The Star Stalker

  Taylor was wrong. This was no god. Magic may come from gods, but it is practiced by magicians. And Theodore Harker was definitely one of them. A black magician, carrying an ebony cane which was his wand of power. He had but to point it and men died, empires rose and fell. Today that wand would wave over The Burning of Rome.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harker.” Taylor spoke and I nodded, hoping he’d notice me.

  But Theodore Harker wasn’t responding to any greeting this morning. He swept into the studio, Taki hovering behind, and his eyes were intent on the far horizon. His own, inner horizon.

  “Glad to see you back,” said the guard at the inner gate, but even this allusion to his absence these past two days did not evoke a reply. Harker was down in his private darkness.

  Perhaps it wasn’t gloomy there, for him. But his being there brought gloom to others. For Harker now brushed past the extra-bench without a glance, and I could see the gloom sweep across each ignored face in his wake.

  It was a familiar sight to me by now, but I still felt a twinge every morning that I saw it.

  We had this extra-bench just inside of the front gate. It was nothing but a double row of planks set on wooden blocks, made to accommodate a dozen or so; however, it generally served to seat everybody and his brother. To say nothing of his sister, grandmother, second-cousin-by-marriage, and assorted offspring.

  Casting Director Sam Lipsky called the talent offices the day before when he needed walk-ons, bits, dress extras or crowd atmosphere. It was common and accepted practice, known to all—but still these others came. Came and sat, day after day, hoping for a nod. The off-chance summons, the change of schedule demanding additional help, or just a plain, ordinary miracle—the kind of miracle that was always happening out here.

  They weren’t supposed to hang around, of course. They probably bribed the guard to get this far. And they weren’t supposed to bother Harker or any of the directors. But here they were. The little dark-haired girl who’d jumped up one morning about a week ago and kissed Harker’s hand. The old man with the dyed muff. The sallow cowboy with the hangover. The blonde who looked like Mae Murray, but who wasn’t. And that funny little foreigner with the mustache and the single white streak in his hair, who always showed up in evening dress. He’d been here five days a week for almost a month now; never missed a morning and never got a nod, let alone a call.

  I watched them emote as Harker passed, watched them register eagerness, anticipation, realization, rejection, dejection. The magician did not wave his wand in their direction; the gate of heaven clanged shut behind him.

  But theirs was an enduring faith and so they waited. Waited for another hour, another day, another year if necessary. That was what it would take, no doubt. Next year the little dark-haired girl could be right up there with Norma Talmadge and Leatrice Joy. Next year the sallow cowboy (six-gun in hand, all through with that bootleg hooch, pardner!) would ride the cinematic saddle behind William S. Hart. Next year the blonde would show Mae Murray some real dancing. Next year the funny little foreigner would—but what did he want?

  I had no time to ponder on his problems; my own were waiting for me. “Get an act. Make them notice you.” I had to do it, I knew that. If not, I was no better off than any of these extras on the bench.

  Taylor walked ahead of me now, talking to Harker. I don’t know if Harker was listening. I know I wasn’t.

  Make them notice you. But how?

  “Post!”

  Miss Glint recalled me to reality as she beckoned from the office doorway, brandishing a sheaf of script pages.

  “Take these over to Number Three and see that they’re distributed. I’ll be along in a minute. Come on, get moving!”

  I moved. Harker and Taylor had disappeared into the director’s private bungalow, just around the corner from Number Three Stage, and I entered the set alone.

  The Coliseum was a madhouse. A hundred bearded and bewigged extras swarmed across the bleachers in the background, tangling togas as they scrambled into position beneath the hot lights.

  Three camera crews were setting up their positions around the edge of the arena before the bleachers and the head gaffer was busy with his men on the catwalks overhead. Carpenters banged on the flats behind Nero’s throne and Nero himself was cursing one of the Penny brothers as the makeup man adjusted a laurel wreath on the imperial brow. And over it all I could hear the roaring of the lions.

  The lions were penned into a double cage off at the far end of the stage. Their trainer was talking to a big, burly man in a gladiator’s costume—Gus Gunther, who doubled for the star, Emerson Craig, in action sequences.

