners in Crime? The series?”

  “Over at Republic? If Herb had any brains, he’d fold it. I heard the last one did so-so. Oh,” he said, stopping, embarrassed. “That’s your—?”

  “I mean, what’s it like?”

  “Boston Blackie, except two brothers. One chases girls, gets into trouble, you know. The other one solves the crime. The good one’s Bruce Hudson.”

  No, it’s me, Ben thought, suddenly light-headed. The way they’d been as boys.

  “You never saw it?”

  Ben shook his head. “They never sent it overseas.” He tucked the other paper under his arm and turned to leave. “Don’t forget the pills.”

  Lasner looked at Ben in the mirror. “I don’t forget things.” A kind of thank-you.

  Back in his roomette, relieved to be alone, Ben opened the paper again. A piece with everything between the lines. Except why. Because a B series was failing?

  Outside, they were heading up through cactus and sage into the wild high desert. At this time of day even the rocks glowed, golden with trapped heat, the shadows around them streaked with violet and terra cotta, as if the Chief had planned it all for dramatic effect, a show before dinner. He imagined Lasner on that other train forty years ago, the dry goods store behind him. No air-cooled compartment then, just hot gritty air and something new at the end. Maybe that’s what all of them had wanted, not just sunlight for film, a new place. What Danny wanted, too, and didn’t find.

  Ben looked down at the paper, disturbed. Everything about it was wrong, not just between the lines, but in the lines themselves. He thought of the high railing along the Embankment, Danny perched on it like on a balance beam, arms outstretched and fearless, a boy who had never been dizzy in his life.

  BEN SAW Lasner once more before they arrived, this time by accident. He’d been up since dawn, watching the last of the desert slip by, the brick sand turning white in the Mojave. They passed Barstow, houses without shade, then over the ridge to San Bernardino and the miles of orange groves, planted straight to the San Gabriels, at this hour still smelling of the night perfume the guidebooks promised. Ben had lowered the window, leaning out in the morning air. In Europe there had been no oranges at all, not for years. Here the land was bursting with them, an almost supernatural abundance. Royal palms began to appear in front yards, rows of peeling eucalyptus along the tracks.

  On the rest of the train, he knew, suitcases were being snapped shut, lipstick dabbed on for the last half hour to Union Station, but the morning held him at the window, head stuck out like a child’s. It was still there as they pulled into Pasadena, sliding by tubs of bright flowers, so Lasner saw him when he stepped onto the platform. He came over to the window, his face troubled, oddly hesitant.

  “That was your brother that fell? You didn’t say anything? All this time.”

  Ben looked for a response, feeling caught, but said, “How did you hear?”

  “Katz said it was in the trades.”

  Ben imagined the news spreading through presses, across wires, all the way to tables on the Chief, Katz bending forward to gossip, a montage of rumor. But at least Danny hadn’t been ignored, forgotten. News for five minutes.

  “It wasn’t your trouble,” he said finally. “I figured you had enough of your own.”

  “A shame,” Lasner said, shaking his head. “I never heard he was a drinker. They must have had some party. Him and the skirt. It’s a hell of a thing. He gonna be all right?”

  So now he drank, the rumor swelling, branching. A drunken party, something Lasner could understand. Where did the woman come from? His own invention, an inside tip from Katz? But before Ben could say anything else, Paulette Goddard got off the train with a group of porters and a cartload of suitcases. Her hair was brushed out, shiny, every inch of her in place.

  “She doesn’t trust me to find my own car,” he said as she came up, putting her hand on his arm.

  “I’m just cadging a lift,” she said.

  The lift, or at least its colored driver, was moving toward them on the platform, behind a blonde in a wide-shouldered dress and spectator pumps, still trim but thickening a little now.

  “Paulette,” she said with a quick hug, then turned to Lasner and put her arms around his neck and held him, not caring who saw. “Dr. Rosen’s in the car,” she said, nodding toward a black Chrysler waiting at the curb.

  “I feel fine.”

  “Big shot,” she said fondly. “Just get in the car. Stanley’s sniffing around somewhere. Florabel Muir’s old leg man—he’s working for Polly now. You want to talk to him or to Rosen?”

  “That’s the choice?”

  “Oh god,” Paulette said, “not Stanley. He’s been after me since Charlie. Fay—”

  “I know, I know. Henry, get her to the car, will you?” She turned to Lasner. “You send a telegram from Kansas City and now you don’t even want to see him?”

