L.A. Noire: The Collected Stories by Jonathan Santlofer Page B

pot, the director is Harry Wattles.”
    “You’re kidding me,” I said.
    Everyone knew Wattles’s name. He’d been a rising star who’d fucked himself, or more specifically, the girlfriend of some big-shot producer. Now he’d been busted down to doing low-budget noir films. But everybody saw them. He had a reputation.
    Chuck said, “You should be paying them for a chance to work with Wattles. Though I don’t know how I’d calculate my commission on that. Relax, big guy. I’m joking.”
    The shoot was in Pasadena on a soundstage that smelled like a cross between a dead rat and a recent electrical fire. Everyone was running around—frazzled, yelling their heads off. But you couldn’t tell what anyone was doing, and they didn’t seem to know, either. In other words, a film set.
    Wattles looked even stranger than he did in his photos. It was weird to have a name like Wattles and look like a hammerhead shark. It was also weird to look like that and get any girl you wanted.
    Someone intercepted me on my way to Wattles, someone else intercepted that person, who was intercepted by the one who actually got to talk to Wattles. Wattles came over and shook my hand. He was surprisingly friendly, but like a friendly shark smiles before he chews your leg off.
    He said, “Nice to meet you. Love your work.”
    “You do?”
    “Yes,” he said. “Sorry we couldn’t find you a part with some meat on its bones.”
    “Gee, Mr. Wattles, I’ll take a skinny part.” I sounded like a moron!
    “But I have to tell you, Vince.” Wattles was one of those guys who says your name every five seconds. I never trusted guys like that, but maybe I’d been wrong. “Your role is crucially important. It sets the tone for the whole picture.”
    I was definitely wrong. Harry Wattles was a prince.
    “Really?” My voice was climbing. I thought, You just screwed yourself out of a job unless they’re looking for boy sopranos.
    Wattles said, “It’s not a speaking part. I assume Chuck made that clear.”
    “He did.” I should have gotten an Oscar right then for pretending that I knew.
    Wattles handed me on to a dame named Celia who outlined the plot of the movie. Jimmy Parker was playing the hero. Celia couldn’t believe a big star had agreed to do such a small picture. She guessed that it was Wattles. Actors wanted to work with him.
    “So what’s my part?” I asked.
    Oh, right. Well, apparently, Jimmy says goodnight to his girlfriend, gives her a kiss at her door. She invites him in for a nightcap, but he has to work early. The girl walks into her apartment. I’m there. I turn and see her. I grab her around the neck and strangle her dead. The rest of the movie is Jimmy Parker being accused of the murder he didn’t commit. I did the crime, but you don’t see me again. Grab, scream, I’m out of the picture.
    Celia obviously hadn’t heard about my setting the tone.
    I said, “Who plays the girl?”
    “Iris Morell,” she said.
    “Iris Morell gets eighty-sixed in the first scene?” Iris was the actress Wattles stole from the big-shot producer. The producer made a few calls, both their careers went down like the Titanic. The gossip was they were having problems, that lately she’d been seen around town with the big-shot producer again. Maybe they were working things out.
    Everyone gossiped about everyone else, most of it was bullshit. On the other hand, Iris had starred in most of Wattles’s films, but now she was dying so early in the picture that if you were in the lobby getting popcorn, you’d miss her completely. That should have told you something—that is, if you understood that secret Hollywood language.
    Celia weighed her annoyance at having to deal with me against her desire to show someone, even me, that she had the scoop on some hot gossip.
    “Bettina Raymond plays the tough girl reporter who shows up after the murder and believes in the guy and helps him clear his name. People say that Wattles and Bettina are a hot