Slythe, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of sunglasses, a camera hanging around his neck, stood in line for the Centurion Studios back-lot tour. He didn’t have a reservation, but he bought a place in line for a hundred dollars from a college kid who was happy to have the money, and joined the group of starstruck tourists being led through the Centurion gate onto the lot.
Their guide was a young production assistant with an insider’s arrogance and enough knowledge to get by.
“Now then,” he said, “we’re going to be walking through the sets where we shoot our street scenes. You may recognize them from the movies and TV. The same streets have appeared in many movies, slightly redressed, with different street signs, different windows, a different saloon door.”
“Saloon door?” a big man in a straw hat said. He had a booming voice, louder than that of the guide’s. “We’re in New York City.”
They were indeed walking down a Manhattan street, easily recognizable by the police station with an NYPD police car parked out front.
“Yes, we are,” the guide said, “but if we turn right at the corner, I think you’ll get the idea.”
They did, and found themselves in front of a charming French café with tables on the street. A scene from An American in Paris could have easily been filmed there.
“See? Another street, another country, another time period. Our saloon door should be up on the left.”
The group turned another corner and found themselves on a dusty street with hitching posts and water troughs, a saloon, a hotel, and a sheriff’s office.
“There you go,” the guide said. “Throw in a few horses and extras, and you’re set for your gunfight at high noon.”
“Where are the actors?” a girl wanted to know. She was of high school age, and clutched an autograph book.
The guide smiled. “Of course, everyone wants to see the actors. I’m afraid they’re filming inside today. We can’t enter the studio, but you might see someone on the way to their trailer or going out to lunch.”
As if on cue, a man rounded the corner and came walking down the street.
“And look who that is,” the guide said.
People craned their necks eagerly, whispering guesses as to who it was.
“That’s special-effects wizard Fred Russell,” the guide announced, and the crowd deflated. A technical wizard was not who they wanted to see. “Hey, Russell, how’s it going?”
“Busy, busy, busy,” Russell said, strolling up. “This film has a lot of special effects.”
“What are you working on now?”
Russell had clearly done this many times and had his own line of canned patter. “This film has a zillion gunshots. For a contemporary thriller that’s not a cops-and-robbers, that’s rare. You can’t shoot live bullets at the actors, because they’re expensive to replace. We do it with blanks and squibs. If someone gets shot, it looks like they’ve been shot, but they can get up and walk off the set. I’m responsible for every gunshot in the movie. If there’s one live round, I lose my job. And it’s not great for the actor either.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows at the joke, which landed with a thud.
Russell was carrying a bag. He set it down on the empty water trough and took out a gun. “Here’s your basic gun. A .38 Smith & Wesson revolver.” He swung open the cylinder and took out the shells. “And here’s your bullets. You can see they’re all blanks. Just a shell and a charge.” He reached in his bag again. “And here’s a live round. You can easily tell the difference because you can see the top of the rounded bullet.” Russell reloaded the barrel and snapped it closed. “And there you are. A perfectly safe, personally inspected movie prop.”
The man in the straw hat wasn’t buying it. “Can I see the other bullet?”
“Oh, I put it away,” Russell said. “But, trust me, it’s perfectly safe. I stand behind my work. Actually, I stand in front of it. I can’t let any gun be aimed at an actor that I wouldn’t have aimed at me.” He looked over the crowd. “Who wants to shoot me?”
“I do,” the man in the straw hat said.
The guide chuckled and returned to his tour script. “I’m sorry to be a party pooper, but for insurance purposes we can’t let any guest fire a gun on the property. I’ll shoot Russell.”
The guide took the gun and stepped out in the street. Russell stepped out and faced him. “Think you can hit me from fifteen feet?”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
The schoolgirl giggled nervously.
“And draw!”
Russell drew an imaginary gun and aimed his finger.
The guide fired.
Blood gushed from Russell’s chest. He jerked backward and collapsed in a heap.
There were gasps of shock and awe.
“Oh, my God!” the guide said. He rushed to the fallen man.
Russell leaped to his feet with a ta-da! gesture. “And he’s still alive!” he declared. “Movie magic. You knew it was coming and you still bought it. That’s why I showed you the real bullet. So in your mind, for a split second, you’d think I mixed them up.” He pointed to his bloody shirt. “It’s a blood bag and a squib, of course. I set it off with a detonator in my pocket. Pretty neat, huh?”
The tour group applauded halfheartedly. It was good theater, but it wasn’t making up for the fact that there were no actors.
“So when do we see the cast?” Slythe said.
“I told you,” the guide said, “they’re filming inside today.” A chorus of disappointed murmurs coursed through the crowd.
The guide continued, “But if you’re still in town tomorrow, they’ll be shooting outside in the vicinity of Sunset and Main, on a construction site. Russell will be working, because they’re actually filming a gunfight on a five-story-high steel girder. That’s a shoot-out between Devon and Leonard Kirk.”
The schoolgirl wasn’t impressed. “Who?” she said.
“Those are the names of the characters in the movie. Leonard Kirk is an actor named Mark Weldon. And Devon”—the guide drew it out, teasing her—“is the star of the movie, Brad Hunter!”
There were oohs and aahs. The schoolgirl practically swooned.
“Hang on,” Slythe said. “That won’t be the actors. That will just be stuntmen.”
The guide put up his hands. “Brad Hunter’s scene on the high beam will be shot with a stuntman. Mark Weldon is a stuntman, so will perform himself. But Brad and Mark will both shoot the same scene on a low girder just a few feet off the ground. They’ll actually shoot most of it there. The high beam is just for the stunt.”
“And what’s the stunt?” Slythe wanted to know.
“Oh. Brad shoots the bad guy, and he falls off the beam, down five stories to his death.”
Slythe smiled. “No kidding.”