Beverly Hills Dead

17

Leo Goldman hit the ground running. Before sunset on his first day in Jackson Hole he had selected the smaller of two Airstream trailers, earmarking the larger one for Rick Barron. He had unpacked his clothes and his briefcase and moved into the trailer, which had a water and septic hookup and a gas bottle outside to run the stove. He had wandered the barracks, introducing himself to and ingratiating himself with everybody he ran into, cast and crew. By the time Rick arrived on location, everybody was accustomed to reporting to Leo.

Leo had anticipated every problem and had his fingers on every button. He had mapped the way to every location, and, if necessary, he could unhook his trailer from the utilities, hitch it to his Jeep and tow it anywhere the cameras went. Leo had learned the ropes, beginning in the mail room, during six years at Metro Goldwyn Mayer, the grandest of the studios, and he had absorbed both its organizational brilliance and its many excesses. He knew how to get a movie made, as long as he didn’t have to write, photograph or direct it, and he knew how to use the machinery of a studio to his own advantage.

Something else he had absorbed from his betters at Metro was an abiding hatred of Communists and anybody who sympathized with them, and he had been royally pissed off to see Sidney Brooks getting off the war-surplus bus at the Cooper ranch. Leo had joined a nascent organization that styled itself, rather grandly, the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals, known as MPA, an outfit that included Walt Disney, John Wayne, Cecil B. DeMille and a lot of other well-placed producers and actors in town whom Leo wanted to get to know under favorable circumstances.

Sidney Brooks, he knew, was going to be an early target of HUAC, and he, for one, hoped the bastard got gutted, along with all his fellow travelers. Leo had gone over the casting lists for Bitter Creek with a fine-toothed comb, looking for Reds, but, since so many of the cast were new to pictures, he had only found two suspects, and he had managed to squelch the employment of both of them without calling undue attention to himself.

He had also gone over Brooks’s script, searching for any trace of Communist propaganda that he could root out. Somewhat disappointingly, he had found nothing he could legitimately complain about, and he was smart enough to know that it was a damned fine script that would reflect well upon him as its executive in charge of production. He had learned, too, that Brooks had already been paid, so there was no way he could interfere with that.

Leo liked Eddie Harris, whom he considered to be almost as smart as he was, and he thought Rick Barron was okay, too, though he had not yet tested the political views of either man. He had heard that Eddie was going to Washington in support of those who had been subpoenaed, and he didn’t like that much, but there was no percentage in his challenging Eddie on that, or on much of anything else, either. After all, he worked for these two guys, even if he did have plans to change that some time in the future.

Leo was a Jew, and this was the first time he had worked for somebody who wasn’t Jewish, and at first that circumstance had made him uncertain of his judgment of Eddie and Rick. Soon, though, he discovered that, WASPy as they were, they were little different from their Jewish counterparts at other studios, and it impressed him that the brilliant Sol Weinman, who had founded Centurion, had hired them both. Also, he had never heard an anti-Semitic remark by anybody at Centurion, which was more than he could say for some other places around L.A.

Now, as he sat in his Airstream, surrounded by the paperwork that validated his talents as an organizer, he was nonplussed by only one thing: Glenna Gleason. What the hell was a movie star doing working as an associate producer, even if her husband was the director?

Leo’s experience of female movie stars was broad and deep; he had worked with Claudette Colbert, Norma Shearer, Rita Hay-worth, Bette Davis and, God help him, Joan Crawford, and not one of them would have ever allowed herself to be anybody’s associate anything, let alone producer.

At eight o’clock on the first full day of work, Glenna knocked on the door of Leo’s trailer.

“Yeah?” Leo shouted through the door.

“It’s Glenna Gleason,” she called back.

He opened the door and showed her in. “Hi, Glenna. Good to meet you. You ready to go to work?”

“I am,” she said. She was wearing jeans and a work shirt and sturdy boots.

“Siddown,” Leo said, pushing a chair toward her. “Here’s what I’m gonna do,” he said. “I’m putting you in charge of wardrobe and the secretarial pool, both of them important things on this picture. The secretaries may be more important than wardrobe, since that’s pretty much settled.”

“All right,” Glenna replied.

Leo noticed that without a star’s makeup and wardrobe she was suprisingly wholesome looking, in a shiksa sort of way. There was something a little odd about her face, as if she had been slugged a few times and had needed repairs, but, still, it was a good face. She was, what, twenty-five, twenty-six? Still had a career ahead of her, especially with her husband so well plugged into the studio. “Is there anything else that particularly interests you?”

“The animals,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind dealing with the wranglers and cowboys.”

Leo grinned. Fine with him, since he didn’t know shit about either horses or cowboys and was glad to have them off his back. “They’re all yours,” he said. “You go through the script and see when and where we’re going to need the livestock and the guys.”

“I’ve already done that,” Glenna said, holding up a copy of the script.

“Good girl!” She wasn’t stupid; that was the sort of thing he himself would have done in her position. “Anything else?”

“Can’t think of anything right now, but as we move along I might see someplace else where I think I can help.”

“Sing out,” Leo said, “and let me know if you need my help on anything.” He looked at his watch. “We’re on the first setup, out by the corral. Go on out there and tell the wardrobe lady she’s reporting to you, and the head wrangler, too.” He’d see how she could handle that.

“Thanks, Leo,” Glenna said, then left.

Leo had already planned how he was going to handle this: he was going to give her her head, and if she got into too much trouble, he’d hand her her head. He wouldn’t have to complain to Rick; he’d see it happen sooner than Leo would.

Leo went back to his papers.