Final Cut (3 page)

"That's Vic Ritchey, Jim Addison's standin," Trish explained.

"What's his problem?" Joe asked.

Trish explained. "He wants to act, but all he ever does is stand under the hot lights like a statue. Then, when it's time to do the interesting stuff, he's gone. He always doubles for Jim, but he hates it."

"Sounds boring," Frank remarked.

"It's a living," replied Headcase.

"Come on, Joe, let's get the coffee," said Trish. "We have work to do."

They walked over to a food table, on which were a big coffee urn, trays full of doughnuts, rolls, tea bags, sugar, and plastic foam cups. "They go through hundreds of gallons of coffee a day," Trish commented as she got a cup. "And all the sodas and the tea and tons of doughnuts."

"Well, they must burn up lots of energy." Joe handed her a napkin.

"It is hard work, but I love it. I'd almost do it for free." Trish smiled, and Joe stepped back from the urn to give her room to pass. In stepping back, Joe bumped into something very large and solid.

A low voice growled, "Look where you're going, kid! You made me spill my coffee."

Joe turned around and found a squat, powerful man glaring at him. He was wearing a T-shirt, now coffee-stained, over a massive set of muscles. He stared up at Joe from under bushy brows.

Trish quickly said, "Joe Hardy, this is Sam Freed, one of our crew. Joe is a new pro - "

"This stuff is to drink, not to bathe in," rumbled Freed. "You got that straight?"

Joe felt his face getting red. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to - "

"You want to get out of my way so I can get another cup, kid? I'm asking you real nice."

"Come on, Joe," said Trish. "Let's go."

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Freed said with an ugly smile. "Be careful and don't trip over yourself or get stepped on or anything."

Joe was stung by the man's attitude.

"Hey, I said I was sorry. If that's not good enough for you, that's your problem."

Freed stepped closer to Joe until they were only inches apart. "Listen, punk," he said softly. "You better run along, right now, or you're gonna wake up with a bunch of footprints all over your face."

"Try it," Joe answered as he tensed his body for possible action. "You may not find it so easy."

Freed reached out a big hand and grabbed a handful of Joe's shirt.

Almost without thinking, Joe lashed out and broke Freed's hold on his shirt. He braced for the fight that he knew was coming.

A voice called out, "Hey, Freed! You going to take all day? Get back here!"

The big man stepped back and looked at Joe. "See you around - punk," he said softly.

Joe took a deep breath and relaxed. "That'll really make my day," he replied.

As the man walked away, Joe noticed Trish watching him with frightened eyes.

"Sorry," Joe said. "It won't happen again."

It wasn't till midafternoon that Joe had a chance to tell Frank about his run-in with Freed. They'd been on the move all morning - delivering messages, calling actors from their dressing rooms, and bringing food and drink to crew members who were too busy to leave the set. Now they were passing out coffee.

"Freed?" asked Frank. "That guy with muscles? I brought him a soda a while ago, and all he said was 'Thanks, kid.' He was nice enough."

"Well, take it from me," said Joe, "he was ready to punch me out right there."

"Well, you'd just made him spill hot coffee all over himself. Don't make too much of it."

Joe wasn't convinced. "I guess we'll see. You get any interesting information yet?"

Frank shrugged. "No time to make small talk with anyone. I've been kept running."

Joe said, "I enjoy investigations, but being a waiter is a drag."

"Come on, the camera crew wants coffee, too," a voice said from close by.

Jerry Morrall had just worked out a camera angle and chosen the lens for the next scene. Now he was sitting in his chair, watching his assistants make the necessary adjustments. Frank handed him a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Frank. So, how do you like show business so far?" asked the director of photography.

"Oh, it's okay. Interesting people."

Morrall chuckled. "Interesting, huh? I like your choice of words. Yes, they're interesting, all right."

Before Frank could ask Morrall what he meant, Joe came up and asked, "Who's the big guy sitting against the wall over there? He hasn't moved all day." Joe pointed to a large, round man who sat with his chair tilted against the wall, wearing a cowboy hat down over his eyes.

"Oh, that's Alvin," said Morrall. "He's the unit's driver. But his real specialty is sitting. You'll never find a better sitter than Alvin. He can sit there for hours on end."

"Does he ever do any driving?" Joe asked.

"Sure, now and then," said Morrall. "But not while we're shooting here."

"Did you know that guy who got killed, the writer?" asked Frank.

"Fairburn? Sure, I knew him." Morrall looked at Frank suspiciously. "Why?"

"Oh, no special reason," Frank said quickly. "Just curious. Somebody must have had it in for him, I guess," he added, trying to lead the conversation.

Morrall leaned back with his coffee. Frank could almost see him struggle with his love of gossip and his fear of talking too much. Soon, though, the urge to gossip won out.

"Well, guys, just between us, there were a few people here who weren't sad to see the last of Bennett Fairburn. Take Mel Clifford."

"The one who runs the studio?" Joe said.

"Uh - huh." Morrall nodded, leaned forward again, and lowered his voice. "He used to be a hotshot Hollywood movie producer once upon a time. Then he got himself into a mess. Seems he wrote a few checks and signed somebody else's name. The guy who blew the whistle on him was Fairburn. That was the end of Mel in the movies, and he figured it was Fairburn's fault that he works in TV now. So when they ran into each other here, well - "

"Jerry!" called one of his assistants. "We're ready to shoot."

"Okay," Morrall said, rising from his chair. "Hector, anytime now."

"Let's lose the standins," Ellerby ordered. "Bring in the A team! Ready, Mr. Kandinsky!"

