The Lost Expert, page 20
GIRL
Hey! Mister!
The Lost Expert looks. She gestures crudely. The Lost Expert trudges along in the thin fall sunshine. He turns a corner and comes adjacent to a crowd of people waiting in front of the Mother of Mercy soup kitchen. Some seem at ease, smoking bent cigarettes, laughing with one another, passing around a bottle. But there are also young and elderly couples, their arms tight around their bodies, trying to make themselves small. Babies squall, and children protest and are immediately shushed. Two smiling young women in bright yellow dresses circulate amongst the crowd, handing out something that the Lost Expert can’t quite see. On the steps leading up to the door of the building stand several burly crewcut types wearing short black jackets sporting large Allan’s Army buttons. The Lost Expert stands on the edge of the crowd and watches the scene.
CLEAN-SHAVEN SQUARE-JAWED MAN
(speaking loudly to the people around him)
I can’t get any work. Nobody’s hiring. Everyone’s laying off.
HOMELESS MAN
It’s them Jews and them others comin’ over here from them stinkin’ countries!
HOMELESS WOMAN
Jews, Jews, Jews, I’m sick to goddamn death hearing about ’em.
NEW DAD
(indicating a woman with a baby in a stroller)
Please! There are families here.
The Lost Expert watches a blond woman moving through the crowd, whispering, smiling, pressing something into people’s hands. When she passes, he approaches the drunk HOMELESS COUPLE on the edge of the ragged lineup.
THE LOST EXPERT
Excuse me?
HOMELESS WOMAN
Whaddya want?
THE LOST EXPERT
That woman, what did she give you?
What is she handing out?
HOMELESS WOMAN
Go ask her, you so interested.
The Lost Expert extracts a bill from his billfold.
THE LOST EXPERT
I’m asking you.
The woman grabs the money.
HOMELESS WOMAN
Now we’re talking. But what about Paulie?
Paulie leans into the conversation, grabbing the Lost Expert’s arm and breathing boozy spit on his face.
HOMELESS MAN
Yeah, what about me?
The Lost Expert withdraws another dollar.
THE LOST EXPERT
Show me what she gave you.
The homeless woman and man both open their fists to reveal bright white buttons: Allan’s Army; Jobs for Life; Join Now.
HOMELESS MAN
(enthusiastic)
Jobs for life!
HOMELESS WOMAN
(sarcastic and leering)
You never even had a job for a day!
THE LOST EXPERT
(pulling out the sketch of Beaoman)
Have you ever seen this man?
The woman casts a nervous glance around to see if anyone is observing them.
HOMELESS WOMAN
C’mon, Paulie, let’s go get a bottle.
HOMELESS MAN
(eyes moving shiftily, muttering)
I mighta seen him around …
HOMELESS WOMAN
Let’s go, Paulie.
The woman pulls the man through the crowd. They disappear. The Lost Expert pockets the picture and the button. The doors to the building open, and the crowd surges forward.
EXT. SW PART OF THE CITY, A FEW BLOCKS AWAY, DOWN TOWARD THE WATERFRONT — NOON
In a rough-and-tumble dockland area with processing plants, small factories, and ramshackle offices, THE LOST EXPERT stops to examine a scuffed metal plaque affixed to the door of a crumbling three-storey Victorian house wedged between similar dwellings: Black Birds Records. He looks for a knocker or doorbell, but there is nothing. The Lost Expert pulls at the battered wooden door. It’s unlocked. Surprised, he lets the door fall closed again. He pauses and glances around warily. The Lost Expert bangs on the door with a gloved hand, producing a muffled, hollow knocking. Finally, the Lost Expert yanks the door open again and hurries inside.
INT. BLACK BIRDS RECORDS RECEPTION
THE LOST EXPERT stands inside a dingy reception area with a few torn leather armchairs and a battered desk strewn with records barely illuminated by a lamp shaded in green glass. The dusty telephone on the desk rings shrilly. After five rings, the phone goes silent. There is a door on the other side of the room. The Lost Expert makes his way over to it and passes through.
INT. NARROW HALLWAY
The hall, dimly lit with a single bulb, is lined with framed records. THE LOST EXPERT ponders them. The black discs are elaborately labelled with an angry-looking bird spreading its wings over the title and artist. On either side of the player hole is the phrase “Electronically Recorded.”
The titles speak for themselves: “Black Horse Blues”; “Boar Hog Blues”; “Waitin’ for the Sunrise”; “Just a Little Longer to Go”; “Trixie’s Blues”; “Cross Road Blues”; “Looking to My Prayer”. Titles of longing and seeking. Titles of need deferred, of salvation and sin. The Lost Expert stares at each one in turn and, at the last one, he gently drags a long finger down the glass, clearing off the dust.
The Lost Expert walks down the hallway. He opens the first door, which leads into a recording studio. Peering in, he sees an empty room filled with unfamiliar, neglected equipment: microphones on stands, large box speakers, an array of turntables, tangled heaps of wires, all of it covered in a thick layer of neglect and dust.
