“But have you watched the tape?” she asked.
My head still thick, I remembered its existence. Did I tell Johnny Cooper about it? Probably not; I’d been unable to say much of anything.
“I, uh, don’t think so,” I said.
There was a long pause, as Dena clearly reevaluated my efficiency. She took on her familiar, quiet, somewhat irritated tone. “I’m not going to ask what happened in L.A., Roy. But I found diaries of my father’s. They’ve had a lot of water damage, but you can still read some of them. Maybe there’s something there. I’m going to copy and fax the remaining pages to you. Do you think you’ll be able to handle it?”
I tried to restrain some knee-jerk pique. Still, Dena had a point. I had gotten nothing from Howie Romaine and nearly been killed at Troy Kevlin’s. Second-case jitters, I told myself; the sophomore jinx, as they say in showbiz.
Dena, however, was still completely competent, undeterred even by sentiment in her dead father’s house. I thought of The Only Game in Town, the 1970 movie in which Warren Beatty had replaced Frank Sinatra opposite Elizabeth Taylor. The result was a mismatch. I didn’t share this info with her.
“Of course I can handle it,” I said, my voice unfortunately cracking. I rustled up hotel stationery with the address. Then I told her where to fax the pages.
“Well, look on the bright side,” she said. “The guy chasing you probably won’t come overseas.”
“That’s true,” I said, considering it.
“Take care of yourself, Roy,” she said, with sudden, reluctant affection.
“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.