  I walked around, depositing copies of script on the vacant seats of chairs fringing the outer edge of the arena. One for Harker, one for each of the heads of the camera crews, one for the actor playing Nero, and one for Maybelle Manners.

  The lions didn’t need script pages. They paced back and forth behind the bars, coughing and growling and twitching. I moved closer to the double cage and one of the lions roared.

  Elmo Lincoln could play Tarzan, but I wasn’t having any. I jumped about a foot, turned, moved away from the cages quickly. As I did so I saw Maybelle Manners enter, wearing the white robe of a martyr and moving with the serenity of a saint.

  Becky, her maid, escorted her to the canvas chair behind one of the camera setups in a spot shielded from the glare of the kleig lights. As he caught sight of the actress, the Penny brother abandoned Nero and bounded over like a goosed gazelle, his powderpuff already poised for action.

  Maybelle Manners sank into her chair, sighed deeply, and closed her eyes in patient resignation. So might an actual Early Christian have surrendered herself before entering the arena for the final sacrifice—even if there was no makeup man present to powder her shiny nose.

  I took a deep breath and moved up beside the chair.

  “Good morning, Miss Manners.”

  The eyes opened. Mona Lisa was staring at me. “Yes?”

  Her husky voice did something to my spine; at nineteen, I seemed to have a spine like a xylophone. As she stared, I reddened.

  “Uh—Miss Manners—”

  “What is it?”

  “I—I think you’re sitting on your script.”

  She glanced down, saw the protruding edge of the pages on the seat beneath her. Then she shrugged. “Does it matter? This is the third straight day we’ve been supposed to shoot the death scene and he hasn’t come near the set.”

  “He’s here today, Miss Manners. I saw him come in a few minutes ago.”

  Mona Lisa frowned. “Then why are the lions over there? Don’t tell me he’s going to do the gladiator footage first!”

  “That’s right, Miss Manners.” Arch Taylor moved up beside me. “The front office tried to call you this morning, but you’d already left.”

  “You mean I came down here again for nothing?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Manners. We’ve got to use the lions today because Ince has them rented the rest of the week. I’m sure we’ll get to your scene tomorrow—they’ll call you this afternoon—”

  Maybelle Manners rose suddenly, brushing aside the Penny brother and his powderpuff. “Come on, Becky,” she murmured to the maid. “Let’s get out of this zoo!”

  Mona Lisa made her exit.

  And the magician entered, right on cue.

  Theodore Harker halted at the edge of the lighted area. He waved the ebony cane. The assistant director moved out of the shadows behind him, cupped his hands.

  “Quiet, everybody!”

  The banging stopped. The shouting died away. The grips and gaffers scuttled to their appointed places. The camera crews stepped forward to take their posts. The extras settled down on the bleacher seats above the arena. Even the lions were silent.

  Harker started over to his chair. I was there ahead of him, picking up the script pages from the seat and handing them to him. I smiled as I did so, trying to keep the pages on a level with my face. Maybe he’d asso
ciate the two. Kid with a script. Always see him with a script. Maybe he writes them. Ought to look into that some time. What’s the name of that young fellow with the script? Post, eh? Post—script. Postscript. Why, it’s like a joke—

  It was a joke, because Theodore Harker didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at the script, either; just tossed it to the floor.

  For the second time in five minutes, I blushed. Harker turned away, cupping his hands to his mouth.

  “Anatole—where the devil are you?”

  A fat man with a walrus mustache raced forward from the sidelines, carrying a violin. As he ran he cradled it like a little brown baby.

  “A thousand pardons!” he wheezed. “I ’ave been most unavoidably detained. But I am ready to make of the music for you now.”

  The little mood musician bowed and scraped, then lifted his fiddle and bowed and scraped it. As I brushed past him, he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Get that goddam stand for me, boy. I was late this morning.”

  I located his music stand near the door, set it up behind Harker’s chair. Harker was striding out into the arena, firing orders, and I listened closely. I mustn’t miss the sound of opportunity when it knocked.

