Heartland (22 page)
The guy actually smiled. “It can wait.”
When he returned to his room, Peter still felt the prayers resonating inside him. He glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. Time to call it a night, especially since they were getting together in eight hours' time to pray again. But he was too jazzed to sleep. He seated himself at the desk and smiled at what had just happened. After JayJay had asked for guidance, Derek had prayed for Cynthia. And then there had been a silence, he had no idea how long. Then one of the grips had started in. The guy sounded like a bear growling at the back end of his cave. He had spoken briefly. Just asked for a miracle for Peter and Cynthia. Like the one they were seeing right then. No more than a dozen words. Enough to have Peter swallowing hard on the knowledge he was no longer alone.
Then the attention had turned away, as Kelly had prayed for Claire and whatever it was the lady faced.
The iron woman, the one universally disliked on the set, had started crying. Utterly silent, just some tears and some very hard swallows. But enough for the lady electrician and Derek to get up afterward and go over and hug her.
Now Peter sat at his desk and stared at the blank space at the center of the wall. The place waiting for the central theme.
He did not write. But he knew. He had found what he was looking for.
P
eter was downstairs when the breakfast room opened at six because he had grown tired of staring at the ceiling. The sky was desert calm and rosy hued. Country music played over the lobby sound system. To his surprise, fifteen or so of the crew had beat him down and were draining the coffee wagon dry. Derek stood with the two wardrobe ladies and waved him over. “Couldn't sleep either?”
“There are two hundred and seventy-six popcorn panels in my ceiling. That answer your question?” Peter poured himself a cup of coffee. One of the many things he liked about this place was that there was no Styrofoam anywhere. Even the lobby cistern used the kind of heavy white ceramic mugs favored by truckstops. “Cynthia says hello.”
Derek was smiling broadly as he said to the taller of the two wardrobe ladies, “Go on. Tell him.”
Gladys was one of Peter's favorites. “How's the little lady doing, hon?”
“Okay, only she's not so little anymore. And she misses me. A lot. Is that what you're supposed to say to me?”
“No,” Derek said, grinning more widely. “Go on.”
Gladys said, “I was walking back last night from a late dinner.”
“We both were,” Hilda said. “I was there too, you know.”
“So you want to tell this for me?”
“No, you go ahead. I can interrupt when you get it wrong.”
Gladys sniffed. “I saw the two of them walking toward her room.”
Peter did not need to ask who they were. “And?”
“Kelly stops in front of her door. Stands there swinging both his arms back and forth. And smiling.”
“I'm thinking love,” Hilda said. “Tell him what happened next.”
“He kisses her on the cheek. And leaves.”
Peter looked from one to the other. “No way.”
Hilda is smiling now too. “Yeah, way.”
Derek said, “What was it old Ben used to say about stars?”
“Two things you can take to the bank,” Peter recalled. “Stars on location are children, and they're rabbits.”
Gladys asked, “Is it true they held a prayer meeting last night?”
Derek replied, “Most amazing invitation I've ever gotten. A star shows up at my door at eight and says, how about it?”
Peter said, “What about Kelly walking over and hugging Claire?”
The two wardrobe ladies gasped. Gladys asked, “Claire was there?”
Derek said, “Maybe we shouldn't be talking about that.”
“Yeah, you're probably right.” He glanced at his watch. “We better eat and run if we want to make the second act.”
The instant Peter entered JayJay's parlor alongside Derek, he could see how the crowd was split in two. It wasn't where the folks were seated. The gaffers and grips were sprawled against the far walls, not because they weren't involved but because it was their nature to stay well away from the lights. Claire had one of the dining table chairs pulled to the far corner. But she was there. Watching JayJay and Kelly by the front wall with the hollowed focus of a lady coming off a hard night. No, Peter knew there was a split in the crowd from the expressions. The number was more than doubled to something over twenty, more than half the total crew. But a lot of them were there just to see if this was for real, two actors doing a prayer thing on a shoot. Their expressions said they had seen a lot and heard about more. But this was utterly new.
