Fool Me Twice

3

Jesse pulled his cruiser into the circular driveway of the Paradise Country Club and parked in front.

The red-brick clubhouse was one of the architectural grande dames of Paradise. Constructed in the 1920s, it was colonial in style, ostentatious in appearance, and currently exhibiting multiple signs of disrepair. The average age of the membership was sixty-plus, and rumor had it that enrollment was faltering.

He entered the clubhouse and headed toward the dining room at the back of the building, the floor-to-ceiling windows of which offered excellent views of the first tee of the Robert Trent Jones–designed golf course, as well as the Olympic-size swimming pool, which was currently being drained in anticipation of encroaching winter.

The room was nearly empty as Jesse crossed it and approached Carter Hansen’s table.

Seated with Hansen was selectman Morris Comden, as well as Frances “Frankie” Greenberg, the line producer of the upcoming feature motion picture A Taste of Arsenic, which was soon to start filming in Paradise.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jesse said as he sat down.

“We were beginning to give up hope,” Carter Hansen said.

Jesse smiled weakly.

“Ms. Greenberg was just explaining the intricacies of filmmaking,” Hansen said. “It all sounds very exciting.”

Frankie Greenberg was in her mid-thirties, sharply attractive and radiating confidence. She wore a midnight-blue Stella McCartney stretch-cotton bomber jacket, a diamond-print silk blouse, and a pair of slim-cut jeans and open-toed Jimmy Choo sandals. Her jet-black hair was cut boyishly short, in style with the current Hollywood trend. Her dark green eyes sparkled with intelligence.

“Actually,” she said, “it’s not all that exciting.”

“Why not,” Hansen said.

“Why isn’t it exciting?”

“Yes.”

“Line producing a movie is the equivalent of running a midsized company,” Frankie said.

Jesse took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair.

“For instance,” Frankie said, “I’m in charge of running the business of the movie here on location. Long hours. Lots of stress. The studio production manager watches me like a hawk. Exciting? Not exactly. It’s exciting for the executive wonks back in Hollywood, though. They get to shmooze up the creative team . . . the writers, the director, the department heads. They also get to do all of the casting.”

“And you,” Comden said.

“I get to hire the grunts.”

“The grunts,” Hansen said.

“Distant locations are frequently chosen because of the tax advantages they offer. Millions of dollars are often rebated back to the production company by cities and states eager to have their business. Like here. The only caveat is that the rebates are dependent on the movie hiring local workers.”

“The grunts,” Hansen said.

“Yes.”

“You mean the more locals you hire, the greater the cash rebates,” Comden said.

“Yes,” Frankie said.

“And you get to hire them,” Hansen said.

“And manage them, too. I also get to devise the shooting schedule and then supervise it. I monitor each day’s progress according to that schedule, and God help us if we fall behind.”

“How could you fall behind,” Hansen said.

“That’s exactly what the bigwigs in Hollywood ask.”

“And how do you answer them?”

“If we fall behind?”

“Yes.”

“I blame everything on the director.”

Jesse smiled.

“Actually, it’s all in the anticipation,” Frankie said. “It’s my job to know how we’re faring as each day progresses. If we fall even fifteen minutes behind schedule, I know it and I pounce.”

“On who?”

“On them all. Like a ton of bricks. I threaten them. I threaten to fire them. I’ve even been known to threaten their lives.”

“A nice girl like you,” Comden said.

“Nice is illusory,” she said.

“Meaning?”

“I’m lethal,” she said.

Jesse grinned.

They all sipped their coffee in silence.

“Who did you say was going to star in A Touch of Arsenic,” Comden said at last.

“Marisol Hinton,” Frankie said.

“She’s a wonderful actress,” Hansen said.

“Beautiful, too,” Comden said.

Frankie didn’t say anything.

“Most of your communication regarding Paradise will involve Chief Stone here,” Hansen said.

Frankie turned her attention to Jesse.

“Chief Stone,” she said.

“Jesse.”

“Nice to meet you, Jesse. I’m afraid we’re going to shoot up your town.”

“We promise not to shoot back,” he said.

“Chief Stone is known for his trenchant wit,” Hansen said.

“Then I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” Frankie said.

The breakfast wound down. The two selectmen finished their coffee and stood. After Comden shook Frankie’s hand and Hansen gave her an awkward hug, they said their good-byes.

Frankie lingered for a few moments. As did Jesse.

“You think making movies is hard,” she said. “Next to a breakfast like this, it’s a cakewalk.”

Jesse smiled.

“He doesn’t like you, does he,” Frankie said.

“It’s that obvious?”

“Let’s just say you aren’t cut from the same cloth.”

Jesse didn’t respond.

“We’re going to be a pain in the ass, you know.”

“I do know.”

“May I apologize in advance?”

“No apology necessary. Actually, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Tell me that again in week three.”

Jesse smiled.

“Are you a native or an import,” she said.

“Import.”

“From?”

“L.A.”

“Really?”

“Angeleno born and bred.”

“Really?”

“LAPD veteran, too.”

“Really?”

“Are your conversational skills always this limited,” he said.

“No. Uh, no. Forgive me. You surprised me,” she said.

“Because I’m from L.A.?”

“I had no idea. Me, too.”

“From L.A.?”

“Burbank. My father was an accountant at Warner’s.”

“Family business,” Jesse said.

“Once bitten,” she said.

Jesse smiled.

“How did you wind up here,” she said.

“Long story.”

Frankie didn’t say anything.

“Would take an entire dinner to tell it properly,” Jesse said.

“Are you suggesting we have dinner?”

“I am.”

She looked at him.

“Okay,” she said.

He looked at her.

“Goody,” he said.