CHAPTER NINE
The following day was uneventful. Casey spent the morning with Mitch trying to make the remaining Gnome-powered Thomas-Morse air-worthy enough to complete the last big stunt; the afternoon was wasted, to his way of thinking, filming more takeoffs and landings, or—even less exciting—engine starts and shut-downs. Somehow, Casey was exhausted when he finally made it back to Jeff Cunningham’s apartment, well after the sun had set. Too tired to do anything else, he spent what remained of the evening looking through Cunningham’s record collection and comparing notes with the writer. He even persuaded himself that it was just as well that Desiree didn’t call demanding to go sleuthing.
Cunningham had an inexplicable fondness for sweet music—Paul Whiteman dominated his collection—and in turn couldn’t understand Casey’s love of the hot stuff. The only musical taste they had in common turned out to be Louis Armstrong, the sensational colored cornetist from Chicago. Looking through the records stacked alongside Cunningham’s Victrola was depressing, in a way; it reminded Casey of the dozens of disks he’d had to sell as his money trickled away. But listening to Whiteman’s orchestra play “Sugar” at least helped Casey get to sleep.
Cunningham drove Casey to the Glendale airport the next morning. The writer was visibly excited about the new scenes he’d written for High Risk. “Jerry’s going to love these,” he said as he sped north on Riverside. Casey remembered Howard Hughes’s temper, and shook his head.
They were among the first on the set. Hogan hadn’t arrived yet, which gave Casey a chance to walk around and look at the cameras, lights, and reflectors as they were set up. Though he’d been working on the picture for nearly a week now, this was the first chance he’d had to examine the equipment in any detail. The Mitchell cameras in particular intrigued him: in their shape they seemed small and efficiently compact, not unlike a Lewis gun. As he watched, though, one of the small cameras disappeared as a technician entombed it in the huge, padded case that Conrad Hart had called a blimp. Or was it Barney? The jargon the Hollywoods used was as mysterious to him as the slang of the RFC—with its ack-emmas and chandelles—would be to anyone not of the Corps.
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
Casey turned to see Desiree watching him. She was in costume: a short evening dress with fur wrap that looked ridiculous in this location and at this time of year. “My interest in things mechanical was always a source of shame to my parents,” he told her. “Young gentlemen were supposed to be above working with their hands.”
“I know,” she said. “The directors I work with would be much happier if I just hit my mark and said my lines. Instead of which I’m always asking questions about why this light is in this position, or why the camera is here instead of over there. And now, with talkies, I get to ask why the writer thinks my character would possibly say something so banal.”
“I heard that,” Cunningham said from a tent in which he’d seated himself behind a sawhorse-and-board table on which rested a small typewriter and a pile of paper.
“Oh, not you, darling,” Desiree said. “Everybody knows that you do only quality work.”
“You’re more believable when you’re being insulting,” Cunningham called back. “As I’m the only writer who’s ever provided you with actual words that you actually say into a microphone, I feel I have to take your comments personally. Stop annoying me and go back to corrupting my house-mate.”
“You’re corrupting me?” Casey asked.
“Yes. Awfully hard to tell, though, isn’t it?” She grinned. “That’s what makes Hollywood so dangerous. We sneak up on you, all quiet-like.”
“Yes,” Casey said, “I’ve always remarked on just how subtle Hollywood is. A subtlety embodied,” he added, “by our own lord and master.” Jerry Straebo had appeared and was striding toward the camera set-up, jodhpurs flaring and knee-high boots kicking up dust. The expression on his face suggested he might be trying to demonstrate a sense of purpose, of strength in command, but couldn’t generate more than an air of constipated pique.
“Finding this interesting are you, Mr. Casey?” Straebo asked when he reached them.
“As a matter of fact, I was just saying precisely that to Miss Farrell.”
“Good,” Straebo said. “Curiosity is good for a man. Marshalled along the correct lines, of course. I have some good news for you, Casey. Cunningham here has written some new scenes for the picture. I like them.” Oh, God, Casey thought. Hughes will have my legs broken. “He’s also written a new role. A small one. One of the brotherhood of pilots so gratuitously destroyed by the director, Helms. I’d like you to play that part, Casey.”
Casey was still thinking about how he’d explain his part in this slander to Hughes, and for a moment didn’t realize exactly what Straebo had said.
Then he realized.
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
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