Death Out of Focus Read online

  DEATH

  OUT OF FOCUS

  William Campbell Gault

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  About the Author

  Day of the Ram

  Also Available

  Copyright

  For Richard Matheson

  Whose idea it was

  ONE

  He took the new script out to the sundeck and read it there. He had been in New York for six weeks of frustration; he needed the sun. He tried to blank from his mind all preconceptions, the connotations that a Harry Bergdahl script implied, and read this new one objectively, as a director should.

  It was rough going. The script was cliché-ridden, pretentious, pseudo-arty. And yet, when he had finished, some vitality, some sense of truth born of the writer’s intensity, stayed with him. A revision by a competent screenwriter could make a worth-while story out of this.

  He would probably have to fight Harry on that. It would be logical to guess Bergdahl would want to strengthen the wrong elements and delete the worth-while ones in this tale of a young rebel.

  There was a current and comparatively profitable twin tide running in the industry, science fiction stories and stories of adolescent revolt. Harry Bergdahl was a man who had maintained his solvency by never running against the tides. There was a rumor lately that his credit wasn’t as sound as it had been, and Steve meant to investigate that rumor. If it weren’t true, this call from the producer might well be the luckiest break for Steve in the past year.

  It had been a bad year. He was thinking back on it when his housekeeper came out to tell him Mr. Bergdahl was calling. He didn’t want to talk with Harry yet. But he took a deep breath and went into the house.

  Before Bergdahl could ask, he said quickly, “I haven’t had time to do any more than glance through the script, Harry. I’ve been tied up with New York all morning.”

  A momentary silence, and “Oh …? You want to ring me when you’ve read it? I’ll be here most of the day.”

  “I’ll do that.” A pause. “Who is the writer? He’s new to me.”

  “My nephew,” Bergdahl said. “A very talented boy. He’s got three credits.”

  “Story or screenplay?”

  “Two story, one screenplay. Why, Steve?”

  “I wondered. Just browsing through it, there seems to be a buried strength that doesn’t quite come through. A little doctoring would bring it out, I’m sure.”

  “We can talk about that. And I’ve got the lead all lined up.” A theatrical pause. “Hart Jameson.”

  Steve had never heard of Hart Jameson. But he said admiringly, “You have been busy, haven’t you?”

  Bergdahl chuckled. “You get to that script right away and then phone me, Steve. We’re going to have a picture.”

  “I’ll do that. Good-bye, Harry.”

  He went back to the sundeck and picked up the script again. He read: “Story by David Louis Sidney.” Was it Cabell who had said writers with three names are dead — or ought to be? What kind of a man was David Louis Sidney? Coöperative? He would need to be, or they would have a real lemon of a picture. And Steve couldn’t afford any lemons this year.

  He decided to have a talk with John Abbot before phoning Bergdahl again. He hadn’t visited him for months, and today would be a good time. He was going out to his car, when the green Pontiac pulled into his driveway.

  Steve stood in front of the garage door as the man behind the wheel got out and walked toward him. He was tall and slim, with black hair in a crew cut.

  His voice was as soft as his brown eyes. “Mr. Leander, Steven Leander?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Tomkevic.” He handed Steve a card. “Do you have a minute or two right now?”

  Steve glanced at the card, saw the words “Veritable Insurance Company” and said, “I’m afraid I don’t. My insurance needs are well taken care of, Mr. Tomkevic.”

  The tall man smiled. “You didn’t read all of the card, Mr. Leander. I’m not a salesman. I’m an investigator.”

  “Oh …? Checking one of the neighbors?”

  Tomkevic shook his head. “Checking on a Mr. Harry Bergdahl.”

  Steve frowned, and stared at the man. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s applied for insurance, the regular studio coverage, on a man named Hart Jameson. We handle a lot of this kind of insurance, you understand, Mr. Leander, but not usually to the tune of a quarter of a million on an unknown actor.”

  “Unknown?” Steve smiled. “Are you a movie fan, too, Mr. Tomkevic?”

  “I am. I have to be, with the company I work for specializing in this kind of policy. Jameson’s had some good reviews on the bits he’s done, but he’s still an unknown as far as the money people are concerned.”

  “I see. I thought it was Bergdahl you were investigating, not Jameson.”

  “It is Mr. Bergdahl. I’m going to be frank, Mr. Leander. He’s never covered any of his other actors. Doesn’t that seem strange, when you consider the money he’s made on his pictures? And now, with rocky times in the industry, he comes up with this policy.”

  “I have a feeling,” Steve said slowly, “that you’re not being quite as frank as you promised. What’s on your mind, Mr. Tomkevic?”

  “First, he told us he had hired you as director. This morning I learned that wasn’t true.”

  “It’s true every way but technically,” Steve said. “We had a rather firm oral agreement. Does my connection with the picture change the policy risk in any way?”

  Tomkevic nodded. “My employers seem to think so. Your integrity is rather well known in the industry, Mr. Leander.” His smile was thin. “You’ve — never worked with Mr. Bergdahl before, have you?”

