Heartland (35 page)

They applauded him off the stage. Britt took up position behind Derek, whose camera was situated on a flatbed truck between two lighting pillars. Britt wound his hand over his head. The band struck a pose, and hit it.

Kelly turned around and wrapped her arms around JayJay. Held him with all the force he had wanted to give her. A strong lady with all the energy in the world at her command. Squeezed the breath from his body.

Then she turned and walked onstage.

The crowd just plain went wild.

The script girl appeared at JayJay's elbow. She wore the standard headset and a frantic expression. JayJay wanted to refuse when she motioned him to follow, but she was having none of it. She gripped his arm and tugged him around to the stairs and down into the crowd. Down to where the spotlight waited.

Which turned out to be a good thing, because when Kelly slipped the mike from the stand and looked at the crowd, she stared straight at him.

Then she turned and looked at the band. One glance. They swung into the Dylan song, the same one that had blown JayJay away at the restaurant. Got to serve somebody. Belting the words with a throaty burr that left him shivering.

The band shut it off with a single solid punch. And waited through a full-throated roar in return. Kelly smiled then. She might have been smiling at him. JayJay liked to think so, anyway. The band used the applause to switch electric guitars for mandolins and fiddle. The drummer went to brushes. A quick countdown, and they swung into the old country favorite, “He Touched Me.” Some of the older folks slipped through the barrier and started a country two-step. Kip was in the process of waving them back when Britt punched the air over his head. Let them be. The crowd saw the exchange and took it as all the sign they needed. Folks released the ropes forming the semicircular barrier between the crowd and the stage. The steadicam guy lost his ability to move, but Britt only pointed him up onto the stage.

He touched me,
Kelly sang,
and He made me whole.

When the crowd quieted once more, the lighting shifted. A grand piano JayJay had not noticed before was highlighted by a single spot. With the silky night as a backdrop, Kelly walked over and leaned against the piano. The band leader played the opening bars, and she swung into “Love Never Dies” remixed as a torch song. A woman faced with the impossibles of life, promising herself as well as the audience that despite everything, hope would live on. Just her and the piano. As raw and exposed as a woman could be. Letting it all out. Singing to another woman, one locked away in a hospital room some thousand miles away. JayJay felt his face go wet, knew the camera was watching, and couldn't bring himself to care.

They had to wait through a full five minutes before they could start the second take. JayJay clapped and hollered until his throat went raw.

Chapter 37

T
hey should have gone out racing with the wind.

That was how good JayJay felt. Like there was nothing that could possibly have fit the moment except to pile all of them into his truck, ten, twelve, however many they could cram into the front and back seats. And go tearing around town, burning rubber at the stoplights and shouting at the moon, letting off the joy that turned them sixteen and wild again.

Instead, what they did was troop into the trailer now vacated by the musicians and spread out around the long front room. Peter, Britt, Kip, JayJay, Claire, Kelly, Derek. All the usual suspects. Plus a woman JayJay had not seen before. A woman of age and humor and character, was how he thought of her. Crystal-green eyes and carefully trimmed white hair and a gaze that said she had seen it all and found most of it purely hilarious.

Only she wasn't laughing now.

Britt said, “This is Rhoda Dwyer. Rhoda is chief film editor at Centurion. I've had her camped out here since Saturday so I could work with her on some of the first takes. Just seeing for myself if we had something that worked.” He nodded to her. “Tell them.”

“About the work so far or what happened back in LA?”

“Both.”

“This is highly irregular, I have to say. I can't recall a film editor speaking with actors on location before.”

“This entire project,” Britt replied, “has been based on broken rules.”

“Well. If the scenes I've worked through so far are any indication, I would say Hollywood will be forced to sit up and take notice of your new directions.”

They looked at one another, confused by the mixed signals—the woman's words, and the bleak expression she shared with Britt and Derek. Claire finally asked, “They're good?”

