Joni, not in her diner uniform but in a sexy, smutty plaid blouse and denim short shorts, was also next to Eric, but not cheering him on. Next to her was an older guy, a fifty-ish actor I hadn’t seen on set before, in a light-green leisure suit and televangelist hair; he seemed to be losing and also giving Eric verbal shit. I figured he was the villain (I think he may have been that actor who played the dean in Animal House).
Anyway, that’s all I could get out of it, since I couldn’t really hear what anybody was saying. I had a feeling the makings of the movie’s entire plot were gathered around that roulette table. I’d wait for the video rental.
Finally Stockwell, standing beside the big camera-not on wheels today, hard or otherwise-yelled, “ Cut! ”
And Ginger, still at my side, finally said, “Hi, Mr. Reynolds. Welcome to the Four Jacks.”
I said hi, even though we’d been standing together for ten minutes already, and said, “This strikes me as a tricky place to shoot in.”
“Fuck yes!” she said.
I was of a generation that had never quite got used to clean-cut girls like Ginger saying “fuck” so casually. Somewhere deep in my Midwestern heritage, I felt offended; the rest of me thought, Fuck yes!
“Controlling a set within a noisy, crowded space like this is a logistical nightmare,” she said cheerfully, as if all this trouble were a good thing. “And we had a surprise thrown at us today that I admit threw us all for a loop.”
“What surprise is that?”
We were talking fairly loud because of the ding-ding-ding of the slots.
“Mr. Licata flew in from the Coast for a visit,” she said, “without any warning. He’s our money man, you know. And he’s…he’s kind of a public figure himself. I’m surprised nobody called you about it-you being our unit publicist and all.”
“I was at the hotel on the phone all morning with People and Variety,” I said, mentioning the only two appropriate publications a non-showbiz guy like me could summon on short notice. “If Art found a free moment to try to call me, he probably couldn’t get through.”
“I assume you know who Mr. Licata is.”
“Yes. And what he is. Why, Ginger, has he been a problem for you?”
She chose her words. “He just needs to be handled with care. Mr. Licata and Mr. Kaufmann are in the bar right now, I think. You might want to go introduce yourself.”
“I’ll do that. But I do need to talk to Art.”
“They’ll be moving the camera around for a new angle probably in about half an hour.”
“Okay.”
Another take began, same scene, same camera position, and I stayed put, right there next to Ginger. When Stockwell again yelled, “Cut!” and moved in to talk to the actors, I said to Ginger, “Where’s that guy I saw yesterday with the big fuzzy microphone on that fishing-pole type thing? Don’t they need him for sound?”
This particular technician had been at the diner yesterday covering the action by the gas pumps, recording grunts and groans and such memorable bad guy dialogue as, “Eat shit and die, motherfucker!” and “I’m gonna feed ya your nuts, asswipe!” The good guy dialogue was limited to: “Come and get me,” and “Try it.” More fun to play a bad guy.
“Mr. Stockwell isn’t going with a boom operator here in the casino,” Ginger was saying. “All of the actors are wirelessly miked.” She pointed toward some slot machines in back of the roulette table. “Our sound man is set up back behind there, off-camera.”
“What about all this racket going on?”
“Oh, he’ll be able to mix that in and out. First thing he did today was record room tone-you know, ambient noise? And everybody at those slot machines, in view of the camera, is either a crew member or an extra we hired out of Las Vegas. We have to maintain continuity.”
“Can’t have different people in the background, you mean? Disappearing and appearing.”
“Right. You catch on fast, Mr. Reynolds.”
“I always liked movies, but never imagined this was how they were made.”
“Well, we’re pretty down-and-dirty. Guerilla Filmmaking 101. But it’s not terribly different than what you’d see on a big Hollywood film.”
Before they started another take, I smiled and nodded at Ginger, then moved through the masses to the bar, where not so long ago I had sat in a booth with Jerry and caught up on old times. As irony would have it-or just because it was the most secluded of the booths-that was where producer James Kaufmann and Louis Licata were seated.
Halfway over to them, I hesitated, because they were deep in conversation, and a bunch of paperwork was on the booth’s tabletop. But Kaufmann spotted me and called, “Reynolds! Come over here.”
I did so, standing there like a waiter about to take an order.
Kaufmann, in his pink polo and puka shells again, said, “Lou, this is Jack Reynolds-the guy I told you about, who Art hired for publicity. Jack, Mr. Licata.”
“Mr. Licata,” I said, with a nod, extending my hand.
Louis Licata was small, about the size of Eric Conrad, maybe forty, with a head full of black curly hair and a California tan, real not bottle. Even before the sun had got hold of him, he’d been darkly handsome, too handsome to play a mobster in a movie, though his heavy black eyebrows and matching mustache were a bit much-if he hadn’t started out looking like Valentino, the effect would have been Groucho Marx.
“Glad to meet you, Jack,” Licata said in a smooth baritone, meeting my hand with his, flashing a charming, blindingly white smile that made good use of the kind of expensive caps actors go in for.
“Thank you, Mr. Licata.”
And he looked more like an actor than a producer. He was in a lightweight white sport jacket and a black t- shirt and one gold chain. Fairly elegant when a lot of his breed still dressed like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. He gestured with a hand whose only ring was a wedding one.
“Make it Lou. We’re among friends…Join us.”
Kaufmann slid over to make room. He was all smiles, upbeat; if he still harbored any doubts about me, they didn’t show. “Jack did preliminary interviews with Tiffany and Eric yesterday.”
Licata nodded, the startling white smile in the dark, darkly mustached face tilting like an art deco moon slice. “So I hear. We have a couple of very talented lead actors, Jack, don’t you think?”
“They’re terrific. Charismatic.”
That pleased him. “I insisted on both of them for this production. Miss Goodwin is a kind of…protйgйe of mine, and I had money in Eric’s TV show. He’s a great talent. All man, that boy.”
I managed neither to laugh nor comment. I did glance at Kaufmann, whose smile seemed even more forced.
Licata said, “I’ve been going over money matters with Jim here, and everything is going swell. We’re right on schedule, and a shade under budget.”
“You’ve got a real pro in Art Stockwell,” Kaufmann said.
“Of course, you’re prejudiced, Jim.” Licata’s eyes narrowed but he was still smiling. “Tight as you two are.”
“Well, I wasn’t blowing smoke, Lou. I leave that to the PR types like Jack here. But if Artie and me weren’t friends since jump street, I wouldn’t even be in the movie game.”
This seemed to surprise Licata. “You mean, you weren’t in the movie business before you and Art teamed up?”
“No, sir. He rescued me from insurance in Denver. When he moved into independent production a few years go, he gave his old buddy a call. Hell, I knew nothing about this trade before then. Talk about your crash course.”
Licata was nodding. “Just how far back is ‘jump street?’ ”
“High school. Best man at his wedding. That far.”
The mobster seemed vaguely amused. “Business spoils a lot of friendships, Jim.”
“Not Artie and me.”
Now Licata’s dark gaze shifted my way. “Jack, there’s a good story in that, don’t you think? Human interest?”
