Missing Reels (30 page)

“Did you say the Bangville Police Society?”

“Yeah. Mack Sennett appreciation club.” He was fishing in his jacket pockets. His eyes shifted.

“That’s a Sennett movie?”

“First true Keytone Cops short.” He pulled one pocket open, looked inside like it was a handbag, then repeated the process on the other side. “They um, meet bimonthly and show … damn.” He felt the jacket’s inside pocket.

“Try the coat maybe?” He put his hand inside a coat pocket and his shoulder relaxed. Out came his hand, holding a rolled-up tie. “They show Sennett movies?”

“Whew. Yeah, not just Mack Sennett, they show anything with anybody who ever worked with him. And Sennett worked with everybody. And, ah, I’m supposed to … give me a minute, I gotta put this on.”

He crossed to a mirror on the opposite wall and pulled the tie around his collar, paused, then unbuttoned the collar buttons. He pulled on one end of the tie, then the other, looked down and touched the tag that was showing.

“Want me to do that?” asked Ceinwen.

“Oh god, would you?”

“Sure.” She flipped the tie around and pulled the ends down to the proper length. What was that cologne? He smelled kind of almond-y. “Half-Windsor?”

“Um, what?”

“Never mind.” She began the knot. “So it’s jacket and tie required.”

“Yeah. One time I showed up without a tie, and they lent me one, and, uh, I’m no tie expert, but it was … bad.”

Since this one was a taupe-and-puce stripe, unfashionably wide and some sort of rayon blend, Ceinwen couldn’t imagine what would strike Fred as a bad tie, but she kept her mouth shut and pushed the knot toward his neck like Jim had taught her. “You must really want to see this movie.”

“Three movies. I’ve seen them before. I, ah, have to talk to this guy who’s in the New York chapter.” He turned and looked in the mirror. “Hey, that looks good. Thanks.”

She couldn’t agree, since the tie didn’t go with the jacket, and the jacket was plaid for goodness’ sake, but the knot was fine. “You’re welcome. What are the movies?”

“Fatty Arbuckle.
He Did and He Didn’t
with Mabel Normand,
The Garage
, uh, Buster Keaton’s in that one, and
The Life of the Party
.”

“I’m jealous. I’ve never seen him in anything. Just read about him.”

“
Hollywood Babylon
?” She nodded. He shrugged himself into his coat. “Technically, this is open to the public.”

“Technically? I could go?”

“Yeah, although if you do, ah, I wouldn’t mention
Hollywood Babylon
. They’ll freak. Everybody there hates that book. And you, uh, have to wear proper attire. They dress up. Way up.”

“Hold on.” She unbuttoned her coat and pulled it wide open. “You mean like this?”

Fred gaped. “Wow. That’s, um, perfect. They’ll love that. Is it old?”

“It’s vintage,” she corrected him, realized the way she was holding the coat made her look like a flasher, and buttoned it back up.

“Where do you even get something like that?”

“Store I work at. We sell antique clothing.”

He was still staring at the coat like it had opened to reveal the Wizard of Oz. “I thought you were a secretary, um, assistant. I mean assistant.”

“No, that’s a side job.” That sounded dodgy. “I work at the store selling accessories. The stuff I do for Matthew doesn’t pay the bills.” That sounded worse. “You wouldn’t mind my coming along?”

“I’d be glad to have company. They’re …” Another pause. “They’re unusual folks.”

“Screwballs?”

He looked her in the eye and said, “You have
no idea
.” He checked his watch. “Lancashire Hotel on 82nd Street. We better move. It starts at eight and it’s a big deal if you walk in after the movie starts.”

He was holding the door for her when she looked at him and asked, “Do you set the alarm from outside?”

He tapped his forehead with his fist. “Thanks. Step outside and I’ll, uh, set it.”

She waited on the staircase and watched Fred mess with a set of buttons near the front door. He emerged, let the door swing shut, beckoned and loped down the staircase and up the street. They turned onto First Avenue and headed uptown, Fred pausing a couple of times for her to catch up.

“So, um, yeah. When you called. You wanted to talk some more about the Arnheim?”

“I wanted to talk about careers.”

He pulled up at the crosswalk and squinted at her. “Careers at the Brody? They, ah, don’t do a lot of hiring.”

