Subject: Bette Monroe, Private Eye II
From:
Peter T.
Date: 19 Jul 00 - 11:57 AM
Part I was getting a bit long here. The plot thickens
In the minds of virtually all professional stunt men there is one scene that stands out. The film is "Steamboat Bill, Jr." and the actor is Buster Keaton, who, unlike today's liars who say they do their own stunts, did. The scene takes place during a tornado that rips through the town and at one point Keaton is standing in front of a three story house. The front of the house falls on him, and because he is standing exactly on the right spot, an open window space falls on either side of him and he is left standing, unscathed. That is scary enough, but easy if you have the nerve. That is not what gives the stunt people the shudders: it is the fact that the house front has to fall exactly right, and it has to happen in the middle of a howling windstorm. The windstorm is what turns a mathematical certainty into anyone's guess.
The helicopter came for Carla in about 7 minutes after I put down the phone. They gingerly put a stretcher under her, and were shooting her full of stuff as they prepared to lift her off. Streaked in smoke, a quarter of the crew stood watching, quiet, until she got into the air. Steve Lutzman stood there on his cellphone, yelling and pounding his side with his other hand in clenched rage.
Back on the set, the irony was that the mangled spacecraft had now been truly mangled in the botched explosion. The explosion had been tested over and over again beforehand, but there had for some unknown reason -- accident, sabotage, we would not know for awhile if ever -- been a half second delay in the timing of the blast, and it caught a joist going one way and Carla going another; she was good enough to twist away from instant death, but she had been crushed to the ground by a broken wing of steel siding that came down on her. There was smoke everywhere, shouting and running, and scores of minor injuries. It would take weeks to recover. Whether Carla would recover was an open question.
I stood a couple of yards away from Steve, in the bright sunshine, watching the helicopter disappear over the mountains, sick to my stomach.
He moved towards me, and made a motion for me to stay where I was. "Alright," he said on the phone, imperiously, "We are meeting in the main cabin in five minutes. I want Tania the A.D., Head of Production -- yeah, pull Roscoe out of it -- and I know Mark is here, I saw him a moment ago, and Tex comes too, and no one else. No calls except on the private line on the other cell." He put away the phone. "You're coming with me, Bette."
"Jesus, Steve, aren't I overstaying my welcome? I mean what the hell?"
"You'll find out." There was no time for politeness.
So we sat around a table where Steve and I had been 20 minutes earlier, no longer looking out at the nice day. Tania Roscommon, the Assistant Director, young, talented, already making movies out on her own, but Steve's protege. Roscoe (whose last name I never knew), the Head of Production, big, burly, no nonsense -- the oldest friend Steve had in the world. Tex, the head of Security, who was the shortest Texan I ever met, but with that hard competence like a wall. And Mark O'Shane, the executive producer, Mr. Money, a parody of a Producer, fat with cigars.
Steve began: "Alright, now nothing goes out of this room. If it goes out of this room, you are gone forever out of this business. Hell, we may be out of it anyway. We are in big trouble, if this picture stops, and that is what we are looking at. I do not want to get our story straight, we ar not here to concoct anything. I haven't got time for that, I want to find out what happened, and flush it out. Mark?"
Mark looked at me, not remembering who I was, and wondering who the hell I was, but he jumped in: "We are looking at a delay of at least two weeks on this shoot - "
Tania interrupted: "A month." Roscoe, the Unit Chief, nodded in agreement.
Mark continued, unabated: "O.K. Shit, a month, if this whole thing doesn't get totally out of hand. We have reserves for a month, but no more. The Christmas opening is shot to hell, which means that we have to back out on stuff, but the franchise will hold. We are looking at 100 million less next year: if this picture gets finished. If it doesn't get finished, we are solvent, but then we lose control over everything -- we are eaten by a major."
Steve waved his hand. "O.K. Roscoe?"
Roscoe sighed. "We don't know what went wrong. We did it all by the book, over and over. Some electrical fault. Maybe shit happens."
Tania said: "Roscoe's right. The second it went wrong, we were all over the set, and there was nothing else we could find. Apart from moving the wreckage around Carla and putting out the fire, we moved zip. The police are there now. We are totally talking to them -- no secret moves, nothing. The press will be here in half an hour from the city. "
Steve said, "O.K., thanks Tania. We'll have a conference on the set. That should give them good visuals, and let's stay dirty, shall we? Roscoe, bring out the list. " Roscoe looked darkly at him, and pulled out a sheet of paper.
Steve continued. "This is Bette Monroe. She is a private detective. She worked for us on the submarine sabotage on NWII, and did a good job." Mark now remembered. "She came here today on some other business, but I was going to get her here anyway. " This was a suprise. "Today was what I was afraid of. Roscoe has a list of incidents that have gone wrong over the past 3 years -- how many are we looking at now, Roscoe?"
Roscoe said: "Twenty -seven."
Steve went on. "Every one here knows that we have been living on the edge with this. We keep having things go wrong, nothing that has killed anyone, narrowly avoided injuries, screwups, near accidents, a broken leg or two. We have been extra-careful, beefed up security, paid off the insurance, you name it, and still these things keep happening, and are speeding up. It is not good enough to say that this is a dangerous business. We are being sabotaged."
I chimed in. "Forgive me for being basic, but who hates you? Who stands to benefit by something going wrong?"
Steve said: "We have asked this a hundred times. No one. The film industry is not in real competition: if we do well, it is no skin off anyone's nose -- more people on more seats everywhere. Oh sure, there is jealously, and macho crap, but no one else can make my kind of film anyway, so why destroy it? We employ tons of people -- oh sure, we've fired people, dumped actors off films -- grudges out there, I guess. But real motives, real people -- we can't figure it."
"Maybe a nut case. Some fan who doesn't like how Nebula Warrior IV and V are going. Wants to save the universe from you."
Steve said: "Sure, interesting idea, but how do they get onto the set?"
I looked around, and guessed it was safe. "DeAngelis hates your guts. And he is back in circulation."
Mark's eyebrows went up. "DeAngelis? Back?"
I nodded, and then shrugged. "It's a possibility."
"Anyway," Steve said. "I want you to find out, if you can. Whatever it takes. If they close us down, we are looking at maybe half a billion in lost revenues. So you have an expense account." He smiled for the first time in an hour.
"Well," I said, "I should get together with everyone here individually, Tex, Roscoe, Tania, and go through everything security-wise before it is all taped over. NHo suspects: just to see how the land lies."
"Thanks", said Steve, and then his cellphone rang on his private line. He answered it. He said nothing, and then put it down.
He looked at the table and said: "Carla died in the air. They couldn't keep her alive. She's gone." And he bent his head down, and covered his face with his hands. We sat there quietly for a minute, and then awkwardly rose. It was time to meet the police, and then meet the press. As I was leaving the room, I caught a glimpse of the beautiful movie still rolling outside, beyond the picture window: Summer Valley Day Without at Care in the World -- coming soon to a theatre near you.
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sj
