Manhattan Is My Beat (15 page)

“I called the public relations department here?” Her voice rose in a question. “See, I’m in this class—
The Roots of Film Noir
, it’s called—and I’m writing this paper. I had some questions about a film and they said they had somebody on staff who’d been around for a while….”

“‘Around for a while,’ I like that. That’s a euphemism is what that is.”

“And here I am.”

“Well, I’ll tell you why they sent you to me. You want to know?”

“I—”

“I’ll tell you. What I am is the unofficial studio historian at Metro. Meaning I’ve been here nearly forty years
and if I were making real money or had anything to do with production they’d’ve fired my butt years ago. But I’m not and I don’t so I’m not worth the trouble to boot me out. So I hang around here and answer questions from pretty young students. You don’t mind, I say that?”

“Say it all you want.”

“Good. Now the message said—do I believe it?— you’ve got some questions about
Manhattan Is My Beat
?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s interesting. You see a lot of students or reporters interested in Scorsese, Welles, Hitch. And you can always count on Fassbinder, Spielberg, Lucas, Coppola. Three, four years ago we got calls about Cimino. That
Heaven’s Gate
thing. Oh, we got calls! But I don’t think anybody’s ever done anything about the director of
Manhattan Is My Beat
. Hal Reinhart. Anyway, I digress. What do you need to know?”

“The movie was true, wasn’t it?”

Weinhoff’s eyes crinkled. “
Nu
, that’s the whole point. That’s why it’s such a big-deal movie. It wasn’t shot on sets, it was based on a real crime, it didn’t cast Gable, Tracy, Lana Turner, Bette Davis, Gary Cooper, or any of the other sure-draw stars. You understand? None of the actors that’d guarantee that a film, no matter it was a good film, it was a bad film, that a film
opened
, you know what I mean,
opened?
“

“Sure.” Rune’s pen sped across the pages of a notebook. She’d bought it a half hour before, had written
Film Noir 101
on the cover, then smeared the ink with her palm to age it, like a master forger. “It means people go to see it no matter what it’s about.”

“Right you are. Now,
Manhattan Is My Beat
was probably the first of the independents.”

“Why don’t you hear about it nowadays?”

“Because it was also the first of the
bad
independents. You’ve seen it?”

“Four times.”

“What, you also tell your dentist to drill without novocaine? Well, if you saw it that many times, you know it didn’t quite get away from the melodrama of the big studio crime stories of the thirties. The director, Reinhart, couldn’t resist the shoeshine boy’s mother falling downstairs, the high camera angles, the score hitting you over the head you should miss a plot twist. So other films got remembered better. But it was a big turning point for movies.”

His enthusiasm was infectious. She found herself nodding excitedly.

“You ever see
Boomerang?
Elia Kazan. He shot it on location. Not the greatest story in the world for a crime flick—I mean, there’s not much secret who did it. But the point isn’t what the story was but
how
it was told. That was about a real crime too. It was a—whatta you call it?—evolutionary step up from the studio-lot productions Hollywood thought you had to do.
Manhattan Is My Beat
was of the same ilk.

“Oh, you gotta understand, the era had a lot to do with it too, I mean, shifting to movies like that. The War, it robbed the studios of people and materials. The big-production set pieces and epics—uh-uh, there was no way they could produce those. And it was damn good they did. You ask me—hey, who’s asking me, right?— but I think movies like
Manhattan
helped move movies out of the world of plays and into their own world.

“
Boomerang. The House on 92nd Street
. Henry Hathaway did that. Oh, he was a gentleman, Henry was. Quiet, polite. He made that film, I guess, in forty-seven.
Manhattan Is My Beat
was in that movement. It’s not a good film. But it’s an important film.”

“And they were
all
true, those films?” Rune asked.

“Well, they weren’t documentaries. But, yeah, they
were accurate. Hathaway worked with the FBI to do
House
.”

“So, then, if there was a scene in the movie, say the characters went someplace, then the real-life characters may have gone there?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you know anyone who worked on
Manhattan?
I mean, know them personally?”

“Sure. Dana Mitchell.”

“He played Roy, the cop.”

“Right, right, right. Handsome man. We weren’t close but we had dinner two, three times. Him and his second wife, I think it was. Charlotte Goodman we had signed here for a couple films in the fifties. I knew Hal of course. He was a contract director for us when studios still did that. He also did—”

“
West of Fort Laramie
. And
Bomber Patrol
.”

“Hey, you know your films. Hal’s still around, I haven’t talked to him in twenty years, I guess.”

“Is he in New York?”

“No, he’s on the West Coast. Where, I have no idea. Dana and Charlotte are dead now. The exec producer on the project died about five years ago. Some of the other studio people may be alive but they aren’t around here. This is no business for old men. I’m paraphrasing Yeats. You know your poetry? You studying poets in school?”

“Yeah, all of them, Yeats, Erica Jong, Stallone.”

“Stallone?”

“Yeah, you know,
Rambo
.”

