The Inheritors (20 page)

They went back into the living room and he fixed drinks for the two of them. They sat down just as a new program came on.

“My God, another Western,” she said, getting up to change channels.

“Don’t change it,” he said. “Steve told me about this one. It’s a new kind of Western. Psychological. He thinks it’ll be very big.”

She watched it for a few minutes, then turned to him. “It looks like every other Western to me. They’re still shooting at each other. Steve doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

But Sam didn’t even hear her. He was caught up in the events on the small screen in front of him. She was wrong. This show was different. He knew that Steve was right. It would be a big winner.

Toward the end of the program, she turned to him. “Sam, what are you going to do?”

He looked at her. “First, I’m going to Italy to take a look at the picture for myself and find out what’s really happening and exactly how much more we’ll need to finish. Maybe I can find a way to cut some of the expense. We’ll see.”

“And then?”

“Then we’ll see what happens next,” he said. He turned back to the set to watch the climax of the show. The little screen had a hypnosis all its own. It took your mind off your problems into another world.

And in a way it was just as well. For in the end it was Stephen Gaunt who found the solution for him.

CHAPTER TEN

The little plane gave a sickening lurch as they dipped down over the mountains toward the small airfield at Palermo. The pilot swore in Italian as he adjusted the stabilizer, then turned to Charley and explained something rapidly.

Charley nodded and turned back to Sam who was sitting directly behind him. “The pilot wishes to apologize for the bump,” he said. “He says it’s been several years since he’s flown one of these and he’s a little out of practice. He flies big Constellations usually. But he says not to worry, by the time we go back to Rome tomorrow, he will have practiced a little more.”

Sam still felt the dip in his stomach and the faint taste of bile that had come up as the plane dropped. “Helluva time for him to tell us,” he said. “I don’t care how much he practices as long as he does it on his own time. Not with me in the plane.”

The radio chattered and the pilot replied. He took the plane in a wide sweeping curve out over the sea.

“What now?” Sam asked nervously.

“Nothing,” Charley replied. “We just cleared for landing.”

“What’s he gonna do?” Sam asked. “Land us on a fishing boat?”

Charley laughed and looked down. It was a bright sunny day and the sea was a calm, clear blue. Here and there, the sails of a few small boats skipped by beneath them. Up ahead of them was Palermo, baking in the summer heat. Neatly the plane went between two mountains and dropped onto the field.

Sam let his breath out in a sigh as the wheels touched the ground. They rolled toward the small building.

Charley looked back at him. “The car will be waiting to take us to the hotel. You’ll have a chance to grab a quick shower before we drive to the location.”

“Why don’t we go right up?” Sam asked.

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Charley said. “It’s lunch time, nobody’ll be working.”

The location was a small village in the mountains about an hour and a half ride up a winding narrow road from Palermo. They drove through the village square with its inevitable church and in a few minutes were at the scene.

Sam blinked his eyes. A moment ago he would have been willing to swear he was back in the sixteenth century; everything, the people as well as the houses, seemed so old. And here, there were trailers, bigger than the village huts, big brute lamps, generators, reflectors. There in the field in front of him, aiming at a small hut, was the big Mitchell camera, protected from the sun by a black cover.

The driver pulled his little Fiat to a stop just behind one of the trailers. He leaned forward and patted the dashboard of his car as if to congratulate it on getting them there. “
Va bene
,” he said.

Sam got out of the car and looked around. Across the road from him, in a field, some men were playing
bocce
, others were just lying around in the shade, some had their hats pulled down over their faces and were sleeping. Those who were awake returned his gaze with idle curiosity. More would have been an effort in the heat.

“That’s Nickie’s trailer in front of us,” Charley said, leading the way.

Sam followed him and they went up the small steps. Inside it was dark and cool; the first room was fixed up as an office with two small desks and a typewriter. It was empty.

Charley went over and knocked on the door to the second room. “Hey, Nickie,” he called. “Are you awake?”

