but behind it there was a pretty good mind working. And most of the time it was working on getting his show made on time, on budget. He knew when to go with the flow, and if I’d take the matter of Jill Joyce’s harassment off his back he’d agree to hiring Geraldo Rivera as a bodyguard if I said so. He knew that. I knew that. And he knew that I knew that.
“We got you through the police commissioner,” Salzman said. “Commissioner himself said you were good.”
“Man loves me,” I said.
“Actually,” Salzman said, “he remarked that he didn’t like you a bit, but you were the best at what you did. ”
“Same thing,” I said. “Where’s the lovely Miss Joyce?”
“We’re shooting here today. Too cold out for fill.” Salzman got up. “I’ll take you down. Ever seen film being made?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Exciting?”
“Like watching ice melt.” I said.
“I can see you’re a fan,” Salzman said.
We went out through the outer office where two young women hunched over typewriters. There was a fax machine on the window sill, and six file cabinets, and on the wall a big, and detailed, map of Boston.
“I’ll be on the set,” Salzman said to one of the young women. She nodded without looking up. “Remember you’ve got the teamster guys at eleven forty-five,” she said.
“Page me when they arrive,” Salzman said. We went down the corridor past glassed-in office space where people labored over computers and drawing boards and typewriters. We went down the stairs and through the lobby, with a huge promotional poster of Jill Joyce on the wall, and a receptionist at her desk, and down another corridor, past the wardrobe office and the property room and the carpenter shop to a sound stage. On the thick door to the sound stage was a big sign that said DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON. Above the door was a red light. It was on. Salzman opened the door quietly and we went in. We were on the back side of some walls that had been assembled from plywood and two-by-fours. On the other side of those walls the space was brightly lit. I followed Salzman around the cluster of ragged crew members loitering off camera, waiting to do what they were employed to do.
The set was of an office, or two walls of an office, in-which a psychiatrist, Dr. Shannon Cassidy, was confronting an obviously demented man who was armed with a Browning automatic and was pointing it at her the way everybody points guns on television, with two hands, straight out, at shoulder level. Shannon was played by the delectable Jill Joyce, clear-eyed, kind, intuitive yet passionate, in a crisply tailored suit. In her bearing and in every word she spoke there was the kind of wise and sexy innocence that had guaranteed thirteen-week on-air pickups for twenty years. The demented man was a guest star whom I’d never heard of.
“You make any sudden moves, Doc,” the demented man was saying, “and you’re gonna be real sorry.”
Dr. Cassidy’s smile was caring and brave. “Don’t you realize, Kenneth, that you’re the victim?” Doc Cassidy said. “I can’t let you hurt yourself this way… someone does care.”
She slowly extended her hand. “I care.”
She held her hand out toward the guy, whose face ran the gamut of emotions from A to B. His face contorted, the gun shook.
“You’re not alone if someone cares,” Doc Cassidy said softly.
The demented guy suddenly lunged forward and put the gun into her hand. The director said “Cut.”
And the demented guy straightened up and took his hands from his face and stopped being demented. “Who writes this stuff?” he said.
A grayish woman with ample hips came around the desk where Jill Joyce was sitting. She wore a hand mirror on a ribbon around her waist and she held it in front of Jill while she made small dabbing notions at Jill’s hair with a little bristly brush. A make-up woman also appeared and dusted Jill’s face with a small, soft brush, the kind you might use to baste a spare rib. A young production assistant in jeans and a man’s flannel shirt handed Jill a lit cigarette and Jill dragged on it intently while make-up and hair hovered over her.
“Places,” the director said. Without his earflaps he was a thin-faced man with short reddish hair.
An assistant director said, “Quiet, everybody.” Then he said, “Rolling for picture.”
The director said “Action.”
And they did the scene again. The sound man with earphones, hovering over the sound console, said “Cut” after the demented guest star said his first line.
“We’re picking up a whir, Rich.”
Somebody went around the corner of the set and said something I couldn’t hear and came back. “Okay?” he said.
The director looked at the sound man. “Okay,” the sound man said.
And the scene rolled again, and then again. “First one was the cover shot,” Salzman whispered between takes. “Others are for close-ups, so when they get it back in L.A. in the editing room, Milo and the film editor can cross- cut, you know?”
“Un huh,” I said.
“What do you think?” Salzman said.
“I think you’re hiring me for the wrong job,” I said. “I think you should hire me to go beat up the writers.”
Salzman shrugged. “Hard cranking out a script a week,” he said.