INT. NARROW STAIRCASE
THE LOST EXPERT ascends a narrow stairway. Faintly, we hear music that grows louder as he makes his way up. A guitar repeats the same sad blues lick over and over. Then there is rhythm: drums and a plaintive horn. A woman sings, hoarse voice low and pleading. The Lost Expert arrives at the top of the stairs. The music is very loud now, and the singing descends into a keening moan as one guitar repeats the melodic core and another guitar rips into a ferocious blues solo.
INT. A LARGE OFFICE
THE LOST EXPERT squints as he enters the room, which is flooded with greyish light from the long windows overlooking the street below. There is an elaborate white wooden desk, a meticulously carved white sofa with maple trim, and matching armchairs. On the walls are more records in white frames. The Lost Expert inspects the framed record titled “(Good) God Gonna Come” by Bessie Styles and the Beehives. Electronically recorded, of course. GEORGE JASON PAULSON, a man in his early sixties with long white hair and a white beard, sits behind the ornate white wooden desk. Behind him on a matching white credenza is an all-white record player and a full bar. A record made of white vinyl embedded with swirls of crimson revolves on the record player. The man, in a crumpled white suit, waistcoat, and bow tie, intently reads an official-looking letter. When the song ends, the needle scratches slightly and remains in the final groove. The white-suited man looks up, annoyed. He sees the Lost Expert and takes the needle off the record. The room plunges into silence. The man in the white suit stands up and extends his hand. The men shake.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
(in an affected, guttural cockney accent)
Well, hello there! George Jason Paulson, at your service!
THE LOST EXPERT
Fine to meet you.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
(motioning to the bar)
Can I offer you something?
THE LOST EXPERT
No, thank you.
Paulson pours himself a healthy portion of bourbon.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Foul stuff you Yanks drink, but I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat partial to it.
The phone rings downstairs, and George Jason Paulson shakes his head apologetically. He smiles impishly, and in that smile we can see that he is older and more exhausted than he makes himself out to be.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON (CONT’D)
Girl’s quit again. Well, we’re a bit late on her pay, to be honest. That’s the business for yah. Now then, how can I be of assistance?
THE LOST EXPERT
I’m interested in a record your label released.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Label’s released a lot of records.
THE LOST EXPERT
That record there, as a matter of fact.
The Lost Expert points to the wall and “(Good) God Gonna Come”.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Yeah, I’m familiar with the album, mate. What do you want to know? You lot have been coming around quite a bit lately.
George Jason Paulson looks curiously at the Lost Expert.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON (CONT’D)
Mind, you don’t look like a newsie.
THE LOST EXPERT
I’m not a reporter.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Not a reporter. But still ’ere asking questions.
THE LOST EXPERT
I have a friend. That record. It
helped him.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
(softening)
Is that right?
THE LOST EXPERT
(taking out his billfold)
I can pay you for your time.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
No, no, not necessary.
George Jason Paulson sits down in one of the chairs in front of his desk and gestures for the Lost Expert to do the same.
THE LOST EXPERT
You mentioned there had been other inquiries regarding that record?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Steady stream, guv, a steady stream.
THE LOST EXPERT
Why the interest?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
(looking oddly at the Lost Expert)
The Ashberry Three?
THE LOST EXPERT
(shaking his head)
Another act?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Where you been, mate? It’s been in all the rags. The Ashberry Three? Ashberry, North Carolina?
The Lost Expert shakes his head again, perplexed.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON (CONT’D)
Three fourteen-year-old girls sneak off in the middle of the night into the woods? Southern town, Ashberry, real small place with a river running into a whole lotta swampy woods. Gators and all that. Only here’s the thing: them birds are never seen again. Only thing they find is some weird-looking shrine, deep in the swamp, buncha animals ripped apart, cats and dogs and opossums, all arranged inside a pentagram, as if we didn’t get the general idea. And right in the middle of it all, good old Bessie Styles and the Beehives. It’s playing on a record player. Just spinning and spinning round and round in the middle of those dark, empty woods. Now, how does that happen, guv’nor?
THE LOST EXPERT
What song?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
What song?
THE LOST EXPERT
Yes. What song?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Track thirteen, ’course! The secret track.
THE LOST EXPERT
“Disappeared By Blues”.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
That’s the one.
THE LOST EXPERT
(monotone)
“Devil’s disappeared me / took me to his place / dark coven underneath / gone without a trace.”
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
(sadly)
Yeah, that’s the one.
THE LOST EXPERT
And the girls?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Not a sniff of them. Said it yourself, didntcha? Gone without a trace.
THE LOST EXPERT
Did they run away?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Could be, could be. Nobody’s seen them. They had five hundred volunteers searching the swamp! Course they’re blaming it on us. Devil music, Satan’s blues, Black voodoo. They don’t always put it in the politest of terms.
THE LOST EXPERT
And the act?