JayJay started in by thanking everyone for coming. “Me and Kelly, we've talked it over and we'd like to try and do this every morning. But we'd like volunteers to do this when we can't. Anybody feel led to lead?”
Derek raised his hand and said, “I'm volunteering me and Peter.” As natural as daylight.
That done, Kelly read two of her underlined passages, these coming from Exodus: “âThe Lord will fight for you, and all you have to do is keep still.' ” Then, “âThe Lord is my strong defender; he is the one who has saved me. He is my God, and I will praise him, my father's God, and I will sing about his greatness.' ”
Then JayJay asked if anybody wanted to name a specific prayer request. He pointed at Derek and said they'd not heard what was troubling him.
Derek tried to wave it off. “It's a work thing and it's very technical.”
“I don't need to understand every word,” JayJay replied. “And I doubt the jargon is gonna bother God.”
Derek tugged at his close-cropped hair. A true sign of worry. “The color's not right. Everything looks washed out.”
Peter pointed out, “I've heard Britt talking. He says what he's been seeing on the monitor is fine.”
“It's not fine.” Derek tugged harder. “We're lighting like we're still using film. But digital is a totally new thing. It registers light a lot sharper. Which leaves the scenes too harsh.”
Claire spoke from the back wall. “And the faces.”
“Exactly.” Derek turned around. “Britt is doing this like he's always done for film. And it's not working. Well, it's working, but it's not nearly as good as it could be.”
JayJay asked, “So what's the answer?”
“Toss out all but one spot, and mask that with a strong yellow filter.” Derek's answer came fast enough to show he'd thought on this for hours. “And use reflectors. A
lot
of reflectors.”
JayJay said, “Sounds to me like you know what you want.”
Claire answered for Derek, “A brand-new chief cameraman does not second-guess the director on location.”
Derek just sighed.
JayJay gave it a few moments, then said, “Anybody else with a prayer request?”
The silence was broken by one of the bearded grips telling his mate, “Go on, man. Say it.”
The larger of the two guys said through his beard, “My daughter has taken up with a bad crowd. And it's kinda hard for my wife and me to say much, since it's exactly the same crew we used to run with.”
Kelly asked, “What's her name?”
“Rachel.”
Kelly made a note on a sheet of paper.
“Anybody else?”
Derek said, “Cynthia, Peter's wife. And the twins.”
Kelly said, “I've got them down.”
A small voice from the back corner said, “Me.”
Kelly looked up. “We're not forgetting you for an instant, Claire.”
One of the electricians said, “We oughtta pray when the director gets back, we still got jobs.”
“That's a good one.”
There were a few more requests, and a lot more looks of astonishment between members of the viewing gallery. JayJay said he'd start and anybody else who wanted could join in, then Kelly would finish. He asked everybody to bow their heads. He prayed for a while, then somebody else, and then Derek, and afterward Peter spoke because it just felt natural.
A lot of words would never fit Peter's concept of television location work.
Natural
and
prayer circles
topped the list. Until that dawn.
There was a knock on the door just as Kelly finished. But the feeling was so strong no one cared to break it. The knock sounded again, louder this time. One of the electricians rose and walked over.
Britt Turner, their absent director, walked into the room. He studied the gathering and said, “I leave for one day and look what happens.”
L
unchtime at The Grill was as close to a producers' club as Hollywood came. The restaurant was situated down a lane narrow as most alleys, and about as dark. The place had few windows, which was fine for a crowd who wore their sunglasses everywhere but the screening room. The interior was plush in the manner of a fifties diner. There were tables down side walls bedecked with photos, and a double row of dinettes with smoked-glass panels. Most regulars had their favorite spots. The Grill was one of few places in Hollywood where no one table held premier position. Which was vital in a world where fistfights had broken out over who had to sit with their back to the room.