“Your school teaches some strange things. But education, who understands it?”

Rune asked, “Isn’t there anybody in New York who worked on the film?”

“Whoa, darling, the spirit is willing but the mind is weak.” Weinhoff pulled out a film companion book. And looked up the movie. “Ah, here we go. Hey, here we go.
Manhattan Is My Beat
, 1947. Oh, sure, Ruby Dahl, who could forget her? She played Roy’s fiancée.”

“And she lives in New York?”

“Ruby? Naw, she’s gone. Same old story. Booze and pills. What a business we’re in. What a business.”

“What about the writer?”

Weinhoff turned back to the book. “Hey, here we go. Sure. Raoul Elliott. And if he was credited as the writer, then he really wrote it. All by himself. I know Raoul. He was an old-school screenwriter. None of this pro-wrestling for credits you see now.” In a singsong voice Weinhoff said, “ ‘I polished sixty-seven pages of the tenth draft so I get the top credit in beer-belly extended typeface and that other hack only polished fifty-three pages so he gets his name in antleg condensed or no screen credit at all.’
Whine, whine, whine
… Naw, I know Raoul. If he got the credit he wrote the whole thing—first draft through the shooting script.”

“Does he live in New York?”

“Ah, the poor man. He’s got Alzheimer’s. God forbid. He’d been in a home for actors and theatrical people for a while. But last year it got pretty bad; now he’s in a nursing home out in Jersey.”

“You know where?”

“Sure, but I don’t think he’ll tell you much of anything.”

“I’d still like to talk to him.”

Weinhoff wrote down the name and address for her. He shook his head. “Funny, you hear about students nowadays, they don’t want to do this, they don’t want to do that. You’re—I pegged you right away, I don’t mind saying—you’re something else. Talking to an old yenta like me, going to all this trouble just for a school paper.”

Rune stood up and shook the old man’s hand. “Like, I think you get out of life what you put into it.”

All right. I’m two hours late, she thought.

She wasn’t just hurrying this time; she was sprinting. To get to work! This was something she’d never done that she could ever remember. Tony’s voice echoing in her memory.
Back in twenty, back in twenty
.

Along Eighth Street. Past Fifth Avenue. To University Place. Dodging students and shoppers, running like a football player, like President Reagan in that old movie of his. The one without the monkey.

No big deal. Tony’ll understand. I was on time this morning.

Them’s the breaks
.

He’s not going to fire me for being a measly two hours late.

A hundred twenty minutes. The average running time for a film.

How could he possibly be upset? No way.

Rune pushed into the store and stopped cold. At the counter Tony was talking to the woman who was apparently her replacement, showing her how to use the cash register and credit card machine.

Oh, hell.

Tony looked up. “Hi, Rune, how you doin’? Oh, by the way, you’re fired. Pack up your stuff and leave.”

He was more cheerful than he’d been in months.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The woman, an attractive redhead in her twenties, looked uncertainly at Rune. Then at Tony.

Rune said, “Look, Tony, I’m really, really sorry. I got …”

You only lie to people who can control you
.

But I don’t want to get fired. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.

“…I got stuck on the subway. Power failure. Or somebody on the tracks. It was disgusting. No lights, it was smelly, it was hot. And I—”

“Rune, I’ve had it. Frankie Greek’s sister went into labor just after you left and he had to take her to the hospital. And I
know
she did, ‘cause I called her ob-gyn to check.”

“You did
what?
“ Rune asked.

Tony shrugged. “He coulda been faking. What’d I know? But whatta you want me to do when
you
give me some half-assed excuse about the subway? Call the head
of the MTA? Ask him if the E train got stuck at Thirty-fourth Street?”

“Please don’t fire me.”

“I had to work by myself for two fucking hours, Rune.”

“Jesus, Tony, it’s not like a hot dog stand at Giants Stadium at halftime. How many customers did you have?”

“That’s not the point. I missed lunch.”

“I’ll be better. I really—”

“Time out,” the redhead said, shutting them both up. She added, “I’m not taking the job.”

“What?” Tony was looking at her.

“I can’t take somebody else’s job.”

“You’re not. I fired her before I hired you. It’s just that she didn’t know.”

“Tony,” Rune said. Hated that she was pleading but she couldn’t help it. What would Richard think if he heard she got canned? He already thought she was totally irresponsible.

“I’d feel too guilty,” the redhead explained.

Tony: “You said you needed a job.”

“I do. But I’ll find something else.”

“No, no, doll,” Tony said, “don’t worry.”

But then she said in a stony voice, “You fire her, I’m leaving too.”

Tony closed his eyes momentarily. “Jesus Christ.” He then leaned forward and glared at Rune. “Okay. Frankie’s only going to be working half-days until his sister’s back home. You can fill out his schedule. But if you miss any more shifts, without a
real
excuse, that’ll be it.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Tony then smiled at the woman, probably thinking he’d scored some points with her for his generosity. He didn’t notice that her expression, as she looked back at
him, was the way you squint at a roach just before you squoosh it.