Anatomy of a Crossword (20 page)

Belle looked at Rosco, and said, “Gosh, I feel so much better after all that. What a darling man.”

Rosco laughed. “Shall we go back to the set and enjoy the day's shoot?”

“Why not? That's an interesting choice of words:
shoot
, especially since they're
shooting
the death scene today …” She stood, shaking her head as she glanced at the desk and chair Lew Groslir had just vacated. “Did I tell you they changed the script? I guess it was in Chick's final rewrites … Anyway, now Dan Millray's character, ‘Edison,' is shot rather than suffocated with a pillow as things actually occurred back in Vermont.”

Rosco raised an eyebrow. “Why would they change the real story?” he asked as the couple left Groslir's office and strolled toward the stairway.

“Dean explained it as ‘shock value.' Blood sells better than a plain old blue face. ‘Nothing like a quick bullet to the chest to wake folks up,' according to our director.”

“But in the true incidence, we had the big 'cause of death' question … There was the issue of a potential poisoning with the recipe in the crossword, as well the brief possibility that the dead man had simply succumbed from natural causes.”

“I guess
subtle
isn't what Dean is shooting for—”

“So to speak.”

As Belle and Rosco disappeared into the stairwell, the key grip, Don Schruko, was huddled with the special effects coordinator, Bubba Screter, at a worktable outside the makeup room. Beside the table stood a clothing rack holding five identical pairs of pajamas. Each was blue silk paisley, and each had a small hole, the size of a dime, cut into the left breast pocket.

On the table in front of the two men sat five thin plastic packets filled with crimson “stage” blood.

“This shouldn't take me more than another ten minutes,” the special effects coordinator said as he began rigging the blood packs with explosive charges that had been outfitted with tiny radio receivers. “All I need to do is focus the blood splatter so that it'll fly straight out of the breast pocket hole, then Velcro the packets into the pajamas and spot-paste these paisley dots back over the openings.” He chortled. “Dean better be able to get this shot in five takes, because after that, we're out of clean pj's.”

Schruko also laughed. “If this director can't kill Dan Millray in five takes, we'll have to get out the real bullets.” He picked up one of the packets and examined the explosive charge. “What about blow-back, Bubba? If this thing fires inward, instead of out, our actor's going to have a nice little hole in his chest.”

Bubba Screter took the packet from Schruko. “Sorry, buddy, nobody handles these but me. I don't want any screw-ups on my watch. To answer to your question, each blood pack will be backed with a sheet of aluminum, and I'll also be taping a Kevlar shield across Dan's chest under his pajamas. It'd never stop a real bullet, but your actor's got nothing to worry about.”

“Sounds good to me. I'll be on the set. Let me know when you're ready for our ‘dead man.'”

“Ten minutes, max.”

Schruko returned to the set where he found Dean Ivald and Dan Millray discussing the murder scene. The stage had been dressed to resemble a third floor guest room in a Vermont country inn. The wall and “ceiling” adjacent to the dormer windows sloped inward, as if beneath the building's eaves, while the “view” of the “snowy fields” was lit with a bluish light intended to resemble deepest night in a secluded place. Lace curtains hung beside the glass panes. The lace motif was repeated in the canopy of the “antique” pine bed, a bureau scarf, and square doilies resting on the two night stands. Seating for this cozy “guest room” consisted of recessed window benches and a Queen Anne—style wing chair, while the backdrop walls were adorned with a subdued rose print paper. The only jarring element to this tranquil scene was a .38 caliber revolver. It sat on a prop table to the left of the set.

Schruko approached the director as the lighting designer walked across the elevated catwalk, making her final adjustments to the fixtures clamped onto the grid.

“Mr. Schruko, are we ready to shoot this sucker yet?” Ivald asked.

“Just waiting for the go-ahead from Bubba. Less than ten minutes.” Schruko looked at Millray. “He's going to need to tape you, Dan, and suit you up. Bubba's over by makeup. If you're ready, maybe you should be in with him.”

The actor ambled toward makeup, and Dean Ivald turned his attention to the principal camera where the cinematographer was in the midst of attaching a white tape measure to the lens in order to gauge the distance between the bed and film plane. Behind the camera, most of the cast and crew had arrived to watch the scene: Quinton Hanny, Ginger Bradmin, Shay Henlee, Carol Von Deney, Louis Gable, Miso Lane, Andy Hofren, Madeline Richter, and Jes Nadema were all there. Sara, Belle, and Rosco had joined them. Even Nils Spemick, the casting director, recently returned from San Francisco, had put in an appearance.