There was a scuffling sound from the other room. A moment later, a girl came from it. “
Signor
Luongo,” she nodded. She went over to the desk, sat down behind the typewriter, and began to comb her hair.

A moment later, Nickie came out. He was wearing slacks and a sport shirt, but his feet were bare and his eyes were sleepy. He smiled when he saw Sam. “Ah, Sam, it’s an unexpected pleasure,” he said, holding out his hand.

Sam took it. “I thought I’d take a run over and find out how we were doing.”

Nickie looked at him. “It’s good well. A little bit slowly perhaps, but we are getting very good film.”

“The film is good,” Sam said. He didn’t say anything about being behind schedule. Time for that later. “I’d like to take a look around.”

“My pleasure,” Nickie said. He turned to the girl and shot a few rapid words at her. She nodded and turned back to her typewriter as they went out.

“This is the small house that The Sisters live in,” Nickie said as they walked toward the camera. “We took off the roof so that we could shoot inside. It’s a real house.”

Sam looked around. The
bocce
game was still going on across the road. “Why aren’t they working?” he asked.

“They’re waiting for the director to call them for the next shot,” Nickie said.

“What’s holding him up?” Sam asked.

“I’ll find out.” Nickie exchanged a few words with one of the men slouching in the shade near the camera. He turned back to Sam. “They’re waiting for the sun to be right. In about another half hour.”

“What the hell are all those brutes doing out here if you wind up waiting for the sun?” Sam asked.

“We use them for fillers and night shots,” Nickie answered. “But Pierangeli insists on the real thing wherever possible.”

“How much film did you get in the can today?”

“A few scenes,” Nickie said.

“How many minutes?”

“Maybe two.”

“And this scene? How long will it run?”

“Maybe a minute, maybe less.”

“And for that you wait for the sun?” Sam asked angrily. “I thought you were going to protect me? The picture is already double the budget. Where is my protection?”

“We had bad breaks, Sam,” Nickie said uncomfortably. “The weather, we had a lot of rain when we wanted sun, sun when we wanted rain—”

“Why the hell didn’t you shoot with the weather instead of waiting for it?”

“That’s the way Pierangeli works,” Nickie said. “I can’t change him. Nobody can.”

“I’d like to see him,” Sam said angrily.

“He’s over in Marilu’s trailer,” Nickie said. “They’re rehearsing.”

Pierangeli had already left Marilu by the time they reached her trailer. Her maid greeted them. Marilu was resting, she exclaimed. “
E vero, il Maestro
and the
Signor
Ulrich, the German actor, have been rehearsing with her over an hour and now they have gone to give her a chance to compose herself before the shooting begins again.”

“What the hell were they rehearsing that got her so tired she has to rest?” Sam asked.

Charlie shot him a look, but no one answered, and they started back toward the set. Charley fell behind and whispered as they were walking. “Pierangeli is a realist,” he explained.

“So?”

“This is the scene after she and the German were screwing in the field back of the house and she comes in all fucked and glowing and her sister accuses her of going with her guy.”

“I still don’t get it,” Sam asked.

Charley looked at him. “You mean—he really had them do it?”

Charley nodded. “Pierangeli believes the camera will see it on her face.”

“But what about Nickie? Surely, he—”

“It’s for the film, for art. There’s nothing personal in it.”

“I’ll have to tell that to Denise sometime,” Sam said. “But she’ll never believe it.”

Men were already at work by the time they reached the set. The cameraman and his helpers had the cover off the camera and were busy with the lenses. The soundmen were wheeling their portable recorder into position. Other men were straightening up the ground in front of the house, sweeping the small steps, oiling the door hinges so that they would not squeak at the wrong moment.

Sam looked around. He did not see Pierangeli. “Where’s the director?”

Nickie pointed.

Sam followed his hand. Pierangeli was sitting on the ground, his back against the small stone-wall fence in front of the house. His knees were drawn up and his head rested on his arms crossed on the knees. His wide-brimmed black hat was pulled down over his face, shielding him from the sun.

Sam started toward him. Nickie stopped him. “Not now,” he said. “
Il Maestro
is getting in the mood. We never interrupt him before he shoots a scene.”