  “Bradshaw, the lights are wrong. This is an arena, the Coliseum, outdoors. That means sunshine, man. Haven’t you ever been outdoors in daylight, Bradshaw? Make a note to try it sometime—but not now. Get your boys busy on those lights.”

  The ebony cane rose and stabbed accusingly at the Penny brother. “What have you done to Nero?”

  “I finished him ten minutes ago, Mr. Harker.”

  “Finished him? You’ll finish me, Penny! Look at that laurel wreath. Go ahead, just look at it.”

  “I am looking at it, Mr. Harker.”

  “And you don’t notice anything wrong? Where’s your tin cup, Penny? I’ll drop a nickel into it and you can keep the pencil.”

  “Mr. Harker, if you’ll only tell me—”

  “I am telling you! The laurel wreath, Penny. You’ve got it set on his head like a crown.”

  “But Nero’s the emperor—”

  “Of course he’s the emperor, but don’t you know your Roman history? Nero was never a regal figure, and the wreath must show this to the audience. I want it worn to one side, tossed on carelessly, drunkenly—the very symbol of his character.”

  Penny scurried off, and then it was Gus Gunther’s turn. The stunt man came up with the lion trainer. Harker fired questions, but this time he waited for answers.

  Yes, the cats were safe. The trainer had a gun, but this was just for show—all four of the lions were tame and toothless. The only thing was, which did Mr. Harker want first, the whole shebang loose in the arena or Gus Gunther’s special stunt work with Duke?

  “We’ll shoot the stunt sequence this morning and get it over with,” said Theodore Harker. He beckoned to the camera crews. “Over here, boys. I want you to follow this, because we’re going to get it all on one take.”

  Gus Gunther was going to wrestle a lion in the arena. Long shots only, because they’d do close-ups later, with hero Emerson Craig fighting a stuffed beast. The cameras would catch the action from three angles at their prearranged positions.

  The cameramen moved away and Harker glanced at Gus. “I don’t want your face in any of the shots. Keep looking at Nero and the crowd. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.” Gus grinned. “Maybe you better tell the lion, too.”

  “No problem,” said the trainer. “Duke’s harmless, you know that. Didn’t you just pet him? Come on, let’s get him ready.”

  Gus and the trainer walked over to the double cage and opened one end. The biggest lion—the one that had roared at me—padded out on the end of a leash. The trainer led him to the center of the arena, stroking his mane. Gus stood there calmly as the lion yawned up at him, sniffed, blinked. Then Duke lay down in the sawdust.

  “Oh, no!” Harker groaned. He turned to the makeup man. “Penny—get out there and brush him off!”

  Penny dropped his powderpuff. Fortunately for him, the trainer was already yanking on Duke’s leash. When the lion rose, he brushed the sawdust from the beast’s flanks, picked flecks from the tawny mane.

  “That’s enough,” Harker called. “Places, everyone!”

  There was activity behind the cameras and lights. Arch Taylor ushered Miss Glint to her chair behind the director. The assistant director herded the extras into a tighter grouping on the benches at either side of Nero’s imperial box. Nero mounted his throne and leaned forward.

  Theodore Harker settled himself in his canvas chair, one finger crooked commandingly. He looked far more regal than Nero, or even the lion.

  “Anatole!” he shouted. “Give me something to wake up that brute—he’s dead on his feet.”

  The fat violinist riffled through the music on his stand, searching for proper mood music to awaken a tame lion.

  Gus Gunther extended his arms, flexed them, then turned to face the audience of extras. The trainer removed Duke’s harness and backed away, calling to Gus. “Okay, remember what I told you. He’s trained to wrestle—just don’t squeeze too hard or you’ll hurt him.”

  Harker gazed around the set once more. Then he stood up and his eyes were everywhere. I followed his gaze across the cameras, up into the newly blossoming arc lights, out past the arena to the extras, back to the center where Gus Gunther faced the motionless lion.