Allerby shared his corner banquette with Alexi Campe, not her real name. But in Hollywood, even the reporters got off on doing surgery on their past. Campe had been born Roxanne Steinbrimmer. She was not from Aspen, as she claimed, but Brownsville, a wart on the chin of New York City. She had spent twenty-seven thousand dollars on plastic surgery and elocution lessons. She never drank in public for fear of releasing her original Bronx cheer. Allerby loved receiving his security firm's reports on these people. They read better than most scripts.
Campe or Steinbrimmer covered the television circuit for
Variety
. Martin Allerby considered her his tame viper. As in, you can never tame a viper, only soothe it momentarily. One wrong move, and the viper will go from somnolent to deadly.
Campe was not so much thin as skeletal. She wore an outfit Allerby could only describe as astounding. Black knit cap, the kind preferred by male Muslim fanatics. Black Hindu-style floppy top and drawstring trousers. Huge rainbow clogs and matching enamel bracelets. And MaxMara sunglasses, the kind that had side stems thick as tree trunks. She picked at her meal of Caesar salad, hold the croutons and Parmesan cheese and dressing and chicken. “I hear your prime-time medical drama has hit yet another snag.”
“Not exactly true,” Allerby replied. “The actress we wanted as our new female lead decided she could hold out for more money. We have merely shown her just how wrong she was.”
“In other words, you chopped her off at the knees.”
“I didn't say that. And if you quote me with words you spoke, I'll sue.”
“Now, Martin, would I ever do such a thing?”
Allerby smiled. “All the time.”
Allerby caught his reflection in her opaque lenses. He actually appeared to be enjoying himself. Amazing how easy the lines came to him these days.
The reporter asked, “How's the new lead for
Heartland
working out?”
“Extremely well.”
“From the news footage, I'd say you have a serious hunk on your hands.”
“And he can act.”
“Is this fodder for the press, or for real?”
Allerby extracted the mini-disk from his jacket pocket. “Raw footage from our dailies. His first day on the set. See for yourself.”
She made the disk disappear. “Is this an exclusive?”
“I can give you a couple of days' lead. No more.”
Alexi stopped pretending to enjoy her meal. “I can't let your medical drama off the hook for this, Martin.”
“You're going to take the word of an agent whose actor got shot down?”
“I like you. You know that. But word on the street is you've got a show that's tanked and your efforts to pull it back into the green have failed.”
“I appreciate your being so frank with me, Alexi.” He leaned forward. “What if I had something else for you?”
“Such as?”
“Not in here.” Allerby dropped his napkin on the table. “Shall we?”
He signed the bill, made the customary gesture to the head waiter, and led Campe out into the shadowed alley. The Grill claimed they swept the restaurant daily for bugs. Allerby suspected it was so the head waiter held a lock on what his own mikes picked up. Martin never said anything in here he wasn't willing to see on the front page of the
Hollywood Reporter
.
When the attendant brought his car, he drove thirty feet up from the restaurant and parked, partially blocking the alley. It was a ploy he had used several times before. The lane was too tight for anybody to pass. Which meant he could limit the conversation to a matter of seconds. He spoke quickly. “We are not doing the two-hour
Heartland
special as planned.”
Campe pulled a pen and notepad from her purse. “Trouble?”
“On the contrary. We're going to make a feature film.”
She paused. “Come again?”
“
Heartland.
Coming soon to a theater near you.”
“You're joking.”
“No joke, Alexi.”
“Does CBS know?”
“Not yet.”
She was scribbling fast. “They are going to freak.”
“They'll have first rights to the TV run. You didn't hear any of this from me, all right?”
“Of course not. What's the budget?”
“Confidential. Mid-level.”
“Which means you can't recoup on a TV sale if the feature concept falls flat.”
“We're not going to fail, Alexi. The public is ripe for a good old-fashioned homespun drama.”
Not even her enormous shades could hide her skepticism.
“Think about it. Our numbers were the steadiest on record until Townsend overdosed on drugs and fat and fame. Our viewers are
loyal
. So we have a new star. You'll see for yourself what he can do. And we're going to take him global.”
