Close-Up. Len Deighton
Sammy,’ said another voice. ‘Sammy’s a very good friend of mine: he comes to the house.’
‘Sure,’ said the music man, ‘Sammy, or better still Tom Jones might like to do an album, or Johnny Cash.’
‘Tom Jones is a wonderful person,’ said Nicolson, ‘and he would be great for the main title, we could use a vocal opening.’
‘Tapes or disc,’ said the music man, ‘but I’ll need them yesterday.’
They all laughed.
‘Great camerawork, Nic,’ said the only person still watching the screen. Marshall Stone had not found his goggles because they were caught on a crag which was kept in frame centre while Stone scrambled pitifully on the ground. Stone buried his head in his hands and gave a manly sob. The camera zoomed in to show the makeup department’s frostbite.
‘Do you want to turn that music down a little, Edgar?’
‘This is just a wild track. It’s not balanced or anything.’
‘Best actor,’ said Koolman softly. He leaned close to Lightfoot. ‘If we can get an Oscar for Stone it will make a great launch for the TV series, Dennis.’
‘Right, Leo, right.’ They both smiled at each other as though this idea had only just come to them.
There were eight motor-cars waiting outside KI Pictures in Wardour Street. Nine, if you count Jacob Weinberger’s chauffeur-driven Jaguar, although no one did count it because Weinberger said he had no car. This gave him a chance to ride with Leo Koolman in the Rolls Limousine. Also in the car there were Suzy Delft, her friend Penelope, Leo and Phil Sanchez his assistant. The girls had been waiting upstairs in Leo’s office.
When the convoy of cars arrived at Jamie’s Club, Leo was shown the big circular table set for ten. The two girls hurried away to repaint their faces. Koolman arranged the seating around the table. Nicolson and his director were across the table and Weinberger was two seats away, leaving an empty seat on each side of Koolman. When the girls returned Penelope was wearing a different dress. Koolman noticed this and remarked on it. The girl smiled. Koolman looked at the menu and patted the seat of the chair next to him without looking up. Obediently Penelope slid into it and gratefully took a menu from the waiter.
The New York executives alternated with their London equivalents. The seat between Weinberger and Koolman was held for Marshall Stone, who arrived with the wine waiter. Stone was in a dark suit with a stiff cutaway collar and a Travellers Club tie. A gold watch-chain on his waistcoat carried a gold nuclear disarmament medallion. He made a fine entrance. He walked up to Leo Koolman and stood with his hands stretched forward. He searched for words that might convey his sincere good wishes. When he did speak his voice was husky. ‘Leo, it’s good to see you. It’s damned good to see you.’
Koolman jumped to his feet like a bantamweight boxer coming out of his corner. ‘We saw a great performance tonight, Marsh. A truly great performance.’
Marshall Stone looked around the table with a quizzical smile on his face. ‘You’ve screened the new Richard and Liz film?’
‘We saw Silent Paradise, Marshall.’
‘You old bastard, Edgar,’ said Stone to Nicolson. ‘You might have told me.’
Nicolson said, ‘You were great, Marshall, we all thought so.’
‘It’s a great performance, Marshall,’ said Koolman. ‘Dennis thinks we should go after a best actor nomination and I agree.’ Dennis Lightfoot made a mental note of the fact that if anything went wrong with Koolman’s latest idea, it was going to become a Lightfoot idea.
Stone shook his head. ‘I was just part of a fine team, Leo,’ he said.
‘It’s time we got you one of those metal dolls, Marshall,’ said Koolman.
Stone sat down and blew his nose loudly.
The waiter asked Stone what he would have to drink. ‘Perrier water,’ said Stone. To Koolman he said, ‘I never drink when I’m making a picture.’ Stone looked around the table. ‘Darling,’ he called to Suzy. ‘That dress: sensational!’ He pretended to look around the room for the camera. ‘Are we doing the orgy scene?’
‘How is Stool Pigeon coming along, Marshall?’ said Koolman. The others went on with their conversations while keeping their eyes and ears on Koolman. Koolman said, ‘I like that moustache. That’s for the role, eh?’
Marshall smiled at the other guests before he answered. ‘It’s not a film for over-sensitive people, Leo. It’s a tough, no-holds-barred story of what war is really like.’ He touched his moustache. ‘Yes, for the film.’
‘But are the kids going to like the film, Marshall?’
‘The kids will love it, Leo, because there is lots of fun in it too. And a challenge to authority.’
‘A film has got to have confrontation, colour and conflict,’ said Leo who had got that cinematographic philosophy from a film about a producer.
‘This has got it,’ said Marshall Stone.
‘Who’s directing?’
‘A new director: Richard Preston. It’s his first feature.’
‘A TV kid,’ said Koolman. ‘I hope we’re not getting too many flick zooms, whip pans and all that psychedelic crap. Are you watching that, Dennis?’
Lightfoot said, ‘You bet, Leo. I saw the rushes last week and it’s good solid footage and Suzy is going to be really great.’ His voice betrayed the doubts he shared about the picture.
‘Aren’t they three weeks over?’ He tried to recall the paperwork.
‘Weather trouble,’ said Lightfoot.
‘Don’t these guys who prepare your budgets know that it rains in England, Dennis?’ Lightfoot didn’t answer, so Koolman said, ‘I think it rains here now and again. I think I’ve heard rumours to that effect.’ He looked around the table and everyone smiled.
Lightfoot smiled too. He said, ‘We scheduled it so that we could go inside when it rains but we only have Marshall for three more weeks so we have to do his shots whenever we possibly can. That means holding the crew ready instead of doing the cover shots.’
Koolman nodded. ‘Location films, who needs them. We have the same trouble in New York. They tell me how much we save by not going into the studio and then they stand scratching their arses waiting for the rain to stop. So that’s saving money? If we must have location shooting, what’s wrong with California. At least you can bet on the sunshine.’
Stone said, ‘I’m so pleased that you liked Silent Paradise. Did you notice that wonderful performance by Bertie Anderson?’
‘Which one was he?’ said Koolman.
‘The truck driver in the first reel,’ said Stone. ‘A fantastic performance. Jesus, if I could act like that man…’
‘I don’t even remember it,’ said Weinberger, as soon as he was certain that Anderson wasn’t one of his clients.
Nicolson said, ‘It was the very old man who throws the mailbag on the ground.’
‘Oh, him,’ said Koolman. The part had only had about fifty seconds of screen time.
‘Almost eighty,’ said Stone, ‘a wonderful old man. I made Edgar give him the part.’ Stone took a bread roll from the waiter, broke it into three parts and spread some butter upon it. A careful observer would have noticed the care with which he did this, as if he had no other thought in his mind. And a careful observer would also have noticed how, in spite of all the activity, very little food ever got as far as Stone’s mouth. The little that did was bitten cautiously and probed with the tongue as if he expected to find some tiny piece of foreign matter there. Yet many times during the meal he remarked how fine the food was and how