“More like film preservation in general,” she told him. The light changed, he was off, and she scampered to follow his long legs. “After seeing what you do at the Brody, I started thinking maybe I should try to do it, too.” They turned the corner at 82nd. Flattery wouldn’t hurt. “I see you as a role model.” He stopped.

“You want
my
career?” He was holding his elbow again.

“Sure. I certainly don’t want to be standing around a store twenty years from now, saying ‘may I help you’ all day.”

He took off again, still pulling at his elbow. “Okay. I’m, uh, right. We’ll, um, go to the Bangville Police Society. And you can, you know, see the kind of stuff I do when I’m not picking over film stock. And, um, if you still see me as”—he seemed stuck—“um, a role model, we can, um, talk about how I got where I am today.” He stopped under a large green awning. “Right here.” He took a big breath, then held the door for her.

They walked into a vast, tiled lobby, the walls lined with sheets of mirrors, and a woman at a folding table called, “Fred!” Behind her the doors to a conference room had been propped open. Ceinwen could see beyond it to people in padded, straight-back chairs in rows and a red flowered carpet. The woman was enormous, taller than Fred and so wide she seemed to stretch down half the table. Her full-length velvet evening gown was sleeveless, revealing arms like two legs of lamb. She had on long rhinestone earrings and a silver headband, from which a battered feather curled down one side of her face. Her grin revealed at least two chins. “Fred,” she repeated. Her voice was an incongruous Kewpie-doll chirp. “You brought a date. That’s so
cute
.”

Fred put a hand on the back of his head, turned to look at the street door, then back to the woman. “This is Ceinwen. She’s a friend.”

“Of course she is, baby. Sign in, please.” Fred took the pen. A man in a tuxedo had walked over. White tie. She’d never seen anyone in white tie before, not even at a wedding.

“Fred!” The man’s hair was combed over his bald spot in a yellow-blond wing, feathered like Farrah Fawcett’s. She had a good view of the hair and the bits of scalp under it, because he was even shorter than she was. “I guess I don’t need to ask how you are. You’re doing much better than all right.” He made a giddy-up noise out of the side of his mouth and winked at Ceinwen. “Hi there. I’m Gene. Can I take your coat, Miss—”

“Ceinwen.” She handed over her coat.

“Oh-ho-ho. Exotic moniker. I like.” Fred handed over his coat.

“I like that dress,” proclaimed the woman. “I’m Lorraine, by the way.”

“You’re a good influence,” said Gene. “Fred wore his own tie.”

“She’s a friend,” said Fred, his voice going up slightly.

“I should hope so.”

“She has a boyfriend,” said Fred, in the same register. “I met him when I met her.” Uh-huh. Fred was cannier than he seemed.

“And what the boyfriend doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Gene. “You two go on in and find a seat, we’re about to start.”

They sat in the back. The room was about two-thirds full, maybe sixty or seventy people, and she had a vague impression of more suits, more velvet, little cocktail hats with veils and bows and feathers—where were these dames when she was trying to sell hats at Vintage Visions?

Gene walked to the front of the screen. “Good evening, and welcome to the monthly screening of the New York chapter of the Bangville Police Society. My name is Gene Washington, and I’m the president.” Gene could project like crazy, she was having no trouble hearing him at all. “Our group is dedicated to the appreciation of the great Mack Sennett and his comic brethren. And sistren, too. I’m happy to see some new faces this evening. For those who aren’t familiar with the proceedings, first off”—he looked around the room and threw up his arms—“we show the movies.” Net and feathers rippled across the audience with the small chuckle that followed. “Afterward, in the adjoining room there to my left, various members of our fine society will have tables set up where you can purchase items related to the sacred Sennett, as well as the stars of our pictures tonight and other silent-movie greats. We will also be serving a small selection of refreshments.”

“Like what?” whispered Ceinwen, who was getting hungry.

“Punch and cookies, usually,” Fred whispered back.

“Tonight we are screening a program of longer movies starring the great silent clown, Roscoe Arbuckle.” Gene let the applause die down. “Most of us here know the story of Roscoe, starting with the fact that he hated the name Fatty.” Cries of “yes” echoed around the room. “But just in case some of our newcomers are familiar with him only through the vicious smears in that book which I shall not sully your ears by naming”—an outbreak of boos—“let me start by saying that Roscoe Arbuckle was a magnificent comedian, revered by Buster Keaton, admired by Charlie Chaplin, adored by children everywhere. And let me state also that the scandal that tragically ended this man’s career should never have happened.”