“Ahh,” Dean said with a broad smile, “nothing like a bloody good murder to bring out the flock … Well, everyone get nice and comfy, and keep the chat down to a minimum, even though I'll be shooting this M.O.S.”

Belle leaned toward Rosco and whispered, “M.O.S.?”

He shrugged. “Beats me?”

Shay Henlee, who was standing directly behind them, supplied the answer. “M.O.S. stands for without sound. Since no one has speaking lines, Dean will simply shoot the scene, and lay in the gunshot and ambient noises later.”

“Not to appear overly dense, but shouldn't it be W.O.S. then?” Rosco asked.

“Legend has it that the term originated with a German director who continually pronounced the order
mit out sound
… so M.O.S. stuck in the business.”

“If Dean's filming without sound,” Belle wondered aloud, “why is he bothering to put blanks in the gun?”

“I imagine it's so that flame and smoke is seen coming out of the barrel, but I'm not sure.”

“Okay people,” Ivald shouted, “just because this is going to be M.O.S. doesn't mean we won't be firing the murder weapon, so plug your ears if you must. And no screaming, my nerves can't take it … Can I get Andy Hofren up here please?”

“Andy Hofren plays the killer,” Belle whispered to Rosco.

“I can see why he needs to shoot Dan Millray instead of smothering him,” Rosco observed with a chuckle. “He's half the guy's size. If Andy had to wrestle Millray with a pillow—as it really happened—it wouldn't be an easy task.”

Dean Ivald and Andy Hofren moved to the prop table where the director picked up the .38 and handed it to the actor. “Ever fired a single action revolver before?”

“Oddly enough, no,” Andy replied as he rolled the gun in his hands. “On my last film, we used Uzis and AK-47s. Before that, it was semiautomatics—Glocks mostly. On
New York Nightmare
, I carried a Beretta, but a few actors had .357s and 9mms. I shot a Tommy gun once. On
Death By a Mile
, it was a sniper's rifle, of course—a 30-06, a real beaut. And on
Range Wars
, because it was a Western, we had 30-30s and cap and ball .36s. Naturally, we were given M16s on—”

“Thanks, Andy,” Dean interrupted as he retrieved the gun. “Now, you're not actually
in
this shot. Only your arm appears, and you'll be in the same shirt you're wearing when the cops nab you … All I want our audience to see is your hand coming into the frame with the pistol. It'll be a nice, tight shot. Quick. Clean … You'll have the .38 about seven feet from Dan's chest; on my cue, you'll fire. One shot only. Bubba Screter will be on the remote control and blow up the blood pack inside the pajamas at the same moment … You'll be firing blanks, of course, but I want to catch the flame as it emerges from the barrel. That, mixed with the flying blood, should give us a super visual.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“We have five pairs of pajamas rigged, so I'll roll film, then let Schruko get things cleaned up after each shot, and then we'll go again.”

“We'll be doing all five takes?”

“Absolutely. I love this stuff … What's your preference, left or right?”

“I voted for Bush … both of them, actually.”

Dean Ivald stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then shook his head slowly. “No, no, are you left-handed or right-handed?”

“Oh. Right-handed.”

“Good. Because I want the gun to come in on the left side of my frame, then fire, creating the illusion of the bullet traveling from left to right. The action should follow the same direction as the eye does when reading a book.”

“No
problemo
. I like the literary reference, by the way.”

Dean returned the gun to the prop table. “Also, make certain you're pointing directly at Millray's heart. He'll be wearing protection over his chest, but nowhere else. These blanks shoot a mean paper wad out the barrel, and I don't want to see him get hit in the eye with the damn thing. We've had enough problems already. And I also want that gun-barrel-to-heart angle perfect.”

“The kill shot, right?” Andy said with a laugh.

Dean sighed. “Right, Andy.” Then the director stepped back onto the set, and gazed up at the catwalk. “Can we start that snow falling outside the windows? And give me a full moon, too. I want to get a peek at it through the camera lens.”

A voice from nowhere said, “Check,” and Dean walked over to Belle and Rosco and said, with a fair amount of pride, “Well, folks, how's it looking?”