Sam stood there watching. After about five minutes Pierangeli raised his head. He looked around at all the workmen as if he were surprised to find them there. Then slowly he got to his feet.

He walked behind the camera and peered through the viewfinder. He said something to the cameraman and, leaving him, walked over to the doorway in the front of the house. He kicked some dirt back that the men had swept away. Then he glanced up at the sun, squinting, and turned back to look at his shadow against the house. Apparently everything was all right, for he made an invisible signal as he walked back behind the camera. There was a piercing blast on a whistle.

“
Silenzio!
” an assistant’s voice roared.

A second later all that could be heard was the faint hum of a motor, then that too died away. Without looking around, Pierangeli held up his hand. “
Avanti
,” he said in a quiet voice, bringing his hand down sharply.

The door opened and the girl who was playing the younger sister came out, a pail in her hand. She threw the water out across the steps. She started back when she heard the sound. She looked up.

Sam turned and followed her gaze. Marilu was coming through the gate in the stone fence. There was something about the way she looked, something about the way she moved, her hips and legs and breasts swinging. No one had to be told. Everybody knew it just by looking at her.

Sam turned again and looked at the little man standing next to the camera. Under the wide-brimmed hat all he could see was the man’s eyes. They were watching. Everything. As a camera sees everything.

Sam turned and gestured to Charley. They walked back across the road out of earshot. “Come on,” Sam said. “We’re going back to Rome.”

“But I thought we were going to spend the night here.” Charley said.

“No point in it,” Sam said. “They have their own way of working. Maybe it’s slow, maybe I don’t understand it. Maybe it will cost twenty cents more. But they know what they’re doing and it will be worth it.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

One moment he was sitting there, alone in the last row of the projection room, and reflected light from the screen flickering across his impassive face; the next moment, when they looked back, he was gone.

Wearily, Jack Savitt held up his hand. “Okay, fellers, that’s it.”

The film stopped as the lights in the room came on. Jack got to his feet. Jimmy Jordan, head of TV production for Trans-World Pictures, looked at him. “What happened?”

“How the hell do I know?” Jack answered.

“It’s a perfectly good show,” Jordan said. “What turned him off?”

“Whatever it is, you can be sure he will tell you. Himself.”

“We put a lot of money into that pilot,” Jordan said.

“So did Steve,” Jack said. “A hundred grand ain’t peanuts.” He started for the door. “I’m going back to my office. I’ll call you from there.”

Steve was seated in the car when he came out of the building. Silently he got in beside him and turned on the motor. “Back to your office?”

Steve shook his head. “I’ve had enough for the day. Take me back to the hotel. I’m going to try for a little sleep.”

“Good idea,” Jack said. “You’ve been hitting it pretty hard the last two days. You don’t get over that time lag without some rest.”

He put the car into gear and they drove off the lot, past the guards at the studio gate who waved to them and onto the freeway back to Los Angeles. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He passed it over to Steve and took another for himself.

“They cheat,” Steve said suddenly.

Jack was startled. “What did you say?”

“They cheat.” Steve’s voice was flat and angry. “They promise one thing, then deliver another. They lie, they cheat, they steal. What makes them think just because they have a big film factory that they can slough off the things they do for us? If it wasn’t for our money, they would all be out of business.”

Jack turned off Highland Avenue and swung right on Sunset Boulevard heading for Beverly Hills. “They have problems,” he said. “The picture division is always holding the budget on the TV division.”

“That’s a lot of shit,” Steve said. “We gave them a hundred grand for that pilot. It cost a hundred and fifty according to their figures. That includes their twenty-five percent overhead charge, which means all they laid out was another twelve thousand five hundred. Then they try to tell us they got a lot of money in it. No wonder all we get from them is crap.”

“It’s not Jimmy’s fault,” Jack said. “He’s a good man. He’s doing the best he can.”

“I know that,” Steve said. “I’m not blaming him.”

“They’ll want an answer on the show.”

“They can keep it. I don’t want it.”