More cries of “yes.” This was like going to church in Mississippi.

“Roscoe was the victim of a power-mad district attorney, a lying yellow press, and an ungrateful public hungry to see its idols brought low.”

She was certain she’d just heard an “amen.”

“He was tried three times for manslaughter in the death of Virginia Rappe. Three times, ladies and gentleman. Where was our constitution’s protection against double jeopardy for him, I ask you?”

“He was framed,” yelled someone.

“He certainly was!” Gene shouted back, pointing at the man who’d called out. “And when the third jury finally acquitted him, they said he should never have been tried in the first place. But it was too late for Roscoe. He spent years in the wilderness as a broken and forgotten man, and died just as he was starting to make a comeback. Well, we here at the Bangville Police Society have not forgotten, have we?”

The applause went on until Gene put up his hand. “And tonight, we pay tribute by showing three of his best movies.” The lights began to go down. “Because that’s the way Roscoe Arbuckle would want to be remembered, with laughter, not tears.” Gene began to retreat from the screen and bellowed, “ROLL FILM!”

For such a little man, he sure had a big sense of drama.

“I think these people are awesome,” whispered Ceinwen.

“They know their stuff, that’s for sure,” muttered Fred.

It became clear, about two minutes into
He Did and He Didn’t
, that this was the best silent-movie audience she’d ever encountered. No restlessness, unless you counted Fred’s shifts of his legs and arms, and he always did that. No talking. Every laugh was related to something on screen. They picked up every gesture, no matter how small. The first glimpse of Fatty—
Roscoe
—got a round of applause, Mabel Normand’s pretty face got an audible sigh, Buster Keaton got a shout of recognition. Fred wasn’t a loud laugher, but he was completely caught up with what was happening on screen, leaning forward and occasionally giving her a side glance to see if she got the joke. And Arbuckle was a marvel, holding his own even with Keaton, supple and flexible in the way he moved.

When the applause at the last film died down and the lights came back up, she told him, “I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

“I’m not complaining about the movies. Arbuckle’s great.”

“I like the audience too. They’re so into it.”

“I like most of them.” She’d stood up to stretch, but he was still sprawled in his seat, legs straight out and hands in his jacket pockets.

Pretty wide variety of ages here, and some big-time vintage clothing. That was a real 1920s sailor dress on that little brunette. That older woman had an alligator bag. And some people had gone all the way into actual costume. There was a Louise Brooks, and a Mary Pickford with a tiered lace dress, flat Mary Janes and cascading blonde curls. No Tramps, but that man had on a zoot suit. She wondered where they were getting all this stuff, because she didn’t recognize any of the people from the store. “Do you mind if I go over to the room where they’re selling things?”

He stood up. “Sure. You go find yourself a screwball.” He gestured toward to the screen, where there stood a block-shaped, balding man in an emerald-green smoking jacket. Fred’s whole body seemed to sag as he walked over.

For a moment she watched him twitch and grab his elbow again. Then she went into the other room. There were about a dozen tables set up. Some had posters displayed, some had hand-recorded videotapes. Two of the tables held piles of film reels, but she could tell by the size that they were 16-millimeter, so she decided she had no reason to check them out.
Udolpho
would be 35-millimeter; the reels would be huge. She drifted to a table that was covered with boxes of file folders. A tall man was standing behind it, talking to Gene. She smiled at him.

“What have you got here?”

“Stills,” he boomed. “I am the Still Man. Ralph’s the name.”

“I’m Ceinwen.” She shook his hand. He was wearing a chalk-stripe suit, and his was the first handsome face she’d seen all evening, unless you counted Fred.

“Silent movie stills?”

“Yes ma’am. Any silent you can name.” Ralph hooked his fingers in his vest pockets.

“Careful of this one,” said Gene. “He’s a shark. Ralph, be nice to the new lady. We want her to come back. She’s with Fred, you know.”

“No kidding!”

Ceinwen was suddenly conscious of feeling aggrieved on her escort’s behalf. Honestly, who could get a load of this crowd and pick Fred as the only one too weird to bring a girl? “He’s a friend.”

“That’s what they keep saying,” said Gene.

Enough of that. She had decided to go with a long shot. “You have anything I could name? Anything?” She narrowed her eyes.