  “Never. Are you implying that Mr. Bergdahl’s reputation isn’t all it should be?”

  “Do I need to?”

  There was a long silence. Finally Steve said, “That was frank enough. But what can I tell you? As you’ve just said, I’ve never worked with Harry before. So what can I know about him?”

  Tomkevic shrugged. “Not much, I suppose. This much you can tell me — are you going to direct the picture?”

  “I think I am. Of course, terms would need to be worked out through my agent that will be acceptable to both of us, but the way it looks now, I’m going to do the picture.”

  Tomkevic nodded. “Well, I guess we can stall him until everything is signed. That’s what I’ll suggest to my firm, at any rate.” He waved. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Leander.” He went back to his car.

  So Harry was insuring his young rebel. As a promotion gimmick undoubtedly. Harry didn’t have enough regard for actors to consider any of them worth more than the trouble of replacing them. But why should that bother an insurance company that specialized in this unique kind of term coverage? Certainly, all of the policies of this kind were at least partially drawn for promotional reasons.

  He got into his car and headed it for John Abbot’s. Abbot lived in the hills above Hollywood and had lived there for forty years. He was distantly related to Steve’s wife, Marcia, and had been influential in Steve’s early success.

  He had been a writer, director and producer but was now retired. He wa
s, however, often consulted by those still active in the industry. He was in the front yard of his home, supervising the work of a Japanese gardener, when Steve drove up.

  He came down to the car and said smilingly, “Trouble, I’ll bet. I never see you otherwise. How’s my Marcia?”

  “She’s fine,” Steve said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately, John. I’ve been — scrambling.”

  Abbot nodded. “Everybody in the industry is. Stay for lunch and talk with an old man.”

  Steve got out of the car and came around it to walk toward the house with his host. “I had some New York work that looked as if it might lead somewhere. But it didn’t. It’s a rough time, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe we need some tough times,” Abbot said. “Maybe some good pictures will result.”

  “Maybe,” Steve said. “But scared people don’t usually make good pictures.”

  The house was dim and cool, as one came in from the glare of the day outside. From the living-room windows, the entire city was visible in three directions.

  “Martini?” Abbot asked.

  Steve nodded. “John, Harry Bergdahl wants me to direct a picture for him.”

  From the liquor cabinet Abbot chuckled. “No wonder you’re all wound up. I hope you realize he needs you more than you need him.”

  Steve turned to stare at the older man. “Bergdahl …? He’s certainly solid enough. He never lost money on a picture, I’ve heard.”

  “Until his last two,” Abbot said quietly. “Times have changed, and I don’t think Harry has. He’s a hangover from the days when the public would look at anything that moved.”

  “Lousy pictures are still being made, and some of them are making money,” Steve argued.

  Abbot brought him his drink. “Horror pictures, science fiction pictures, adolescent revolt pictures. How long will the public’s stomach stand for those?”

  Steve sipped his drink and said wryly, “I hope the public’s stomach is stronger than you think, because the picture Harry plans is an adolescent revolt epic.”

  “But he’s smart enough to know it needs the Leander touch. And I’m sure he’ll promote the prestige value of that credit reading ‘Directed by Steven Leander.’ “ Abbot sat down with his drink. “Steve, be careful.”

  “Of Harry?”

  “That’s right. He is going to survive. If you need him now, in order to continue functioning, work for him. These aren’t times when a man can be choosy. But be very damned careful.”

  “I’m not an innocent, John. I’m sure I can protect myself against any manipulations of Harry Bergdahl.”

  “Maybe. Where is he getting his money?”

  Steve finished his drink. “It’s Texas money, oil money.” He looked at his empty glass.

  “Mix your own,” Abbot said. “Is the money actually committed?”

  “I’m not sure.” He went over to mix a drink.

  “I asked,” Abbot said quietly, “because I heard a silly rumor about Harry insuring Hart Jameson for some picture he’d planned.”

  Steve turned. “He’s trying to insure Jameson. Do you know anything about him?”

  Abbot nodded. “He was in Sunburst Alley. He has all of Mr. Brando’s mannerisms and none of his talent. I can’t believe an actor of his caliber is worth too much insuring.”

  He paused and continued. “You know, Steve, the sole purpose of a studio policy is to insure the picture against anything that might prevent its star from appearing. Injuries, loss of memory, death — whatever might affect shooting or cause expensive delays — are covered. The star happens to be the property involved, and his assessed value determines the need, even the amount of the policy.”

  “But times being what they are, just suppose — just suppose, you understand — that Bergdahl needing the money — an accident should happen to Jameson.”

  “You don’t mean — ” said Steve, “that Harry would…?”

  “I don’t say so. I only raise the question.”

  “Oh no, you’re wrong. It’s only a promotional gimmick. It’s not the first time that’s been pulled, is it?”

  “Of course not,” Abbot said mildly. “It’s just the first time it’s been pulled by Harry Bergdahl.”

  Steve said irritatedly, “For heaven’s sake, you make Harry sound like a — monster. He’s not our first citizen, I’ll grant you, but he’s certainly not a — a murderer.”

