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Spain poured him a cup of coffee from a flask. Doyle swallowed a mouthful. The camera followed Doyle’s gaze to a photograph of a pretty, smiling, dark-haired woman on the bookshelf behind the desk. Next to the photograph was a long and probably pointed row of books on the law and police procedure.
Spain proffered a pack of cigarettes, Camels—did they do product placement in the 1950s?—Doyle took one, and Spain leaned forward to light it for him. Spain’s hands were large and well-shaped. His lashes made dark crescents against his cheekbones. As though feeling Doyle’s stare, Spain raised his eyes—and the two men locked gazes.
Probably one of the hottest romantic movie moments Jason had ever seen. Right there with Jennifer Tilly’s seductive Violet when she eased down her bra strap to share her ink with Gina Gershon’s Corky in Bound. Or André Holland’s Kevin and Trevante Rhodes’s Chiron gazing into each other’s eyes as they listened to the song “Hello Stranger,” in Moonlight.
Jason had to wonder if the two actors, North and Aubrey, had been having some secret off-screen affair or if they were just really, really good.
Chemistry wasn’t always sexual. Or even romantic.
Doyle stared into Spain’s long-lashed eyes, and his expression changed, the camera capturing the moment when Doyle realized Spain knew his secret. Knew exactly what he was. Doyle glanced at Spain’s desktop as though somehow the explanation could be found there.
Even in black and white, Jason could almost see the blood rushing to Doyle’s face, and just as quickly draining away. Doyle’s eyelashes fluttered like he was about to keel over, but then he drew back, taking a long, studied draw on his cigarette. He sat very straight.
Spain flicked his lighter closed, put it away. He seemed to be in no hurry.
“Why am I here?” Doyle blew out a long stream of smoke. The use of cigarettes—everything from lighting them to smoking them—really was an art form in twentieth century cinema. Talk about coded messages.
Spain watched Doyle with burning intensity. “Why didn’t you mention you were with the Arlen kid on Saturday night?”
“I wasn’t with him,” Doyle said. “I ran into him at the Las Palmas Club. We had a drink together.” He shrugged.
“Were you with him when Claire Arlen and her brother showed up?”
Doyle hesitated. “Me and half the bar.”
“What happened?”
Aubrey’s voice was light and pleasant, but it wasn’t the voice of a 1950s leading man. In the 1950s, leading men had deep, commanding voices. Aubrey was probably the better actor, but North had the tone and presence of a movie star. And yet North didn’t seem to have achieved movie-star status either. Was that because of his sexuality? Or because out of all the hundreds and hundreds of working actors out there, almost none of them ever achieved movie-star status?
Doyle said, “Claire arrived with her brother, Carl, and asked Phil to come home. He declined. She got upset and said some things. She’d been drinking, I think. Anyway, Carl convinced her to leave. That’s pretty much it.”
Spain grinned, and on screen or off, that would have been a smile hard to resist. “Well, that’s a very careful, factual recounting of what took place. I bet you’re a pretty good reporter. You understand the power of words. Other people we’ve interviewed have used words like screamed and threatened and demanded.”
“Like I said, she’d had a few drinks. Her brother took her home before she could get into any real trouble.”
Spain leaned back in his swivel chair and rubbed his chin. “Listen, Sir Galahad, it might interest you to know that the lady in question didn’t mind throwing you to the wolves. She said it looked to her like you were pretty angry with Philip yourself. Like you were mad enough to kill.”
“She doesn’t know me very well.” Doyle studied the ashes on his cigarette.
“Did she threaten to kill her husband and Pearl Jarvis?”
“She might have.” Doyle’s smile was wry. Yes, Aubrey was definitely the stronger actor. He almost had a James Dean quality, although he seemed more fragile, less dynamic. “I wasn’t listening that carefully, to tell you the truth.”
“Why’s that?”
Doyle said slowly, “I went there for a few drinks and some laughs, but after I got there…I realized that really wasn’t what I needed.”
“What did you need?” Spain asked, and in the pause that followed, Jason realized his heart was pounding in recognition of what a chance these two men were taking at that time and that place in history.
Well, that was the magic of film, wasn’t it? It had the power to make you feel what you could never experience for yourself.
But it wasn’t just the characters taking a risk. The two actors were taking a risk as well. Homosexuality in the 1950s was still classified as a mental illness as well as being widely prosecuted as criminal behavior. California had been more enlightened than a lot of states, but even in California, homosexuals were discriminated against and victimized. As for working for the FBI? As far as the Bureau was concerned—and J. Edgar Hoover aside—there was no gay in G-man. Any G-man.
That didn’t mean people didn’t find a way to fall in love and live their lives.
People always found a way.
Neither man on the screen spoke. Neither man looked away.
The door to the office opened, and a tall, gray-haired detective entered. “Loot, the Jarvis girl never—”
The film clip ended.
That was it. Four grainy minutes of what looked to be a well-made if depressing film. After all, in 1957 there were no happy endings for gay characters. One, if not both, of these guys would be dead by the time the final credits rolled.
Even so, he could see why Georgie Ono would have been eager to recover a complete copy of the film.
He found the email address for Boogie Man, checked the little I AM NOT A ROBOT captcha box, and apparently sent a message without any words in it. Which was maybe okay, since he wasn’t sure what to ask anyway. Where the hell did you find this clip?
That would certainly be a starting point.
Also, probably, an ending point.
Boogie Man’s channel was five years old. The library consisted of nine videos, three of which were partial films. The clip from Snowball in Hell was four years old, and it appeared to have been the last to be uploaded. Boogie Man had not been active for the last two years.
This could very well be a dead end, but it was still progress. Jason now knew which lost film Georgie had been after. He knew why she believed the film was out there somewhere, though he couldn’t be sure that Boogie Man’s YouTube channel was where she had discovered its existence.
He understood why, as a collector, she had been obsessed with finding the film. Just to view it in its entirety would have been a dream come true. To actually own it, to possess it? If a print of the full film did exist somewhere, then what Georgie had told her grandfather was probably true.
More than one of her fellow collectors might be willing to kill to get their hands on that print.
