“What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Richard Cassidy is one of your biggest campaign contributors. If you don’t recuse yourself, you’ll be creating one hell of an ethical dilemma for yourself.”
“You’re questioning my integrity?”
“Come off it, Aaron. Appoint Marty to stand in your stead and get the fuck out of the way.”
Silver didn’t say anything.
“And while you’re at it, take Judge Green with you.”
“You’re off your rocker, Jesse, you know that,” Silver said.
“Everyone knows you two are joined at the hip. She’s your go-to judge. Get her to recuse herself, too. Don’t stink this up, Aaron.”
“You are one piece of business coming in here and talking to me this way.”
“So you’ll do it?”
Silver was silent. He swiveled his chair around and stared out the window for a while.
Jesse glanced at Reagan, who briefly made eye contact with him before looking away.
“All right,” Silver said, his back still turned to Jesse.
“Wise choice,” Jesse said, standing.
“Get the fuck out of here, Jesse,” Silver said.
Jesse said nothing as he left.
—
So tomorrow you start shooting,” Jesse said. “Are you nervous?”
“Opening-night jitters,” Frankie said.
“What could go wrong?”
“Most likely nothing.”
“So what are you nervous about?”
“Comes with the territory.”
They were sitting on Jesse’s porch, having just eaten an extra-large meatball, garlic, and onion pizza, which they washed down with Sam Adams ale.
The sun was bouncing its last rays of the day off the restless waters of the bay. Crickets had begun to chirp their night songs. The fall air was brisk, absent humidity. It smelled of the sea and the encroaching chill of winter.
They were sitting together on Jesse’s love seat, separated only by Mildred Memory, who had insinuated herself between them.
“This is nice,” Frankie said. “Almost makes me forget why I’m here.”
“The reason you’re here is to overeat, suffer unspeakable bouts of lassitude, then recover in time to engage in super-human feats of gymnastic-style lovemaking.”
“I knew that.”
“What time tomorrow do you start?”
“First shot should be off by six-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
She looked up at him.
He looked at his watch.
“My God,” he said. “We’d better speed through this lassitude part.”
“If only there hadn’t been meatballs,” she said.
“It’s always something.”
She looked up at him. She inadvertently dislodged Mildred when she put her arms around Jesse’s neck and pulled him to her.
“This is great fun,” she said just before she kissed him.
32
The first day of shooting generally sets the tone for the entire movie.
Everyone on the set takes special note of how well the director interacts with the actors, the cinematographer, the crew, and the staff. The quality of that communication sends out signals as to whether or not the production will prove to be smooth sailing or rough going.
“If the fish stinks from the head,” Frankie said, “people will smell it almost immediately.”
Standing alongside Carter Hansen and a handful of other local dignitaries who were also watching the proceedings, Jesse realized anew how tedious the process of filmmaking actually was.
Frankie had described what was taking place as a tracking shot. The camera was mounted on a wheeled dolly that was pulled rapidly backward along a specially constructed section of what resembled train track. The moving dolly would precede the action, allowing the camera to photograph the scene from in front of it, all the while moving rapidly apace with it.
They were rehearsing the first scene. A young camera assistant stood beside the dolly mount and placed the clapper board directly in front of the camera. It displayed the title of the film, the name of the director, the scene number, and the time of day.
“
“Action,” called the director.
Marisol burst through the front door of a large office building, then stopped. She looked around. She reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone. She looked at it, then she looked up. A thought registered in her eyes. She walked hurriedly toward a car that was parked in front of the building. When she reached it, she opened the driver’s-side door and got in.
The director yelled, “Cut.”
“That’s a cut,” the assistant director called out. “Reset. Everyone back to first positions.”
People returned to their original places and prepared for another take.
While this was going on, Jesse spotted Crow approaching Marisol, accompanied by a little girl, who looked to be about seven or eight, and an older woman, most likely the girl’s mother.
He watched as Crow introduced the girl to Marisol, who stood beside her while the mother photographed the two of them together. The child, all smiles, shook hands with Marisol, then she and her mother hurried away.
After a few moments, Jesse saw Marisol turn to Crow in a rage. Everyone present could hear what she was saying.
“How dare you bring strangers to me when I’m acting,” Marisol said to him. “You ruined the shot.”
“The child played hooky in order to see you,” Crow said.
“She destroyed my concentration.”
“Well, if it makes any difference, you have a fan for life.”
“Tell her to get in line.”
Marisol stormed away in the direction of her motor home.
She turned back to Crow.
“That was truly stupid,” she said. “Never again. Don’t ever interrupt me like that again. You hear me?”
Crow didn’t say anything.
“Do you understand?”
He nodded.
She stepped inside the motor home and slammed the door behind her.
Everyone on the set pretended that what they had just witnessed hadn’t occurred. They turned their attention elsewhere and went on with their work.
Frankie Greenberg made her way toward Marisol’s trailer, stopping only to have a word with Crow.
“I’m sorry,” she said to him. “First day is always the toughest. Can you forgive her?”
He grunted.
“Please,” Frankie said. “I promise to make it up to you.”
