“You, too,” I said, with a similar sound, and hung up.
I looked to see if Johnny had packed my laptop. He had. Then I checked my e-mail.
Dear Milano,
Before you read it in the trades, here’s a news flash: I’ve quit Quelman. The love story was just the beginning of how the suits wanted to screw up the franchise. I simply couldn’t live with myself and continue.
Needless to say, now that I’m off the project, we’ll have to declare my financial support in our Clown agreement null and void. (Please refer to clause three in our deal memo, referring to “unforeseen circumstances.”) But good luck with it.
Abner
P.S. Don’t contact me at the Riverside Drive number. Taylor and I have gone our separate ways. New phone/mail info TK.
If my brain was cloudy before, it swiftly cleared up. Lying through his teeth about the cause, Abner had left me penniless in a European city, where I had been—convivially, I admit—kidnapped. I had nothing to send my mother and no way to get home. I was completely at the mercy of Johnny Cooper. Childishly, I swore that, if I had anything to say about it, Abner would never, ever see The Day the Clown Cried.
It didn’t matter what I thought. I immediately opened my bags and rifled through them.
The tape was gone.
I HAD NO TIME TO COME UP WITH A CAUSE. THERE WAS KNOCKING AT THE door.
“Like the place?” Johnny asked, in his pleasant way. “I’m on the floor above. Graus is, too.”
“It’s fine,” I said, discombobulated.
“You’re looking perkier. That sleep must have done you good.”
“Thanks. It must have been quite a, uh, dose you gave me.”
“Well, you got quite a bump on the bean.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. I moved over to a tastefully ornate mirror. A welt the size of a kumquat decorated the left side of my head.
“Jesus,” I said.
“People say what Oscars can do for your career, but they never mention what they can do to your head.”
Johnny laughed, and so did I. He was a disarming guy, despite his occasionally vicious temper. I couldn’t help it; I felt grateful to him, regardless of his motive. I wondered, though: What was his motive?
“I really hope we can find the movie,” he said, as if answering. “I know there’s no point in contacting Jerry. I’m a big buff in general. Maybe one day I’ll make a film somebody cares to see as much as they do Clown. That’s my dream.”
I waited to reply. Then his seeming lack of guile opened me up. “Another famous uncompleted film is Josef von Sternberg’s adaptation of Robert Graves’s I, Claudius, from the thirties. Charles Laughton and Merle Oberon were in it.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ve seen the documentary about it. What was shot looked phenomenal. It’s a real shame.”
“Right,” I said, surprised he knew. “The documentary.”
“Do you know about Lazy River, from the thirties, too? Tod Browning was directing it. Erskine Caldwell and William Faulkner were writing it. Jean Harlow and Lionel Barrymore were starring. That was also abandoned. Imagine seeing that one!”
I felt faint again, but not from being smashed on the head. This time, I’d been hit by a realization. I’d never heard of that movie.
Was it possible that Johnny Cooper knew more about movies than I did? As a functional filmmaker, he really couldn’t be considered trivial. His beard even grew in pretty well. Shouldn’t I hate this guy?
“What about Soldier Lad?” I asked. “With Wallace Beery and Helen Hayes? That was probably another uncompleted masterpiece.”
Johnny just looked at me, blankly. “You got me on that one. Never heard of it.”
I felt lousy then. I’d made it up. Quickly, I changed the subject.
“Did anyone go through my bag, do you know?” I asked.
“Your bag? Not that I know of. Why? Is something missing?”
“No. No. It’s all right.”
Protectively, I zipped up my luggage. Maybe I’d left the tape in California.
“Come on,” Johnny said. “Graus is waiting.”
—
Graus Menzies was waiting, next door. He was sitting in the shadows of an Amsterdam coffeehouse, or legal marijuana den. The place was a dump, virtually unfurnished, with only a few old wooden chairs and tables. Apparently, the pot was enough; nothing else was needed.
If Graus was impatient for our appearance, you’d never have known it. He was busy pontificating to a small, attractive redhead of thirty, while sucking deeply on a joint.
Like most movie actors, he was tiny with a big handsome head. About sixty, he had lots of salt-and-pepper hair and a face with outsized features—buggy eyes, a sharp nose, a harshly cut mouth. A scarf was twirled stylishly around his neck.
After starring in acclaimed German films in the Seventies, Graus had made an American splash with Macaroon Heart. Now he had been reduced to playing supporting Nazis in Hollywood potboilers. The declension had taken its toll: He had a reputation for bad behavior, womanizing, and drinking. Like Howie Romaine and Troy Kevlin, he, too, had written a memoir—I Am Graus!—but it was considered libelous, quickly pulled from U.S. stores, and reedited. The full, uncensored edition was a sought-after collector’s item. Or so my book trivia friends told me.
“Graus,” Johnny said, amiably, sitting down. “Here’s the guy I wanted you to meet.”
“Hold on, little boy!” Graus yelled at him. Then he finished the story he was telling the girl. The punch line was “I am Graus!” and he barked it like a dog.
The girl, an American, laughed, appreciatively. She, too, seemed stoned, and it made her squint appealingly. She had short red hair, freckles, and bright blue eyes, which she now directed, with sweet fuzziness, at me.
“This is Katie Emond,” Johnny said. “She was the publicist on Graus’s book in the States. Now she’s his assistant.”
“My assistant—of love!” Graus yelled. He started to chew comically on the girl’s bare upper arm, while crying, “I am Graus!”
Katie, who was shaking my hand at the time, giggled wildly. Then Johnny slipped onto the chair beside her, kissed her cheek, and draped his arm familiarly around her shoulder. She kissed him, too, on the neck. He was clearly a very good friend of a friend.
“Graus,” Johnny said. “This is Roy Milano. He’s the fan I told you about.”
Johnny had warned me to be vague and polite in my questions. Apparently, Katie, ever protective of Graus, should be handled with care, as well.
Graus’s stare became somewhat hooded as he checked me out. “Right. Right. My ‘fan.’ ” He extended the end of a wet, collapsing joint to me. I waved it away, but his offer stayed good. When I muttered a courteous “No, thank you,” he brought down the drug very slowly, with an expression of disgust. Then he immediately switched his attention to Johnny and Katie.
“Did I ever tell you two about the chambermaid I shtupped in 1974?”