  “Not unless he needs to be to survive,” Abbot said blandly. “Let’s eat and talk about something else.”

  It was a fine lunch and they didn’t talk any more about Harry Bergdahl. Abbot dwelt, as was his habit lately, on his early days in the industry. Today, Steve listened absently, his mind on the picture.

  Finally Abbot said, “All right, you may go now. You’ve been itching to, for half an hour.”

  “That’s not true,” Steve protested. “I enjoy your company and you know it.”

  “Not when you’re ready to start a picture. You have Marcia phone me. Good luck, Steve. Keep in touch, won’t you?”

  “I certainly will,” Steve said warmly and was conscious of half lying. He was at an age where the reminiscences of the old were discomforting. He was thirty-seven.

  As he drove home, he reflected that a man of thirty-seven should be solidly established in his trade. At least he should know where his next dollar is coming from. He should be able to turn down offers from hacks like Harry Bergdahl.

  He wasn’t. So much for that.

  He phoned Bergdahl as soon as he arrived home. He told him, “I’ve read the script now.” He took a careful breath. “Your nephew is going to need help on the screenplay.”

  “We’re the boys who can give it to him,” Bergdahl answered. “You — weren’t suggesting another writer, were you, Steve?”

  “Not if this one is coöperative. You know him better than I do, Harry.”

  “He’s young and willing to learn,” Bergdahl answered. “He’ll make out. I suppose this means you’re ready to talk terms?”

  “That’s my agent’s headache,” Steve said. “Is the money committed, Harry?”

  “Half of it’s firm and the other half should be firm in a day or two. Look, why don’t you and me and David get together tonight and talk story? Bring Marcia and come over to the house.”

  “As soon as she gets home, I’ll find out if she’s free tonight. Shall I phone you then?”

  “Not if you’re free. If she is, bring her. If she isn’t, bring yourself. Dotty would love to see her, though.”

  Dotty was Harry’s latest, and fifth, wife, a bleached sex bomb who had been cultivating Marcia without success for months.

  Steve said, “I’ll be there. And Marcia probably will, too.”

  He would have preferred talking with David Louis Sidney alone, but perhaps he could do that later. He picked up the script and went into his study. He was making notes on a few of the script’s more painful pretensions when Marcia came home.

  She stood in the doorway to the study and said lightly, “I’ve some gossip for you. I got it from Ellen at lunch.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s about Harry Bergdahl. He’s found a pair of gullible Texans.”

  “I know that.”

  “But you don’t know the funny part, I’ll bet.”

  He said patiently, “Tell me the funny part.”

  “These — cowboys had never heard of any of the pictures Harry had produced. But they knew all the ones you had directed. And Harry told them he had you under contract.” She came over to kiss him. “See? Harry needs you more than you need him.”

  Steve said, “As much, but not more. Marcia, I’m going to do the picture.”

  “On your terms?”

  “On the best terms I can get.”

  “Why, Steve?”

  “Because we have always lived beyond our means and I need the work. And Harry is the only one who has offered me a job out here in nine months.”

  She said, “Because you need th
e work, you are going to go crashing down into oblivion with Harry Bergdahl? That’s where he’s heading.”

  “No, he isn’t. If anyone survives, Harry will. Now, kiss me again and go mix us a drink.”

  “In a second,” she said. “Is it my fault we’re in bad financial shape, Steve?”

  “No, it’s our fault.” He stroked her hair. “I love you, Marcia Bishop Leander.”

  “I know it,” she said. “Why don’t we take a swim and then — well, kind of — loll around?”

  He smiled at her as desire stirred in him. “I’ve lolled around with you before. But not in the afternoon, not lately. You’re being compassionate.”

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s forget the future for a few hours.”

  TWO

  It was later, it was six o’clock when he told her, “Dotty Bergdahl is expecting you tonight. I’m going over there for a story conference with Harry and his nephew.”

  Marcia sighed and stretched on the big bed. “You do demand a lot of me, don’t you? An evening with Dotty Bergdahl — ouch!”

  “I didn’t promise you’d come. I told Harry I wasn’t sure if you were free tonight.”

  “I’ll go, master,” she whispered. “You have rendered me temporarily docile with your ministrations.”

  Later, as they drove over to Brentwood, Steve tried to frame words in his mind, words that would be tactful but not servile, words that would help to establish a working agreement for the salvation of that impossible script.

  The knowledge that Bergdahl needed him would strengthen his hand. The tradition that the director is king but the producer is God would help to strengthen Bergdahl’s.

  They were traveling along San Vicente when Marcia said quietly, “Go in there believing you don’t have to direct this picture. Go in there feeling big, because you are.”

  “Were,” he said.

  “Are. And Harry knows it. Why else would he want you? Out of compassion? Think, Steve.”

  The house was rustic, board and batten, painted a dusty almond, a U-shaped structure with a circular drive serving the front door and a parking area leading off on the right-hand side.

  Dotty and Harry were sitting in the screened front patio having a drink as the Leanders came up the flagstone walk. Harry was in shorts and his thick legs were almost black from the sun.