“Bastards,” Hal said, almost a whisper, and then neither of them said anything.
When it was over, they went outside for a cigarette, wanting distance, even a few feet. Hal leaned back against the wall, looking toward the Admin building on Gower.
“How’d you get him to do it?” he said. “Lasner.”
“He saw it—one of the camps. I didn’t have to do anything.”
“Well, whatever you did. I never thought I’d get to do something like this. At Continental. Piece of history. Fort Roach. Enemies to Friends. How to bow to a Jap. What not to say to the women. Put in your time, go home at night. That’s all I’ve done. Nothing like this.” He cocked his head, taking in Ben from a new angle. “What are you going to do after?”
“What, the Army?” Ben shrugged. “Maybe go back overseas. There’s a newsreel job if I want it.”
“Most people, they get on the lot, they never want to leave.”
“I just want to get this one done.”
“You saw it for real. That’s why?”
Ben dropped his cigarette and rubbed it out with his foot.
“I’m still trying to figure it out. The guards. How do you get to that point? When you can do that. What makes it all right? Do you know? I don’t.”
“You’re never going to know that. A wife shoots her husband, that you can know. This—”
“There has to be something. What makes them think it’s the right thing to do? There’s no money in it, nothing—personal. Like the wife. Some other reason.”
For ending up in a mound of ashes. Or in an alley with your blood running out. At least he could know the reason for that. As blameless as the ash heaps? The question that was always there. What had he done?
RIORDAN’S TELEPHONE voice was all business, as if he were sitting behind a desk.
“What kind of technical advice? For a picture?”
“No. Someone broke into the house last night.”
“So call the cops.”
“Nothing’s missing. I can’t prove anyone was there.”
“Then why do you think—”
“Some things were rearranged.”
“Rearranged.”
“Look, the point is it made Liesl nervous. I don’t want it to happen again. I figured you’d have some ideas. The Bureau must—”
“What? Train us in breaking and entering? I’ll tell you this much, somebody wants to get in, he’ll get in. Get better locks. Alarms will run you money, and anybody who knows what he’s doing can get in anyway. Get dead bolts. That’s for free.”
“I was thinking about surveillance.”
There was a pause as Riordan took this in.
“You’re asking me to babysit?”
“I figured you’d know somebody.”
“What makes you think they’re coming back.”
“They didn’t take anything. Even stuff just lying around. So they must have been after something in particular. If they didn’t find it, maybe they’ll try again. Look, I’m just asking you to recommend somebody.”
Another pause. “All right, I’ll have a look around. Anybody home today?”
“Iris, the housekeeper. Liesl probably. Tell whoever’s there I sent you, to check the locks. Got a pencil?”
“I know where it is.”
“That’s right. The funeral.”
“What was rearranged? So you knew somebody had been there.”
“A file. In the desk.”
“That was careless. What’s in the desk?”
“Nothing. Papers. Desk stuff.”
“No idea what they were looking for?”
“That’s why I called the Bureau.”
“Yeah. All right. I’ll take care of it. Where are you, the studio? That’s Gower. You know Lucey’s on Melrose? By Paramount. Six? But I’m telling you now, it’s locks.”
THE RED light was on so Ben waited, leaning against the sound stage wall, his head still full of the Artkino footage. In the street, two Japanese pilots were sharing a smoke, probably on their way to dive-bomb Dick Marshall. The casually surreal world Hal thought everyone wanted. “What, have you got a girl back over there or something?” he’d said, not able to let it go. No, here. Ben smiled to himself. A mermaid. Waiting at home. Danny’s home.
The red light flicked off and he heard the buzzer inside, unlocking the doors. What would Rosemary say? Why would she say anything? A girl on her way up, dancing with Ty Power at the Mocambo. She’d want to shed Danny, any B-list affair, like molted skin.
Ben stepped in, facing the backs of some painted flats, then walked around to the interior of the set, still drenched in hot light. A nightclub with an orchestra stage and a bar at the side, now being set up for a tracking shot. Gaffers were making adjustments in the overheads, angling away from the mirror behind the bar. The extras, in suits and evening dresses, were still sitting at the club tables, waiting to be told to start talking again. Rosemary, in a tight dress, was leaning back against a slant board to keep the skirt from creasing, while a makeup girl ran a comb over her hair, patting it gently into place. Rosemary didn’t move. When the girl stepped aside, leaving her alone against the board, she seemed for a minute like an oil painting propped on an easel.