Fleet’s gaze narrowed. “I can’t figure you, man. I can’t figure you at all.” He gestured at the outdoor set behind them. “You just walk through this like it’s nothing.”
“It’s my profession,” Carter said softly.
“That’s not what I mean. You got everything, jack, but I’ve been watching you. You got it all and you don’t seem happy. Not as happy as me, not as happy as that dumb broad with the measurements bigger than her IQ. What’s with you, anyway? What’re you after?”
“I’m just trying to practice my craft,” Carter told him.
“Yeah, well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m overreacting. But sometimes you gotta overreact to get anything changed in this business. You gotta take a position.”
Carter was nodding understandingly. “Sure you do. Everyone does. But you have to pick your stands carefully if you want results, and I’m not sure that this piece of carefully crafted commercial tripe is one of the right places to do it.”
“Hey, whose side are you on, anyway? Mine or Nahfoud’s?” Fleet nodded in the direction of the actress’s trailer.
“Yours. I’m just saying that based on what I’ve seen of this production so far, you’re not going to change anything here.” He hesitated. “You know, I’d give my right arm to play in Othello.”
“Yeah? Well, why don’t you, man?”
“Nobody’ll cast me. Look at me. Do you see me as Iago? It’s the way I am. My face doesn’t have enough ‘character.’ Not dirty enough. I auditioned for Shakespeare in the Park once. Julius Caesar. I thought they might give me a shot at Brutus.
“Know what they wanted me to play? One of the guards. They wanted to stick me in a leather bikini and armor and have me carry a spear. I had one line.
“That’s why I’m in this epic. I’ve got the lead. I get to act, even if the words aren’t by Hecht or Mankiewicz.”
“Yeah, well. One line of Shakespeare versus the lead in this, I ain’t sure which is better.”
“I don’t have any choice,” Carter replied. “This is the only kind of part I can get. You at least have a choice. They hired you for your acting ability, because of that Tony.” He inhaled sharply.
“Look. I’ll talk to Nahfoud after he’s finished with Amanda and he’s settled down some. Maybe we can try something a little different.”
“Oh, yeah. Like what?”
“Sound effects. Maybe we can blur some of the lines that are bothering you. Or speed the whole interchange up. You know … overlapping dialogue. I’ll discuss it with Amanda.”
“That crazy bitch? Shit, ever since she made the break from porno films she thinks she’s some kind of cross between Stanwyck and Monroe. That chick is spacey, man.”
“Maybe Nahfoud’s right,” said Carter. “Not only do you want to be the writer, you want to do the casting too.”
Fleet started to snap off a reply, then caught himself. A sly grin started to spread across his face. “You know, Carter, you’re all right. A little slow, maybe, but all right.”
“She’s got the best pout in the business,” Carter told him. “You have to admit that much.”
“Good thing, too. It’s her only expression. That and total confusion.”
“We have to work with her, Mel, just like we have to work with the script. Remember, the producer’s nephew is the screenwriter. I’ll talk to Nahfoud. I don’t think this picture will hurt your career.”
“We’re not talking about my career, jack. We’re talking pride. We’re talking about my dignity as a human being.”
“If pride and dignity are important to you, you ought to get out of the movie business.”
“Yeah, right.” Fleet chuckled softly. “Okay, man, you got a deal. You talk to Nahfoud. And if you can’t do anything, hell, I don’t want to get you into trouble, or hold this up any more than I have to. The sooner it’s a wrap, the sooner I can get out of here. But I got my pride, man.”
“There’s a time for pride and a time for professionalism. Think about it.”
“I will, man. You take it easy. I’m gonna get me a sandwich.” Technicians and gofers gave Fleet a wide berth as he headed for the catering truck.
Carter found himself alone on the set. Behind him, workers were reinstalling the shed’s breakaway wall. The long continuous sequence had been a complicated one to stage and shoot, but most of it could be salvaged since Fleet’s outburst had come near the end.
His promise to his fellow actor had not been an empty one. He would talk to Nahfoud, though he didn’t expect to make much headway with the director. Probably Nahfoud would reshoot the ending with Fleet’s stunt double, then dub in the requisite lines later. That didn’t bother Carter. By then his own involvement with the picture would be over.
He considered what to do next. If they were on a studio lot Nahfoud would probably call a break to allow everyone to cool off, but they were on location. Too expensive to call a halt. The next scene involved a tender reunion between the captain and his beloved. Given Amanda’s current state of mind Carter was certain he had an afternoon full of traumatic retakes ahead of him.
As he started for the caterer he found himself beginning to shiver. The long, complicated Steady cam shot had exhausted him and he was still sweating heavily. The local TV weatherman had predicted the onset of a chilly fall for central Georgia. As a freshening breeze cooled his face Carter could well believe it.
He’d gone halfway when an insistent voice interrupted his reverie.
“Mr. Carter, Mr. Carter!”
Not now, he thought tiredly. Turning, he saw the diminutive form of Trang Ho hurrying toward him. She held her microcassette recorder out in front of her, much as the fictional Union captain had carried his saber. A saber, of course, was far less lethal. He had long since come to the conclusion that the recorder was not a separate instrument but was in fact a small rectangular appendage of the woman’s body. Swollen and black, it protruded threateningly from her right hand.
The tabloids she sold her stories to were invariably not worth the trees slain to print them. Indeed, he often wondered why they bothered with reporters at all, since their tales were invariably based on unauthorized photographs, pure hearsay, and innuendo. An actor ignored them at his peril. To do so meant inviting a front-page story along the lines of, “Jason Carter … Antisocial Star Despises Fellow Actors! Worst Film in Cinematic History, Carter Implies!”
You couldn’t win with such people, he knew. If you told them the truth they misquoted you; if you told lies they printed them as the truth; and if you said nothing at all they invented something twice as horrible to fill the void. Privately he wondered if the North Vietnamese still operated any of their infamous “reeducation camps,” and if they might accept someone like Trang Ho on scholarship. He knew many colleagues who would be eager to contribute to such a fund.
She caught up with him as he was filling a plastic tumbler with iced tea from the large canister marked “Sweetened.”
“I hear there was some trouble on the set.” Her recorder quivered beneath his lips like some exotic African parasite seeking a path to its host’s innards. Her eyes were agleam. She smelled conflict, Carter knew, the way a sheepdog could smell a dead lamb half a mile away.
“Nothing happened,” he muttered.
