Fool Me Twice

Traffic was disrupted. Cars were frequently held up during the shooting, forced to wait endlessly until a shot was completed and the traffic could then be released. In some instances, entire streets involved in the filming were closed. Nobody knew what might be in store for them each time they turned a corner.

In the evenings, movie people swarmed the town restaurants, often preempting the locals. They invaded the taverns and the bars, frequently disturbing the quiet of a neighborhood with their loud and boisterous behavior.

Carter Hansen couldn’t have been happier, however. His days had new purpose. He circulated through town, preening, puffing himself up, introducing himself to the movie people as the head selectman. He was overjoyed by the money that the movie personnel poured into the Paradise cash registers.

Jesse had appointed Suitcase Simpson to serve as the liaison between the movie company and the police department.

“I’ve never been a liaison before,” Suitcase said to Jesse as they ate breakfast at Daisy’s. Suitcase was working on an oversized breakfast burrito. Jesse was halfway through a cheese Danish. A pot of coffee stood in front of them.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Jesse said.

“These movie people are very demanding.”

“Stand tall.”

“Don’t trivialize this, Jesse. I’m already weathering a shit storm.”

“Then you’re gonna want to be wearing boots.”

“That’s not very supportive.”

“Nonsense. I have every confidence in you.”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“You’ll learn as you go.”

“I wish I was as sure of that as you are.”

“Let me share a bit of movie lore with you,” Jesse said, as he leaned closer to Suitcase and lowered his voice.

“There was once a great Hollywood producer called Joseph E. Levine. He made The Graduate. The story goes that his assessment of the movie business was, ‘If it were so difficult, those that do, couldn’t.’ Keep that in mind, Suit. You won’t be dealing with brain surgeons here.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“I used to live in L.A.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that however many movie meetings you may be forced to attend, more than likely you’ll be the smartest person in the room.”

—

Jesse and Frankie were in the taproom at The Gray Gull, away from the din of the crowded dining room. Strings of glimmering mini-lights that were hung above the bar cast a glow that bounced off the oversized mirror behind it, enhancing the room’s muted lighting. The faint tinkling of a piano could be heard in the background.

Frankie was picking at her crab cakes and sipping a California Cabernet. Jesse sliced into his medium-rare porterhouse, his second Carlsberg lager at his elbow.

“So you know more than you let on,” she said.

“Can’t be avoided when you’re a cop in L.A.,” Jesse said.

“Did you ever actually work on a movie?”

“I worked homicide.”

“So you were spared?”

“I was.”

“And now you’re a chief.”

“Yes.”

“With a great many important things to do.”

“Not really. Mostly I write parking tickets.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

She took a sip of her wine.

“How does someone become a line producer,” Jesse said.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“You seriously want to know?”

“I do.”

She looked at him skeptically.

“Okay,” she said. “Just remember, you asked. I studied to be an accountant, like my dad. After graduation, he helped me get a job at Warner Brothers. My job was to track the daily information flow as it came in from the various movie sets, synthesize it, and then report it to the head of finance. My boss took a liking to me, and before long he upped me to the job of production accountant. I had to be on the set in order to keep careful track of how the money was being spent and then report it to the studio. Is this in the least bit interesting?”

“It is to me.”

“Okay. Sorry. Accountants are generally considered to be notoriously dull.”

Jesse smiled.

“It was important that I be privy to how every penny was being spent and why, because accuracy in reporting that information to the studio was critical. Over time, I worked closely with several of the studio’s best line producers, and as a result, learned their job. I was in New Zealand with a small feature when midway through the shoot, the line producer suffered a heart attack. My boss back in Hollywood suggested that I step into the job. After all, I was on the scene and was an integral part of the process. I knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. It made sense. Plus, it was a chance to elevate myself. So I held my nose and jumped.”

“How did it go?”

“I threw up several times each day, but I managed to finish the picture. I’ve been line producing ever since.”

“I like a story with a happy ending.”

“Let’s wait until this one’s in the can before we talk about happy endings. I still have Marisol Hinton in front of me.”

“Meaning?”

“I worked with her once before.”

“And you didn’t like her?”

“It wasn’t a question of liking her. Marisol is permanently tuned to the Marisol channel. All Marisol, all the time. Twenty-four-seven. No one else exists. Nothing else matters.”

“So why are you working with her again?”

“She requested me.”

“So she must have liked you.”

“She and her husband both liked me. She didn’t perceive me as a threat, so I passed muster.”

“Her husband?”

“A small-time actor named Ryan Rooney. You ever hear of him?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Ryan Rooney was in Tomorrow We Love with her. They had the kind of torrid affair that she usually reserved only for members of the crew. Why, I don’t know. He’s as self-involved as she is. It beats me why they got married in the first place. She’s highly competitive. I can’t imagine her being helpful to him. Or to anyone, for that matter. It’s been all downhill for him ever since.”

“Is he in this movie?”

“God, no. Rumor is she accepted the part so she could get away from him. I read somewhere he had taken to smacking her around.”

“Hooray for Hollywood,” Jesse said.

After dinner, they walked the boardwalk to Frankie’s rented waterfront apartment. The warmth of the day