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Chapter Nineteen
Jason considered leaving his wallet until the following day when he’d be tidying up the final odds and ends of his investigation at the college, but no. It wasn’t only his credit cards. His credentials case was in there.
He was a little curious about something else as well.
Most nights there was plenty happening on the UCLA campus: movie screenings, concerts, plays, lectures, sports, of course, and kids just generally fooling around. But on Fridays the research and study center closed at five and the library at six, so at this hour the grounds near Powell were quiet and museum-like as Jason used his access card to enter through the security door.
He was quick and quiet, moving through the shadows of the columns on the reading-room floor. All empty buildings were a little eerie at night, especially a building the size of a small castle. The uncertain light flickered across the suspended ceiling with its mystical stars and ceiling beams. The scent of books, old and new, perfumed the air with dry notes of wood and leather and dusty vanilla. Weird that even after-hours, you could almost hear whispers and the flip of pages.
He reached the elevators and punched the button for the basement. He stepped inside. The doors closed. He glanced at his watch.
Sam would be at the bungalow, and Jason was eager to get home. The phone was better than nothing, but he was longing to look into Sam’s eyes. To touch Sam. To have Sam touch him.
The elevator doors opened on disconcerting darkness.
Not total darkness. But tomblike enough to be momentarily disorienting. The only illumination came from the overhead emergency lights, and that faint green glow added to the general horror-movie atmosphere.
Jason moved soundlessly down the narrow corridor, past the row of locked doors. Despite the shortage of space on campus, most of these closet-sized offices remained unoccupied. For one thing, despite its proximity to Powell Library, this was pretty much off the beaten path. For another, it had all the comforts of an underground bunker.
His nostrils twitched at the smell of cleaning supplies and that odd acidic odor that seemed to permeate the walls. That was vinegar syndrome, the chemical reaction resulting from the deterioration of cellulose acetate. Or, in layman’s terms, it was the scent of old movies dying.
He glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t hear anything and certainly didn’t see anything to make him think he was not alone, and yet…the feeling that he was not alone persisted.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Pop?”
Silence.
Jason reached his office, let himself inside. His skin prickled with unease. He unlocked the desk drawer, grabbed his wallet and credentials, and stepped back into the narrow hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and ducked just in time as something whistled through the air, barely missing him as he jumped sideways and drew his weapon.
He found himself facing… Pop.
Pop, glasses glinting blindly, hair on end, holding a broomstick like a weapon—or the proverbial ten-foot pole.
“What the hell?” Jason exclaimed.
“What are you doing here this time of night?” Pop sounded both outraged and frightened.
“I left my wallet.”
Pop’s face scrunched into an expression of disbelief.
Jason held his weapon on Pop for another moment, then shouldered it. He wasn’t entirely surprised. In fact, he’d kind of suspected Pop might be sleeping sometimes in one of the unused offices.
Pop was protesting, “Then you should have left it for tomorrow. You have no business down here after hours.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Have business down here at eleven thirty at night.”
“I don’t report to you,” Pop said scornfully. “It’s none of your business when I choose to come to work, mister.”
Jason considered the broom still positioned to hold him at bay. He considered Pop’s rumpled uniform and ruffled hair. He considered Pop’s genuine fear and anger.
He tried to make his body language less threating, put his hands out, palms up. “Look, Pop, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.”
Pop took a wary step back. “You think so, do you? Maybe that’s because I know a ringer when I see one.”
“A ringer?” Jason smiled. “What do you think I’m a ringer for?”
“Don’t give me that. You’re a cop. I can smell a cop from a mile away.”
“I guess I need a better brand of soap,” Jason said, “because I’m not a cop.”
“That’s how a cop argues. What you’re really saying is, you’re a fed. I hate feds worse than I hate cops!”
“Why?” Jason was genuinely curious. If Pop was employed by the university, he couldn’t have much of a criminal record. Granted, not everyone who detested law enforcement had a criminal record. Disconcerting though it was, some perfectly law-abiding citizens bore contempt for the agencies intended to protect and support them.
“You ever hear of Evan Foreman?”
Jason hesitated. The name was vaguely familiar. He couldn’t quite place it.
Pop continued to give him that glittery glare. “I guess you’re too young to remember the film raids of 1974 and 1975 when the FBI, the DOJ, and the MPAA tried to wipe out all the indie film dealers and film collectors.”
“What the hell’s the MPAA?”
Pop threw him a look of disbelief. “You ever hear of the Motion Picture Association of America, dumbass?”
Ouch.Okay, fair enough. Jason had been thinking an obscure division of—well, it didn’t matter.
“And you pretend to be a film studies professor!”
“American International Pictures, Inc. v. Foreman,” Jason said. “Got it.” Not the Bureau’s finest moment for sure, being used as a tool for the studios in their shameless battle to extend and reextend copyrights on films that long ago should have slipped into public domain.
“That’s right,” Pop said. “Copyright was intended to be a protection for artists for a limited time. It wasn’t supposed to be used by greedy corporations to gouge generation after generation of moviegoers long after the film makers are dead and gone.”
Pop clearly had powerful feelings on this subject. Maybe that came from listening to archivists for decades? Maybe it was something else? Just because someone had strong opinions about copyright duration didn’t automatically make them a pirate. Plenty of people in no danger of being put to death had strong feelings on the death penalty.
“I agree with you,” Jason said. “What’s happening now with copyright was never the original intent of the law. It doesn’t benefit the original artist or the public.”
Pop stopped ranting and scowled at Jason. “We wouldn’t even have some of these films in this archive if it wasn’t for collectors.”
“I know. I don’t disagree.”
The truth was, about a third of 35mm movie prints still in existence owed that existence to the film collectors and dealers labeled “pirates” by the very studios that had shown no interest in preserving the same films.
“And I find that very suspicious!”
