deal with reporters. I just…”
Good boy, Hop thought. You tell her, Al. All reporters—even the ones with curves—gotta go through us. Me, to be precise.
“… appreciate that, but I’m on a tight deadline and thought you might help a gal out… very exciting story about Mickey Cohen. You’d be playing a part in a big expose …”
She’s taking a gamble with this tack, Hop thought. How can she know this particular lie won’t scare him off, not tantalize?
“… gee, that sounds really important… I do know a lot of guys who know guys like that… can’t really get as far as I have in this biz and not see things…”
Motherfuck, thought Hop. She knows her mark.
“… I bet. You’d probably be of real help to me in the long haul… someone like you who’s so keyed in …”
He could see her lean in toward the puny runt, probably letting him smell her Girl Reporter perfume, all printer’s ink, starch, and chutzpah.
“… anyway, Mr. Winsted, the date in question is October seventh, 1949 … an associate of Mr. Cohen’s may have been at the studio that night, but we need to know if any productions were shooting that
night…”
“… I get it, I get it. A Cohen boy right on the lot, eh?”
“Something like that…”
“… have to go to the log… come with me to the office …”
Hop watched them walk away together, Winsted placing his pimply
hand on Adair’s back like some exec, or an overly friendly maître d’.
Knowing where they were headed, Hop took an alternate route into the adjacent building so he could approach the production office from the other direction.
He thought back to his handiwork with Bix. Hop had rewritten the entire day’s production schedule log and thrown the original away.
As he came closer, he saw the door to the office was slightly ajar, most likely because it was a Saturday near dusk and the place was close to empty.
Hop couldn’t hear their initial interaction, but as they started to move toward the door, Winsted’s voice became audible.
“That’s why you can’t just check the day logs, Miss Adair, or even just the week or month logs. If there’s a mistake, it’s often not corrected until the movie finishes shooting and the final budget is submitted. Looks like they forgot to record the October seventh shoot at the time. From the budget notes here, it looks like they postponed a big scene after setting it up, but I assure you, Miss
Adair, they did plan to shoot that night. Cast called in the whole bit.”
Well, color me surprised, Mr. Winsted. This explains a lot.”
Hop felt pinpricks dance over his chest. But what good, really,
could this do her? A lot. She speaks to other actors on the shoot, someone mentions that Jean Spangler was pals with Iolene .
“Would it be possible, Mr. Winsted, to see that list of everyone who was on the set?”
“Well, sure, don’t see why not. We have no secrets here, after all.”
“Do you mind if I take some notes?”
Hop knew he was standing too close to the door, but what did he have left to lose by now?
“And the extras?”
“On this page.”
“Spangler, Jean. Interesting.” “Yeah? Know her?” “Well, isn’t she that girl who went missing a few years back?” “The one who got cut in half?” “No, the one they never found.” “Don’t remember that. Let me look up her file.” “Why not? Just for curiosity’s sake.” A few minutes of riffling, with Hop standing not two feet outside
the door, whispering Hail Marys to himself for the first time since catechism school.
“Yeah, I guess that’s so. This was her last job for us, that’s for sure. Creepy, huh?”
“Creepy, huh. Guess you don’t remember her.”
“I was still in Tustin in ‘49, taking tickets at my dad’s movie theater.”
As he listened, Hop thought about bursting forward, muzzling this lousy Winsted character. Stopping Frannie Adair in her pert little tracks. But he took a chance: better not to tip his hand.
Good boy, Hop thought. You tell her, Al. All reporters—even the ones with curves—gotta go through us. Me, to be precise.
“… appreciate that, but I’m on a tight deadline and thought you might help a gal out… very exciting story about Mickey Cohen. You’d be playing a part in a big expose …”
She’s taking a gamble with this tack, Hop thought. How can she know this particular lie won’t scare him off, not tantalize?
“… gee, that sounds really important… I do know a lot of guys who know guys like that… can’t really get as far as I have in this biz and not see things…”
Motherfuck, thought Hop. She knows her mark.
“… I bet. You’d probably be of real help to me in the long haul… someone like you who’s so keyed in …”
He could see her lean in toward the puny runt, probably letting him smell her Girl Reporter perfume, all printer’s ink, starch, and chutzpah.
“… anyway, Mr. Winsted, the date in question is October seventh, 1949 … an associate of Mr. Cohen’s may have been at the studio that night, but we need to know if any productions were shooting that
night…”
“… I get it, I get it. A Cohen boy right on the lot, eh?”
“Something like that…”
“… have to go to the log… come with me to the office …”
Hop watched them walk away together, Winsted placing his pimply
hand on Adair’s back like some exec, or an overly friendly maître d’.
Knowing where they were headed, Hop took an alternate route into the adjacent building so he could approach the production office from the other direction.
He thought back to his handiwork with Bix. Hop had rewritten the entire day’s production schedule log and thrown the original away.
As he came closer, he saw the door to the office was slightly ajar, most likely because it was a Saturday near dusk and the place was close to empty.
Hop couldn’t hear their initial interaction, but as they started to move toward the door, Winsted’s voice became audible.
“That’s why you can’t just check the day logs, Miss Adair, or even just the week or month logs. If there’s a mistake, it’s often not corrected until the movie finishes shooting and the final budget is submitted. Looks like they forgot to record the October seventh shoot at the time. From the budget notes here, it looks like they postponed a big scene after setting it up, but I assure you, Miss
Adair, they did plan to shoot that night. Cast called in the whole bit.”
Well, color me surprised, Mr. Winsted. This explains a lot.”
Hop felt pinpricks dance over his chest. But what good, really,
could this do her? A lot. She speaks to other actors on the shoot, someone mentions that Jean Spangler was pals with Iolene .
“Would it be possible, Mr. Winsted, to see that list of everyone who was on the set?”
“Well, sure, don’t see why not. We have no secrets here, after all.”
“Do you mind if I take some notes?”
Hop knew he was standing too close to the door, but what did he have left to lose by now?
“And the extras?”
“On this page.”
“Spangler, Jean. Interesting.” “Yeah? Know her?” “Well, isn’t she that girl who went missing a few years back?” “The one who got cut in half?” “No, the one they never found.” “Don’t remember that. Let me look up her file.” “Why not? Just for curiosity’s sake.” A few minutes of riffling, with Hop standing not two feet outside
the door, whispering Hail Marys to himself for the first time since catechism school.
“Yeah, I guess that’s so. This was her last job for us, that’s for sure. Creepy, huh?”
“Creepy, huh. Guess you don’t remember her.”
“I was still in Tustin in ‘49, taking tickets at my dad’s movie theater.”
As he listened, Hop thought about bursting forward, muzzling this lousy Winsted character. Stopping Frannie Adair in her pert little tracks. But he took a chance: better not to tip his hand.
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