And, with the camera no longer rolling, the girl began to scream.
“You son of a bitch!” she was saying, in the shrill voice of somebody whose finger got slammed in, the door. “You son of a bitch!”
And she threw a nice hard right into the side of the guy’s head-he was still on his knees, in dog position-and he went down for the count.
She stood over him, raving and ranting, her hands balled into fists, her naked breasts jiggling, all of her trembling with rage.
“You shit! You putz! You did it on purpose!” She kicked him in the side of one thigh.
“No, no,” he said, feebly, afraid the next blow would be more appropriately placed.
“You didn’t have to get it in my hair. Do you have any idea how long it takes me to do this hair? And if we’re shooting an insert tonight, I’ll have to get it ready again, before then, wash it, dry it, set it… ooooh! Get out of my sight, you miserable wimp, before I kick your paycheck up around your ears!”
And the guy got to his feet and, doubled over, did as she told him, pausing only to grab a robe from a chair.
The fat cameraman was laughing. The pale blond kid wasn’t. The dark-haired girl was in the shadows.
Castle put an arm around the girl’s shoulder. Smiling, he said, “You were a little rough on that poor kid.”
“Poor kid my butt. He ever comes in my hair again, I’ll kill him.”
“Easy, baby. Easy. I want you to meet somebody.”
And she noticed me for the first time. She smiled a little, looking me over, and said, “I’m sorry about the way I look,” gesturing to her hair.
“Rest of you looks just fine,” I said.
“Yeah, well,” she said.
“This is Jack Murphy, baby. He’s doing a piece on the film for Oui. Braved the storm and everything. Jack… is it okay if I call you Jack?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Jack,” he said, squeezing his star’s shoulder affectionately, “I’d like you to meet my wife.”
16
The bar was the only room I’d seen so far that revealed the original intention of the place: that is, to be a hotel of sorts, a resort. That’s what Mountain Lodge would have been had it not gone prematurely broke. This building was, as I understood it, a prototype, the intention being to put up another one like it on the left-hand side of the plateau, and eventually one or more such buildings at the bottom of the ski slope, over to the sides, one would assume. But the project had never gotten that far: this one building was it, and rumor was that a Chicago businessman bought the place and now used it as a vacation hideaway. Rumor also was the business he was in was the mob.
At any rate, the bar was in keeping with what Mountain Lodge would’ve been, had it ever opened. it was also in keeping with the lodge’s schizoid marriage of rustic and modern: barnwood booths with brown padded seats and backs grew out of barnwood walls, each booth having a clear plastic tabletop on barnwood legs; a large barnwood horseshoe bowed out from the back barnwood wall, which was largely taken up with shelves lined with bottles and glasses; and in the foreground of the room were high round tables with transparent tops surrounded by stools with brown padded seats, similar stools lining the horseshoe bar.
Castile sat me in one of the booths-the bar was adjacent to the living room where the filming had been taking place-and excused himself; his wife had already said glad-to-meet-you and scurried upstairs to wash her hair.
But the fat guy in the CUBS sweatshirt cornered Castile, before the director could leave the bar area. The thin blond kid made an inadequate shadow behind the fat cameramen, who was asking Castile if he realized just how bad this snowstorm really was.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Castile allowed. “I mean, we been in here filming all day, Harry. Isn’t that enough to think about?”
“Well, we’re snowbound,” Harry said, “and we’re not filming now. So maybe you better think about that.”
“What can I do about it?”
“You can answer a question. You can tell us whether we get paid for any days we’re stuck here in the snow.”
“I don’t know, Harry. I’m not producing the picture.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m a hired hand just like you I’m being paid through today… which is our last day of shooting… just like you It’s my tough luck… and yours… if we get snowbound.”
“If, shit. We are snowbound. And don’t give me that bullshit about you being a hired hand. You got a percentage.”
“Sure I got a percentage. But I won’t see any of that money… if there is any… until the film goes into distribution, which is months away. So give me a break.”
“Shit.”
“Look Harry. I’ll talk to the money people and see if we can’t get some extra bread to cover any extra time we spend here. But Jesus. It’s April. We’re not going to be snowbound for long. Overnight, maybe. So what say we all just relax, just, you know, just take it easy.”
Harry thought about it, shrugged. A beat later, so did the blond kid, who’d been silent throughout, eyes bouncing from Castile to Harry, Harry to Castile, watching the conversation like a spectator at a tennis match.
Then Castile patted Harry on the shoulder, smiled at the kid, and left.
Harry came over to my booth and looked down at me. He wasn’t tall, but he was standing and I was sitting and he took advantage of that. He poked at the table with his belly, accusingly.
“You one of the money guys?” he asked.
“What?”
“You one of the guys putting up the money for this piece of crap?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I’m a writer.”
“What kind of a writer?”
“I’m doing a story on the film. For Oui magazine.”
“Oh. Don’t use my name in the fucking thing.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Any special reason you want to stay anonymous, Harry?”
“I thought you said you didn’t know my name.”
“I don’t know anything except Harry, Harry. Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
Harry thought about it.
“Hey kid,” he shouted, as though the kid were across the room and not just a few feet away. “Go get us some beers, huh?”
The kid went.
Harry sat across from me in the booth.
“Sorry if I came on strong,” he said. “I’m a little pissed.”
“About getting snowbound and stuck for no extra money.”
“That’s right. It sucks.”
That seemed to mean especially appropriate choice of words, but I didn’t say so. I said, “Don’t worry. I won’t mention you.”
“Yeah, well thanks. See, I don’t want my name in any article because I’m union and this is a non-union picture.”