“They are better than good. Excellent is one word that comes to mind. Outstanding. Exceptional. Oscar-quality camera work.”

Derek covered his eyes. Peter slugged his friend's shoulder. “Way to go, man.”

“Some of the scenic structure Britt has envisioned is nothing short of genius. And your acting, Mr. Junior, well, I can only say that it astounds me to learn you have never worked before a camera. You too, Ms. Channing. And tonight's performance moved me terribly.”

“Okay,” Britt said. “Enough for the buildup. Now give them act two.”

Rhoda related what she had witnessed from the projectionist's booth. When she finished, Claire cut through the silence with, “You're sure about that? Martin Allerby was disappointed with our results?”

“I would say he was devastated. He and Milo both.”

Britt let that sink in, then, “Tell them what you told me.”

“Are you sure that's wise?”

“No. I'm working on gut instinct here. But it's served me well enough so far.”

“Very well.” She had a schoolmistress's manner, very prim and easy, yet giving off the subtle warning that this was one lady never to mess with. “I have worked with Martin Allerby for seven years. He has the cold, calculating deadliness of a big jungle cat. He gives up nothing until he strikes. But my impression was he sent you out here to fail.”

Britt said, “And we've disappointed him.”

“You
worry
him. And very few things worry Martin Allerby. Or rather, very few things concern him to such a level that it shows.”

Kelly asked, “Why would he want us to fail?”

“That is a question I have been asking myself ever since.”

Britt said to the group, “I wanted you to hear this because we are going on full throttle. I want to get as much done as we possibly can. Not just filmed. Edited and packaged. So if we do get shut down—”

“When,” Rhoda corrected. “
When
Martin decides to close you up.”

“Whatever. I want enough in the can I'll be able to shop this product to another studio. If he forbids it, I'll leak it to the press. I'll alert the Centurion board.” Britt had never appeared so angry. “Martin isn't the only one who can play tough. He is
not
going to kill this. What we have is too good.”

He studied the room. “But I can't do this alone. What I want to know is, will you back me up? Eighteen-hour days from here on out. Kip will direct what I decide can be delegated so I can be freed up to work with Rhoda. Are you with me?”

Though he dreaded the hours to come, JayJay knew what was called for here. “I always admired a fellow under pressure who can still count his bullets and take careful aim.” He offered Britt his hand. “Let's get to work.”

The prayer meeting was shifted to five the next morning. Cynthia plied two coffeepots and apologized for not having the equipment for direct transfusions. After Kelly did her Bible reading, JayJay said, “I've got a couple of praise reports and one new request. First off, I got to tell you, give the lady to my right a mike and she'll plumb knock you into next week.”

“I'll say amen.” This from a yawning Derek.

“Next, I had a nice conversation with Kip yesterday.”

That got their attention. Kelly asked, “What did he say?”

“Far as I recollect, something like, ‘This is fun.' ”

“What was he doing,” Claire asked, “sharpening his filleting knives?”

“We were working. He was doing his hand-tango and more getting in the way than directing. But we got some good stuff in the pot.”

“Can,” Claire corrected. “In the can.”

“Pot, can, we took some pictures and I think they worked. And we just chatted. Like two normal human beings.”

“Kip is neither normal nor human,” Claire said.

“Well, I think we ought to add the little guy to our prayer list, is all.”

“You can pray for him all you like,” Kelly said. “I'll just hum along in the background on that one.”

Peter asked, “You had a prayer request?”

“For Britt.”

Those who had been there the previous night just nodded. Britt had ordered them not to talk about what had been discussed. There were spies on location. He knew that because Martin Allerby always had spies. It was one of Martin's trademarks. Nothing went on within Martin's reach that he didn't have his secret sources. Martin fed on information like a worm on dirt.

Britt had chosen them because they were, in his words, the core leaders. If they accepted his move to longer days and faster action without a whimper, so too would the rest of the crew. But nothing could be said outright. The crew would wonder and talk among themselves and probably assume the pressure came from the studio. Which, in truth, it did.

