“Congratulations, Eddie,” Rick said.
“You’ll all be welcome any time.”
“When do you close on the place?”
“Well, I’ve got to find legal and accounting representation in the state, then incorporate. I expect it will be about three months. The Coopers will stay on in the big house until their new one is finished. Suzanne and I probably won’t see the place again until next summer.”
“It ought to be a great investment,” Vance said.
Eddie grinned, “I think so, too. Not to mention the fun Suzanne will have decorating it.”
“I’ve got to start making lists,” Suzanne said.
That night after dinner the four men made themselves comfortable in Mac Cooper’s study.
“Eddie, Rick,” Sid Brooks said, “we had a meeting a couple of nights ago.”
“What sort of meeting?” Eddie asked.
“A strategy meeting. There were two lawyers from New York there, and we hired two West Coast attorneys. We’re going to make this a First Amendment issue. The idea is, if we have freedom of speech, we have the right not to speak, and if we have the right to choose our politics, we have the right not to talk about it.”
“I’m a lawyer,” Eddie said, “and I think that’s a novel approach.”
“You sound disapproving,” Sid said.
“If I were your lawyer, I’d advise you to take the Fifth, rather than depend on an untested legal strategy.”
“When you take the Fifth, everybody thinks you’re guilty of something, and we’re not guilty of anything. Anyway, we have a liberal Supreme Court right now, and if we lose in the hearings, we can appeal with the hope of success.”
“There are what, nineteen of you?”
“Forty-one were subpoenaed; nineteen of us are going to be unfriendly witnesses, as they’ve begun to call us. There’s also a group being formed called the Committee for the First Amendment, people who aren’t politically suspect, who are going to send a delegation to the hearings to morally support us.”
“I know,” Eddie said. “I’m a member, and I’ll be there.”
“I’d like to go, too,” Rick said.
“You’re going to be shooting a movie right here,” Eddie pointed out, “and anyway, I’m the public face of the studio, since Sol Weinman died. You leave this to me.”
“As you wish,” Rick said, but he was disappointed.
“Eddie’s right, Rick,” Sid said. “You’re better off keeping your head down; this could get messy. And I want to thank both of you for paying for my script up front. That gives me a financial cushion, and I may need it.”
“The least we could do,” Eddie said.
“I’m grateful for the trip up here,” Sid said. “Alice has been worried sick about all this, and, I have to admit, I have been, too. It’s good to get away from L.A. for a few days and breathe some fresh air without the press all over us. I haven’t been this relaxed for weeks.”
“Our pleasure,” Eddie replied.
Vance, who had said nothing until now, spoke up. “I guess I’m going to have to read the U.S. Constitution,” he said, “if I’m going to understand any of this.”
13
They landed at Santa Monica on Monday evening, their return flight longer than the trip out, because of the westerly winds. Everybody piled out of the airplane, and the linemen got their luggage unloaded and into the trunks of their respective cars.
On the way home, Rick felt very satisfied with their weekend. “We got a lot done,” he said to Glenna.
“You sure did, but nothing compared to Eddie.”
Rick laughed. “That was a surprise; I didn’t have a clue. I just knew he and Mac Cooper were spending a lot of time together.”
“When will you go back to start shooting?”
“A couple of weeks. Everything will be in place by then, and we’ll be trucking up equipment and crew in advance of that.”
“What do you want me to do while you’re gone?”
Rick looked at her, surprised. “Why, I want you and the girls to come with me. Didn’t you know?”
“Well, you didn’t mention it until now.”
“I’m sorry. I just assumed you’d think the same way. I think we’d enjoy the time together up there.”
“You’re going to be busy as hell, and I’m going to be spending a lot of time with Ellie Cooper, quilting or something.”
“Would you rather not go?”
“No, I want to go, but I want to be able to bail out if I get... whatever the reverse of cabin fever is.”
“Sure, you can go home any time you like.” He had a thought. “Listen, all your experience is in front of the camera; how’d you like to spend some time behind it?”
“What do you mean?”
“How would you like to be an associate producer?”
She thought about that. “You mean, order people around?”
“No, I mean we’d carve out some responsibility for you, and you’d be in charge, reporting to the producer.”
“And that would be you?”
“No, that would be Leo Goldman. He’s a bright new guy who’s seriously on the make, and I think you’ll like him.”
“And if I don’t like his decisions, can I appeal to you?”
“No. Leo would probably fire you.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” she said.
Vance Calder went back to his rooming house, cleaned out the last of his belongings and put them into the ’38 Ford convertible; he had already sold the Whizzer to the guy across the hall for sixty dollars. He gave his landlady a check, then drove to Centurion Studios, to his cottage/dressing room.
The place had a living room with a foldout sofa, dressing room, bath and kitchenette. It was snug, but it was a lot more room than he was accustomed to.
He put away the last of his things: three pairs of Levis, some work shirts, boots and underwear, and his one suit, two good shirts and one pair of good shoes. It wasn’t much of a wardrobe, but when he left New York he was so broke he couldn’t even afford a bus ticket. He took a commuter bus to a New Jersey station, then hitchhiked all the way across the country, carrying one suitcase and a backpack, along with a rolled-up sleeping bag. It took him twelve days, and he slept in barns, the backs of rolling trucks and in the woods. Along the way he gained a real appreciation of the size, diversity and wealth of this amazing country.
A short time ago he had been making two dollars an hour as an equipment operator. Now, all of a sudden, he had a place of his own, a car and a little over four thousand dollars; also an agent, a lawyer, a three-picture contract and, if he worked hard and played his cards right, a career. He sat down and wrote his parents a long letter, detailing everything that had happened to him over the past weeks and giving them the studio as a mailing address.
He unpacked half a bottle of good Scotch, poured himself a drink and got back into the Ford, taking the bottle with him. Slowly, he drove around the studio, taking it all in. He drove down the set streets: the New York brownstones, the downtown business street, the small-town set, with its village square and pond and, on the back lot, the western street. The studio police never stopped him because they knew the car.
On his way back to his cottage he noticed lights on in the motor pool, and he turned in and stopped. Hiram, who ran the place, slid out from under an elderly Rolls Royce and looked at him.
“Hey, Vance, what brings you around, car trouble?”
“No, Hiram. The car is just great. I was just driving around, looking at the place. You want a drink?” He held up the bottle.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Hiram said. He stood up, walked to his desk and found a coffee cup, watching as Vance half-filled it. “Down the hatch,” he said and took a swig. “Good stuff.”