6

KARISSA

Karissa had always loved movies. Her first experience in a theater was seeing a rerelease of Disney’s Pinocchio. It had thrilled and frightened her, and yet she had sung what she could remember of “Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee” all the way home in the car. Kids’ movies quickly became her weekend activity until she was old enough to see more adult fare. Her adoptive parents were indulgent and liberal when it came to Karissa seeing R-rated material, especially if they deemed the pictures to have socially important messages. By the time she had experienced the Coen Brothers’ and Spike Lee’s first films in the late eighties, Karissa knew she wanted to work in the business. She attended UCLA film school, acted some, made student pictures, and gradually gravitated toward the production side of the industry. Her twenties and thirties were spent on film shoots in any number of capacities from “runner” to “assistant to the producer.” Her marriage to the actor Willy Puma when she was in her late thirties put a bit of a damper on her career—he had made their union all about him. That was finally over, and Karissa was determined to focus on taking her company to the top.

Stormglove Productions kept an office on South La Brea Avenue in a storefront near 2nd Street. The name was a combination of Marcello’s last name—Storm—and Karissa’s—Glover. The pair had known each other since UCLA, worked separately and together on various crew assignments once they’d gone pro, and eventually discovered a mutual desire to move into production development. They formed a partnership in 2010 and Stormglove was one of the producers of a well-received independent film that put them on the map. Second Chance had taken a top prize at Sundance and was on the short list at Cannes. Although not a blockbuster at the box office by any means, the picture had turned a profit. For the time being, Karissa and Marcello each had a safety net in savings.

Since then, Karissa and Marcello had considered, developed, and dropped a handful of other projects. When the ACLU, the NAACP, and the National Endowment for the Arts got together to create an original film festival that would highlight up-and- coming production companies, Karissa and Marcello applied to be a part of it. To their delight, they were accepted to submit a proposal. Now they had to come up with a script, production plan, and budget for a feature film over the next three months. A total of four pictures would be funded, produced, and distributed with the cooperation of several major and minor studios. It was a big deal, and the partners knew it could be the next step of their survival in Hollywood.

Stormglove’s headquarters was a no-frills establishment. There was no front office receptionist. It was just a big room where Karissa and Marcello usually sat at separate desks. The only other spaces were a smaller conference room, which contained a coffee machine and a miniature fridge, and the unisex bathroom.

First thing that morning, Karissa brought in preliminary research materials and laid them out on the conference room table, where the couple had decided to brainstorm.

“What’s all this?” Marcello asked.

“Biographical material on Blair Kendrick. I think I’ve already outlined the opening scene. She comes to Hollywood all bright-eyed, lucks out in an audition for Ultimate Pictures, strikes the fancy of studio head Eldon Hirsch, and is on her way to be a big star.”

“The bloodshed obviously comes later, I guess. Karissa, I don’t know. Why would we want to make a movie about a white actress who was a flash in the pan and was murdered?”

“I don’t know yet, Marcello. That’s why we need to keep digging and find out what really happened. I’ve barely scratched the surface just searching for stuff on Google. Don’t you find it strange that there’s not much out there about the murder? Or murders, if you believe some of the stories. They claim studio fixer Buddy Franco was maybe Hirsch’s killer and possibly hers, too.”

“There’s not much out there probably because the police never solved the case. It went cold.”

“I think I might have found something else about Blair Kendrick’s story. Look here.” She opened a folder and took out the photograph of Blair and the elegant, handsome black man. “Do you know who this is, by any chance?”

Marcello took the picture and stared at it. His brow wrinkled, and he said, “I think he looks familiar … shit, who is that?”

“Well, there are dozens of photographs of that man among Blair’s belongings. In most of the shots, they look like they’re awfully fond of each other. Look at their body language in the photo. Here are some more.” She laid out four more pictures on the table. “What’s the first thing you would say about the two people in those photographs?”

“That they look like costars. Actors in a movie. Or a stage show.”

“But these two”—she pointed—“are not professional photos. They’re candids. Taken with a home camera. Look at the way he’s holding her hand. Marcello, I think Blair was dating a black man. I want to know who he is.”

Marcello rubbed his chin. “Well, if she was messing around with a brotha back then, I don’t think she would’ve taken him home—they would’ve lynched him.”

“But what if they were a couple? An interracial relationship in the forties. There could be something of a story for us here.”

“She wouldn’t have been allowed to date a black man, Karissa. The Production Code was still in effect. It was taboo. Actors had clauses in their contracts that forbade anything that was considered immoral. They must have been colleagues in something, not lovers.”

“Marcello, there are too many pictures at my house for them to just be colleagues. We need to find out who he is. Come on, you know I have good instincts for a story. All I’m saying is we should find out more. You going to help me or not?”

He studied the picture again. “You know, he’s probably a musician. I mean, he’s sitting at a piano in that one.” His eyes abruptly widened. “Wait a second. I remember!” He grabbed his phone and opened a browser.

“Who is it?”

“Hold on …” He thumbed the keypad and brought up a page with photos. “Yep, I was right. That’s Hank Marley.”

“Who?”

“Hank Marley.” He paraphrased the description online. “A jazz musician from St. Louis who had his own band in Los Angeles in the late forties. He was going places, too, but, let’s see …. Yep. He disappeared. Mysteriously vanished. Suspected of being murdered. He wasn’t active very long. Says, ‘What promised to be a stellar career was tragically cut short by Marley’s sudden disappearance in 1949.’”

“Forty-nine again. That year keeps coming up in this story. Marcello, we need to find out more! There’s something here, I know it. We’re uncovering something dramatic. Who can we ask about him?”

Marcello rubbed his chin and gave her back the photos. “Why don’t I talk to some of my boys who play down at the World Stage on Friday? There’s one guy who’s pretty old. Maybe he knows something.”

“The World Stage? The jazz club?”

“Yeah, it’s not too far from where you’re living.”

“Angelina will let you go out late at night?” she teased.

“My wife won’t have a problem with me going out and socializing if it’s business, you know that. She might even want to come.”

She paused, then raised her eyebrows at him. He cocked his head. “What, you want to go, too?”