  Everything was silent on the set. And it was a set, nothing more. A crazy tangle of kleigs and tripods and flats and overhead walks and wires and men in shirtsleeves and sweating extras and a cardboard man facing a cardboard lion in a cardboard Coliseum.

  Then Theodore Harker raised his magic wand and uttered the magic words. “Roll ’em!” he said.

  And the dream began.

  Man met beast in the bloodstained arena. An unarmed Christian braved the fangs of the jungle killer, for a mad emperor’s cruel enjoyment.

  Warily the gladiator advanced, arms outstretched. Sullenly the tawny terror circled him, tail lashing in a frenzy. All at once the man sprang forward—the lion rose to meet him—they stood locked in a monstrous embrace—

  “Stop waltzing!” Harker yelled. “Anatole, where’s the music?”

  The little musician lifted his bow and sent forth the soaring strains of “Entry of the Gladiators.”

  “Pick up the tempo!” Harker thumped his cane on the floor in agitated rhythm. “Gus, let’s look alive—you’re not playing with a kitten—”

  Then it happened.

  Man and brute swayed together, and suddenly the lion roared. The huge paws rose, raking Gunther’s back. When they came away I saw that the stunt man’s shoulders were laced with red ribbons.

  Gus Gunther gasped and tried to turn. The lion clawed again.

  “Get him off!” Gus shouted.

  “Yes, get him off!” Harker echoed. Then, to the cameras beyond, “But keep rolling until they do—we can use this!”

  The trainer raced into the arena, shooting blanks from his revolver. The lion coughed, dropped to all fours, cowered as the trainer advanced, then stood silently as the harness was strapped into place. Tugging on the leash, the trainer led Duke back into his cage. An excited babble rose from the extras.

  Arch Taylor was running out the doorway. “I’ll call Doc Rose!” he yelled. Gus Gunther bled his way over to Anatole who gazed up at him, eyes shock-wide.

  “You and your lousy fiddling!” Gus panted. “Don’t you know them cats don’t like music?”

  Anatole lowered his eyes, and his violin. “I am sorree—ten thousand apologies—”

  “Aah, to hell with it!” Gus turned away. “Get that croaker, quick. Them claws is poison, sometimes.”

  “Easy.” Harker moved up to the injured man. “He’s coming now.” He caught sight of the assistant director. “Tell those extras to shut up!”

  Dapper little Doc Rose hurried forward, carrying his bag. He motioned to Gus. “Over here, please.” In a moment
Gus was stretched out on a table generally reserved for portable props. Doc worked quickly—examining, sponging, swabbing, bandaging—

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Harker exclaimed. “No bandages!”

  “It’s necessary.”

  “But you’ll ruin the next take! Whoever heard of a bandaged gladiator?”

  “You’ll have to replace him.”

  “In the middle of shooting? Be reasonable.”

  Doc shook his head. “I want this man home in bed before the lunch hour or I won’t answer for the consequences. He’s been badly mauled.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Harker,” said Gus. “I’ll do it again—but this time, no music.”

  “No. We’ll think of something.” Harker turned away. “Bandages!” he muttered. “The things I have to suffer—”

  “I’ll phone casting,” Arch Taylor volunteered. “Chances are we can get somebody down here this afternoon.”

  “Afternoon? It’s only ten-thirty now. We’ve got a full two hours before lunch. Don’t you realize what this is costing us, with the extras and all?” Harker’s voice was strident. “Besides, we must shoot now. It was planned this way. Can’t you understand that?”

  He was talking to Taylor, but all at once the words were echoing in me. And I heard a different sound; the long-awaited knocking of opportunity.

  I turned and ran out.

  They were still sitting on the extra-bench, all of them. I peered at the faces hastily, hopefully.

  The guy with the muff wouldn’t do, of course. The sallow cowhand was out—he had the shakes. What about that young man over in the corner? No good, he wore glasses. And that party down front was too fat. Then, who?

  He stood up when he saw me staring, stood up and bowed. No one had ever bowed to me before.

  “Can I be of assistance?” asked the little foreigner with the white streak in his hair. His voice was soft, with just the trace of an accent.