They had scarcely time to pray a round before there was a knock on the open door and Kip said, “Party time is over, people.” He clapped his hands like he was herding goats. “Your little fun and games will just have to wait.”

Claire caught up to JayJay in the hall and said, “It's not too late to reconsider your plan to pray for Kip.”

“The Book doesn't say anything about taking back prayers, sis.”

Claire did not see him stop dead in his tracks, halted by the realization of what he had just called her, and how natural it felt.

Chapter 38

T
he Beverly Wilshire Hotel coffee shop had once occupied a privileged place in Hollywood lore. Then, to the horror of the regulars, the new Japanese owners tore out the shop's fabled Mexican interior and replaced it with Romanesque columns and marble and gilt and powder-puff pastels. Now the place remained for the most part empty of customers save the usual tourists and the occasional lost soul. Martin might have said the players avoided it out of principle, except that Hollywood had none.

Eight days after he had disappeared, Milo let the dark-suited maître d' seat him and said, “I hear the interior decorator who destroyed this place has a job doing colors for Crayola.”

Martin said to the indignant maître d', “I'll have a white omelet with chives, brown toast, and grapefruit juice.”

“Same.” Milo studied the chalk-blue angels overhead as the maître d' snapped his fingers for the waiter to fill their coffee cups. “I won't be sorry to stop meeting in places like this.”

“How was your vacation?”

“It feels like I've spent the last week living in an isolation room equipped with sand and palm trees. Longest I've been out of contact since I started in Hollywood.”

“I have an idea.”

Milo did not need to ask what about. “It better be first-rate, is all I can say. First call I got when I turned my phone back on was from Paramount.”

“And?”

“She was just fishing. Mentioned something about a possible hit, our first time up to bat in the big league, asked if we might be in the market for a long-term distribution deal.” He waited as the orange juice was deposited. “She didn't know anything for certain. Yet.”

One thing to be said about eating in an empty five-star hotel restaurant was the speed. Their omelets arrived, fluffy and crisp. They ate in silence. Martin liked this about Milo. The man said what needed saying, then shut up. He would wait until Martin was ready to pitch his plan. In this business, timing was everything.

Finally Martin pushed his plate to one side, sipped his cup, and said, “Yesterday afternoon my office extended a personal invitation to the entire Hollywood press corps. We have a junket leaving tomorrow for Salton City.”

“How many do you think will show?”

“Everyone. Once they read this morning's front-page article in
Variety
. I owed Alexi a scoop. I phoned her yesterday.”

“What'd you tell her?”

“That
Heartland
's dailies are off the chart. That we may be after the elusive dream, a film that wins critical praise and plays for months in Kansas City.” Martin let that sit for a moment, then continued, “I met her in your empty offices. Gave her a chance to view a couple of scenes for herself.”

Milo's voice rose a full two octaves. “You're giving up?”

Martin waited while the waiter recharged their cups. “You know better than that.”

“Then what—”

“Milo,
think
. You've said it yourself. Six days ago they suspected. Whatever we do, sooner rather than later they'll know.” Martin finished his orange juice. “I'm just making sure the word comes first from us.”

Milo pushed at his gut with a fist. “This strain, I got to tell you, it's worse than Emmy week.” He fished in his pocket, came out with a plastic sheet of pills, took one, chased it with coffee. “What have you heard?”

“The crew has moved into an impossible shooting schedule. Britt spends what time he can spare heads-down with the film editor.”

Milo froze in the process of stowing away his pills. “Your spies are sure about that?”

“Spy. Singular. More than one and they spend all their time reporting on each other.”

“I thought you were going to call the editor back to the studio.”

“I can hardly do that,” Martin replied. “Not when I'm receiving dailies that literally take my breath away.”

“That good.” Milo pressed his fist in harder.