“Jakob, admit to me that you don’t have a clue,” Felix says, goading his cousin, aching for him to reject tonight’s errand. “You’ve never done this before.”
Jakob mocks himself and says, “I’ve seen movies.”
“You and your goddamn movies,” Felix yells and grabs his cousin’s arm, jerking them both to a stop. He spits on the ground, stares at the Roaches as they go rigid and look to their feet.
“This isn’t some movie, you little putz. You’re going to have to draw some blood tonight. Look at you. You brought your goddamn movie camera. What the hell are you thinking, Jakob? What is wrong with you? Your father is offering you everything. A year from now we could be ready to knock over the Iguarans. What is your goddamn problem?”
Jakob stays silent for a second, staring at Felix’s face, then he starts to nod, and, without any trace of anger or humor, says, “You would make a tremendous character actor, Felix. Honestly. The loose cannon. The simmering pot. The audience watches, knowing from the start he’ll explode. The cog the script could always pivot on. You know the type I mean? A James Caan, perhaps. If Caan were born in Maisel. And dressed badly.”
Vera can’t help but laugh, a throaty squeal that erupts and vanishes in a single breath. And though Felix doesn’t turn around to glare at her, Huck knows she’s made a terrible mistake. Because though what Jakob has said is funny, it’s also true. And at some later point, when this tiny incident has been forgotten by all, Felix’s button will get pushed. And then he’ll decide to act on Vera’s disrespect.
Felix stares at Jakob and says,” Do you want me to hold your camera?”
Jakob smiles and says, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
They walk a final block to their destination. Felix motions Bidlo and Krofta around to the rear of the storefront. Huck and Vera separate and move to opposite corners of the street to watch for the unlikely arrival of any independent muscle. Jakob takes a moment to focus the Seitz on the gorgeous neon marquee hanging out above the sidewalk:
Citizen Jane’s Underground Videos
The Best in Noir Entertainment
Tonight’s Discount: “Gun Crazy” (1950)
Then he moves his focus to the door of the shop, which has been entirely papered with hand-out flyers asking for any information concerning the disappearance of the little girl named Jenny Ellis.
Felix taps him on the shoulder.
“The owner is ‘Sweet Jane’ Firbank. He’s a real head case. Dresses in the women’s clothing. He’s a month late in collections. Papa said he clears his account tonight or we let the Roaches loose. You understand that, Jakob? You think you can follow this?”
“Felix,” Jakob says, “there’s a point you honestly shouldn’t push me past. You don’t know me anymore.”
“I know all about you, Jakob. You wouldn’t know real life if it bit into your skinny little ass.”
Jakob rests the Seitz back on his shoulder, then slowly, gently, he touches his cousin’s face, brushes a thumb against Felix’s cheek as if dusting something away.
“Maybe,” Jakob says, “you’re more Elisha Cook Jr. Especially around the eyes.”
He turns and enters the video store, leaving a confused Felix saying, “Who are you calling Junior?”
Jakob stands inside and lets himself be shocked by the detail and imagination that’s gone into the store’s decor. The small rental shop perfectly mimics its product. It’s as if the best noir set designers of the forties had gathered and pooled their talents to make a shrine to their chosen genre. The lighting is stolen straight from German Expressionism — artificial, harsh, and capable of throwing monstrous shadows. There’s a row of metal, conical fluorescents suspended from the ceiling, perfect interrogation beams, looking like they’d been stolen from the most brutal police sweatbox in history. Like they came with a gross of rubber hoses. The fat Venetian blinds hung in front of the windows are somehow backlit, so that even at night they toss a grid of sliced illumination across any inhabitant’s face. The black cast-iron shelving that serves as display racks for the videos gives the feel of prison-issue furniture. The floor is a cold, urban red-brick. There are neon signs, electric blue-white numbers, mounted and glowing at the top of each display case to show the films are grouped chronologically. Jakob walks to the first shelf and picks up the display box for the 1927 release Underworld. He closes his eyes and tests himself — directed by von Sternberg, lensed by Bert Glennon — opens his eyes and looks on the back of the video box to prove himself right. He walks to the opposite wall and picks up the most recent release in the store, Castle Oswald, but before he can close his eyes, a voice sounds.
“Trust me, darling. You don’t want that self-indulgent pap.”
He turns to the sales counter, where a huge man dressed in elaborate drag is leaning on the cash register staring out at him.
“All style and no story. Rain and smoke and urban squalor. Just gorgeous. But what about character? What about conflict?”
The guy has to be close to six six, with sunken eyes and a yellow complexion that he’s rouged up. He’s got on a blond, wavy wig with bangs in the front, red lipstick, a pair of old sunglasses. He’s wearing white silk lounging pajamas with flounced sleeves and a pair of classic, kitschy mules on his feet.
He comes out from behind the counter and approaches Jakob, saying, “You’re new.”
“I just found out about this place.”
He puts his hands on his hips, looks Jakob up and down and says, “Are you passionate or just a dabbler?”
Jakob stares at him.
“About the genre, honey. About the medium.”
“Oh, of course. I’m passionate. I’m a real zealot.”
“That’s what they all say. Let’s try you out,” and he begins to turn in a circle, saying, “Who am I tonight?”
Jakob watches this private fashion show and cringes a little at the thought of Felix and the Roaches walking in. The drag queen comes to a stop and raises his eyebrows.
Jakob starts to shake his head and the guy gives a disappointed sigh and says, “I’m Phyllis Dietrichson, for God’s sake.”
The name clicks.
“Of course,” Jakob says, “you got it. You have really nailed it. Barbara Stanwyck.”
The original noir woman.”
“Double Indemnity,” Jakob says, trying to redeem himself, “Nineteen Forty-four.”
“Directed by?”
“Billy Wilder.”
“Produced by?”
“Joseph Sistrom.”
Phyllis/Barbara leans forward and crosses his arms over his chest, lowers his voice and says, “Art Director?”
Jakob takes a breath, lets a smug grin come over his face and says, “Hal Pereira.”
The man is delighted, grabs Jakob’s hand and starts to pump it, saying, “You pass. I’m Jane Firbank, the owner of Citizen Jane’s.”
“I’m Jakob,” dropping the last name.
“That,” Jane says, indicating the Seitz, “looks like a classic.”
Jakob hands it to him. “It’s an antique,” he says, “they didn’t make too many. If I told you who it originally belonged to, you wouldn’t believe me.”
Jane lets out a laugh-cum-growl.
“Take a look at me. I’ll believe almost anything.”