  “He sent it,” Lasner said, pointing at Ben.

  Fay looked up, puzzled, then went back to Lasner. “I was worried sick.”

  “I just hired him. We met in Germany.”

  This seemed to make even less sense, but she smiled up blankly, polite, the boss’s wife.

  Lasner held his eye for a minute, what Ben took as a last silent exchange about the train, then moved on.

  “Call Bunny Jenkins at the studio,” he said to Ben. “He’ll fix everything for you. And order the stock now—they say tomorrow, it’s always next month. Check the list at Roach, see if they’ve still got a cutter, Hal Jasper.”

  “The VD guy?”

  Lasner smiled. “Yeah. Tell him I bet they were his crabs.”

  “Sol, I mean it, no more business. I’ll walk right out of here. I’ve been worried sick. This is the second time—”

  “Tell the world.”

  She bit her lip, then sighed and fixed him with an or-else stare. “This isn’t a house call. I had to get him out of bed to come here. Now are you coming or what?”

  He shrugged, beginning to move off, then paused and looked back to Ben. “If you need a few days, that’s okay. You know, to visit at the hospital.”

  AT FIRST, scanning the crowd, all he saw were the dark glasses and thick blond hair, pinned up in a pile on her head. Then she came toward him, a smooth stride, and he recognized the woman in her photograph, the same long face as her father, the high forehead. What it hadn’t shown was the skin, a tawny cream that held the sun in it. She was in a white short-sleeved blouse, slacks, and canvas shoes, as if she’d just stepped off a tennis court.

  “Liesl?” he said, peering at her.

  “Yes,” she said, extending her hand. Then, “Excuse me,” taking off her sunglasses, “so rude. Sometimes I forget. So we meet.”

  “How is he?”

  “The same.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “He’s not responding. It’s a long time now. We’re just waiting. You understand, there’s no recovery. I don’t want you to expect—”

  Her eyes, uncovered now, darted sharply, flecked with light. She seemed to be wearing no makeup at all, lips bare, not even a hint of Paulette Goddard’s glossy red, just the flush of anger or worry that made her movements jerky—handshake to questioning glance, all quick, angular. Only the voice was smooth, held a second too long in her throat, still with a trace of accent. When she said, “This is all?” nodding to his bag, he heard the rhythm of German, not quit
e forgotten yet.

  “That’s it. I’m sorry to get you down here so early.”

  “No, I was glad to get a break,” she said, colloquial, fully American now. “It’s been—” She let the phrase finish itself.

  “You’re sure it’s all right? To stay? If it’s not convenient—”

  “No, no,” she said, dismissing this. “We were expecting you.” Another awkward pause. “Of course later, not so soon. He was excited you were coming.”

  “He was?” Ben said, unexpectedly pleased. “Then—”

  He stopped before “why,” catching himself. Danny wouldn’t have thought about him, about anyone. They didn’t. Something that happened only to you.

  “Yes,” she was saying. “So many years.”

  “Liesl? Is that you?”

  A tiny woman, teetering in high heels, was hurrying toward them from the barrier. She was wearing a suit with a matching hat, the veil thrown back, as if she didn’t want to miss anything. Behind her, trying to keep up, was a man holding a camera.

  “Polly,” Liesl said, taking a step backward.

  “My dear, I can’t tell you—”

  “Thank you,” said Liesl, anticipating her. “This is Daniel’s brother, Ben.”

  “You must be shell-shocked,” Polly said, ignoring him. “I know Herb Yates is. I talked to him.”

  She spoke in a rush that was a kind of suppressed giggle and the rest of her moved with it, head turning to keep the passengers in sight, so alert that her body actually seemed to be vibrating. The effect, Ben noticed, was to make Liesl recede, wary as prey.

  “Did you see the column, dear? The item about Dan? I didn’t mention the bottle. I thought, Herb has enough on his plate without—and, you know, it just gives the industry a black eye. I was never one for that.”

  “No,” Liesl said, noncommittal.

  “And how is that other man?” Polly said, almost winking, some sort of joke between them. “Such a shame about Central Station. Sometimes, a book like that, you wonder if it’s too rich. But he must have been disappointed.”

  “Oh, I think he was grateful for the money,” Liesl said, evading.

  “What is he working on now?” She stopped swiveling to look straight at Liesl, a reporter with an invisible pad.