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Bessie Styles and the Beehives? Weren’t a real band, not a proper act at all. Found Bessie in Littleton, years back. Not far from Ashberry, come to think of it. That would have been the summer of 1919. Terrible heat that summer. You wouldn’t believe the heat. But Bessie was cool as a cucumber. She was just a slip of a thing. Heard her singing as she was sweeping her mammy’s porch. What a voice! I rounded up a band to record her the very next day. Paid her fifty dollars on the spot. Most money she’d ever seen! I had no idea what she was singing about. Old folk songs, call and response, stuff from the sugarcane fields, bits and pieces she’d picked up, I suppose. I’ll never know. Never saw her again. Not even sure if that was her real name.
THE LOST EXPERT
You never saw her again?
Paulson doesn’t answer. He stares intently at the Lost Expert as if seeing him for the first time.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Listen, I don’t want trouble. Especially these days. Just between you and me, we’re shutting down the enterprise. I got a ticket booked, passage back to England. Go back home for a while. Change in the weather, right? Winds is shifting, mate.
THE LOST EXPERT
I think I know what you mean.
The phone rings again.
THE LOST EXPERT
(pulling out the drawing)
Have you ever seen this man?
Paulson peers down at the picture then puts on a fake smile showing yellow, crooked teeth.
GEORGE JASON PAULSON
Never seen the bloke. Listen, I don’t know what I can do for you. It’s like I said. I don’t want trouble. Closing shop for a while. Heading home. If I were you, guv’nor, I’d forget about whatever this is.
Section 16
CHRIS STOOD BEHIND THE screen in the back of the trailer in a pair of grey, tight-fitting silk boxers. Groggily, he looked down at his bare feet. The Lost Expert outfit lay crumpled on the buffed floor. The hiking pants were worn, and the tweed jacket was splattered with mud and had a rip in the shoulder Chris hadn’t noticed before. He hooked his finger through the rip and slowly raised the Lost Expert’s crumpled garment to his nose, inhaling deeply. The jacket smelled familiar: sweat and smoke, soggy boy armpits, wet woods, soaking feet. Where had he been?
“Yoo-hoo? Thomson?” A woman’s voice followed by light knocks on the trailer’s already opened door.
Chris rubbed the thick, sturdy fabric of the Lost Expert’s trousers between a flat thumb and forefinger.
“Thomson? Anyone home?”
On hangers was the ubiquitous outfit: Thomson Holmes’s tight jeans, a purple V-neck sweater, a mauve T-shirt that felt like it was bonding with his skin as he pulled it on.
The door to his trailer squeaked closed.
“Alison?” He hurriedly fumbled with the buttons of his fly. No one else had permission to come into his trailer. No one else would dare.
“Thomson? Are you in there?”
It was starting to gloom over, the light through the trailer’s high, narrow windows casting long shadows. Almost evening, Chris thought. The realization did nothing to pull him out of his muddy sense of being in between. When he was acting, he disappeared. There was just the Lost Expert. But when it was over, it was almost like what he figured jet lag might be like — a groggy, confused dis-awareness separated from the temporal by a thick haze sticking to everything. Tough terrain to slog through. Do they know? Have you told them yet? What about the agreement?
“Thomson?” The voice, high and gentle, with just a hint of steel, like a wire bridge swaying resolutely in a storm.
Darlia, he realized with a mixture of fascination and dread. Outside of their scenes, Chris had barely seen her since their strange encounter.
“Yoo-hoo?”
He poked his head out from behind the screen.
“Oh, there you are. What are you doing back there?” She wrinkled her nose curiously. Chris grabbed the sweater and quickly pulled it over his head. Darlia followed his movements with predatory alertness.
“Do you mind if I …?”
She crossed the trailer and, moving to the minibar, poured them both two fingers of vodka. “Don’t you have any ice? Oh, well, never mind.”
Darlia handed him a glass, then gracefully settled on the settee, patting the space beside her. She was dressed in a green velvet outfit that made her look like a cross between a punk park ranger and a pixie huntress. Her hair was up in a casual yet expensive-looking braided bun. She had her own stylist on set. She was smiling implacably.
Darlia patted the small space next to her again.
“Sit down with me.” She pouted.
Chris hesitated. The sun was setting.
“C’mon, I won’t bite.” Darlia’s giggle was like crystal champagne flutes clinking. Chris considered her again. Her smile was small and pointed and perfect. She probably would bite. But he was pulled in by her pulsing shimmer, that undercurrent of potential implosion — no wonder they called them stars.
Darlia’s perfectly manicured hands were folded over something that sat on the small space created by her crossed legs. It was a document of some sort, bound with a plastic spiral. Chris felt a surge of excitement. Was that it? Surely Darlia, of all people, would have it: the script, master plan to Reed’s giant mess of a movie.
He wedged in next to her, instantly enveloped in her intricate, expensive scent of lemon, almonds, and pine.
“You were fantastic today, Tommy,” Darlia purred.
“You too,” Chris murmured.
“You’re really helping me, you know,” Darlia continued. “Really grounding me. You’re so different now. So intense and focused. It’s amazing.”
She put her small head on his shoulder. He felt her needy languor spreading through him.
Darlia spoke, and Chris listened. She talked about Reed’s vision, about how her character was developing into something far more interesting than she’d originally thought. Chris nodded along, occasionally glancing down at her lap, hoping to see the cover page, but her fingers covered the upper half.