The standins left, and the actors came in. The set was the office of the private eye and hero, played by tall, handsome Preston Lawrence. Monica Malone, a beautiful brunette actress, played his girlfriend. Lawrence was made up to have a bruised and swollen eye, and a bloody bandage was pasted on his forehead.

"His bandage needs blood," said Kandinsky.

"Makeup!" shouted Ellerby. "More blood on Mr. Lawrence's bandage!"

A man ran in and carefully applied some fake blood from a bottle with a Q-tip.

"Okay, now let's rehearse it once. Something the matter, Monica?" said the director. Monica Malone was pouting angrily.

"Ivan, I told you and told you, if the camera's here and I'm there on camera right, you get my bad side. Why can't I be by the desk, and Preston over there where I've been standing?"

Now Preston Lawrence looked mad. "Oh, come on, Monica! If we switch places, then no one can see my black eye and bandage! I got beat up in the last scene, remember?"

Watching this exchange, Frank poked Joe with an elbow and winked. Joe stifled a laugh.

"Now, now, let's be pals," urged Kandinsky, jumping between his actors. "Monica darling, we have to do it this way, dear, or it won't match up with the other shots, you understand? But then we'll turn the camera around and shoot your close-ups with your good profile - not that you don't look gorgeous from both sides, dear - and it'll be fine. Trust me on this, okay?"

"Well - oh, all right," the actress said, giving Lawrence one last dirty look.

"Fantastic!" exclaimed Kandinsky, walking back to his chair and wiping his face with a handkerchief.

"Give me a break!" Joe whispered to Frank.

Frank nodded. "I wish Callie could see this."

With the crisis solved, the master, or the full scene, was quickly shot. Then the crew got ready for the close-ups, which meant turning the camera around, changing some lights, and moving furniture. The actors, who had seemed to be very much in love only seconds before, walked away from each other without a word. The "B team" - the standins - took over.

Just then Mel Clifford came bustling onto the set and called out, "Jerry! Over here!" With Clifford was a tall, very thin man in a dark suit. Morrall joined them and the three moved away to talk in private. Frank and Joe, watching curiously, noticed that Morrall looked worried. The tall, skinny man left then, almost running.

Headcase called over to the Hardys, "Guys, come over here a sec, will you?"

They went over to the sound man's equipment. "Just stand there and sort of block me from everyone," he said. "Great, stay right there." Frank and Joe were in front of Headcase, and out of the corner of his eye Joe saw him take out a long microphone set in a plastic reflector, like a small dish antenna, and aim it at the secret powwow.

"Headcase, what is that thing? What are you doing?" asked Joe.

"Don't look at me," Headcase whispered back. "This is a shotgun mike with a parabolic reflector. It'll pick up a whisper fifty feet away if it's aimed right - Ah, got it!"

Frank was amazed. "You mean you're listening in on - "

Shhh! Not now, Frank, I'm concentrating. Well, look who's here!" Headcase said.

The thin man had returned, bringing J. F. Graham with him.

After a few minutes of careful listening, Headcase announced to Frank and Joe, "We have a problem here. The film from yesterday's shooting went to a local lab for processing, and they've ruined it. That's a day's work blown - bad news on our schedule. They've decided to air-express all the film from now on to a lab in Los Angeles - at least until they know what went wrong here. Okay, guys, you can relax."

Frank stared at the long-haired sound man. "Do you listen in on private conversations often?"

Headcase looked offended. "Hey, what's the big deal? I mean, I'm not blackmailing people or anything! I just like to keep track of what's going on."

"What if you get caught?" asked Joe.

Headcase grinned. "So far I haven't been."

"But if you did?" persisted Joe.

Headcase shrugged. "With my skills, I'd have no trouble finding another line of work."

"What other kind of work?" Frank wondered.

"Oh, I'm pretty good at putting together all kinds of electronic goodies," said Headcase.

Joe shook his head. "Well, it's your business, I guess."

"Frank! Joe! Can we see you, please?"

Jerry Morrall was signaling them to join him, Mel Clifford, J. F. Graham, and the thin man.

"These are our new production assistants, gentlemen," Morrall said. "Frank and Joe Hardy. Boys, this is Mel Clifford, who runs Bayport Studios, and this is Mr. J. F. Graham, who recommended that you be given jobs here."

Graham smiled. "You're both interested in television production?"

"Yes, sir," Frank replied.

"Getting more interested every minute," said Joe.

"Splendid!" Graham said. He nodded to the thin man, who nodded back and left quietly. "I think these two young men are just the ones to help us with our problem."

"Us? How can we help?" Frank asked.

Jerry Morrall answered. "All the film we shoot today has to be rushed to the airport to be flown air-express to L.A. You guys know your way around here, right?"

Graham cleared his throat and said, 'I'd better be running along. Nice to meet you, boys." Then he was gone.

The brothers looked over at Alvin, still leaning back in his chair. "What about him?" Joe wanted to know. "Isn't this his kind of job?"

"Alvin?" Morrall said. "Oh, no, we have to keep him here in case one of the actors needs to be driven back to the hotel. Well, can you handle this? We'll send Trish along to look after the film itself."

Joe's face brightened. "It'll be a snap. Right, Frank?"

"Like he says," Frank agreed, "no problem."

The truck looked enormous, lumbering toward them like a modern-day dinosaur. Its air horn hooting angrily was almost drowned out by a scream from Trish behind. Frank struggled to stay cool as he wrestled with the wheel, the clutch, and the gearshift to edge as far as he could to the side of the road. A dense growth of trees left little maneuvering room there though.

The van was on the dirt shoulder, and tree branches whipped at the windows as it sped by. A heavy branch smashed the right side-view mirror just as the flatbed was on top of them, filling the windshield with its chrome grille.