Belle replied, “Just like the real place.”

“Miso and his Polaroid—the man's a genius. Well, you two are in for a real treat. Have you ever seen someone getting shot before?”

“A couple of times,” was Rosco's quiet response. “When I was with the Newcastle Police Department. It's never a pretty sight. You don't realize how powerful a gun is until you see someone's flesh being ripped apart by a bullet. That's one reason I tend not to carry a gun. I prefer to see things done with minimal bloodshed.”

Dean's jaw dropped open, and he remained speechless for a long moment. Finally he said, “No. No. I'm talking about the movies here, Rosco. Have you ever seen how we shoot someone on film? Not … not in real life.”

“Nope, I never have.”

The director sighed and shook his head again, then returned his concentration to the set. “What do you think of that snow? Makes you cold just looking at it, doesn't it?”

“I was going to ask about that,” Belle said. “If you have a full moon, how can it be snowing?”

Ivald studied the scene. “Well, we have to light the ‘exterior' somehow, otherwise we get black windows, glare from the stage lights …” He continued to gaze at the windows, then said, “No, I like it. I like the snow with the blue light. I like a full moon. I like the way it highlights each one of the snow flakes. We keep it. It works for me. You know what I call it?”

“No.”

“Artistic license.”

CHAPTER 24

Bubba Screter pulled what looked like a small portion of a flexible gladiator's breastplate out from under his special effects worktable and bent it around Dan Millray's exposed chest.

“Looks good,” he said. “If you can hold it there, Dan, I'll tape it in place.”

“Kevlar, huh? Is this the stuff the cops wear? Kind of thin, isn't it?”

“Oh, yeah, the cops' stuff is much thicker. This piece here will only protect you from possible blow-back from the blood pack and the paper wad from the blanks. It'd never stop a real bullet. Not a .38, that's for damn sure.”

Bubba took a wide roll of white athletic tape and began securing the Kevlar to the actor's chest.

Dan laughed. “I haven't seen tape like that since I was a linebacker at Northwestern. Does it come off any easier nowadays, or does it still rip all the hair from your body?”

“It's no different. Do you want to shave your chest first?”

Dan rolled his eyes and groaned. “Thanks, Bubba, I'll take my chances.”

After the Kevlar was fastened, Dan slipped into a pair of the silk pajamas. Bubba checked the positioning of his handiwork against the Kevlar. He double-checked the aluminum safety plate and the angle of the radio receiver's small antenna. When he was happy that everything looked perfect, he buttoned up the pajamas. “Okay, buddy-boy,” he said, “time to meet the Grim Reaper.”

The two men made a quick stop at the prop table, then stepped onto the set and checked in with Dean Ivald, as Bubba's assistant followed close behind with the clothes rack and the four remaining pairs of pajamas. Bubba carried the remote control box he would use to ignite the five blood packs; each charge was tuned to a different frequency.

The set had been transformed slightly to give it a “slept in” look. A pair of tweed trousers, rumpled shirt, bow tie, braces, shoes, socks, and a camel-hair sports jacket had been scattered across the floor. The quilt on the canopy bed had been pulled back and jumbled up to make it appear as if Dan had been sleeping restlessly. One of the pillows had also been tossed onto the floor and the alarm clock knocked over. Miso Lane was busy taking Polaroid photographs to make certain there was continuity between the five different takes.

“Okay, Danno,” Ivald said, “let's have you on the bed, shall we?”

Millray crossed over to the bed, reclined on his back, and made himself comfortable. Bubba Screter followed and rechecked his blood pack to be certain it hadn't shifted in position now that the actor was lying down. A makeup man approached, mussed up Dan's hair, and lacquered it in place with hair spray. Miso Lane materialized once again, and snapped a Polaroid of Dan's new sleep-heavy and rumpled appearance.

“Now, Dan,” Ivald continued, “remember that you drank far too much
vino
before going to bed. You left your wife stewing on the couch downstairs, and your sleep had been restless. We want to play up the poisoning subplot we established earlier in the film so that the audience is kept guessing as to how you'll be killed—right up to the moment Andy fires the gun.” The director turned toward the camera and lights. “All right, people, let's settle down, we're going to rehearse this once.” He turned back to Millray. “I may want to shoot this from more than one angle, Danno, so try to give me the same tossing and turning with each take, will you? It'll make life much more pleasant in the editing room.”