The bar was the only room I’d seen so far that revealed the original intention of the place: that is, to be a hotel of sorts, a resort. That’s what Mountain Lodge would have been had it not gone prematurely broke. This building was, as I understood it, a prototype, the intention being to put up another one like it on the left-hand side of the plateau, and eventually one or more such buildings at the bottom of the ski slope, over to the sides, one would assume. But the project had never gotten that far: this one building was it, and rumor was that a Chicago businessman bought the place and now used it as a vacation hideaway. Rumor also was the business he was in was the mob.
At any rate, the bar was in keeping with what Mountain Lodge would’ve been, had it ever opened. it was also in keeping with the lodge’s schizoid marriage of rustic and modern: barnwood booths with brown padded seats and backs grew out of barnwood walls, each booth having a clear plastic tabletop on barnwood legs; a large barnwood horseshoe bowed out from the back barnwood wall, which was largely taken up with shelves lined with bottles and glasses; and in the foreground of the room were high round tables with transparent tops surrounded by stools with brown padded seats, similar stools lining the horseshoe bar.
Castile sat me in one of the booths-the bar was adjacent to the living room where the filming had been taking place-and excused himself; his wife had already said glad-to-meet-you and scurried upstairs to wash her hair.
But the fat guy in the CUBS sweatshirt cornered Castile, before the director could leave the bar area. The thin blond kid made an inadequate shadow behind the fat cameramen, who was asking Castile if he realized just how bad this snowstorm really was.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Castile allowed. “I mean, we been in here filming all day, Harry. Isn’t that enough to think about?”
“Well, we’re snowbound,” Harry said, “and we’re not filming now. So maybe you better think about that.”
“What can I do about it?”
“You can answer a question. You can tell us whether we get paid for any days we’re stuck here in the snow.”
“I don’t know, Harry. I’m not producing the picture.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m a hired hand just like you I’m being paid through today… which is our last day of shooting… just like you It’s my tough luck… and yours… if we get snowbound.”
“If, shit. We are snowbound. And don’t give me that bullshit about you being a hired hand. You got a percentage.”
“Sure I got a percentage. But I won’t see any of that money… if there is any… until the film goes into distribution, which is months away. So give me a break.”
“Shit.”
“Look Harry. I’ll talk to the money people and see if we can’t get some extra bread to cover any extra time we spend here. But Jesus. It’s April. We’re not going to be snowbound for long. Overnight, maybe. So what say we all just relax, just, you know, just take it easy.”
Harry thought about it, shrugged. A beat later, so did the blond kid, who’d been silent throughout, eyes bouncing from Castile to Harry, Harry to Castile, watching the conversation like a spectator at a tennis match.
Then Castile patted Harry on the shoulder, smiled at the kid, and left.
Harry came over to my booth and looked down at me. He wasn’t tall, but he was standing and I was sitting and he took advantage of that. He poked at the table with his belly, accusingly.
“You one of the money guys?” he asked.
“What?”
“You one of the guys putting up the money for this piece of crap?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I’m a writer.”
“What kind of a writer?”
“I’m doing a story on the film. For Oui magazine.”
“Oh. Don’t use my name in the fucking thing.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Any special reason you want to stay anonymous, Harry?”
“I thought you said you didn’t know my name.”
“I don’t know anything except Harry, Harry. Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
Harry thought about it.
“Hey kid,” he shouted, as though the kid were across the room and not just a few feet away. “Go get us some beers, huh?”
The kid went.
Harry sat across from me in the booth.
“Sorry if I came on strong,” he said. “I’m a little pissed.”
“About getting snowbound and stuck for no extra money.”
“That’s right. It sucks.”
That seemed to mean especially appropriate choice of words, but I didn’t say so. I said, “Don’t worry. I won’t mention you.”
“Yeah, well thanks. See, I don’t want my name in any article because I’m union and this is a non-union picture.”
“Do the unions care if you work on a film like this?”
“Well. Not really. They aren’t strict on it. But they say not to use your real name on the production. And it would also hurt the work I do, the other work I do, I mean.”
“Which is what?”
“I work with an agency in Chicago. I do commercials, industrial films, straight stuff for straight people. If the people I work for found out I moonlighted doing occasional stuff like this, I’d get my ass in a sling.”
The blond kid brought two beers.
“It’s the same with Richie here,” Harry said. “He works for the same agency I work for. He’s a gaffer.”
“Gaffer?”
“You know, electrician, does the lights and stuff. Sit down, Richie.’’
Richie sat down, on the same side of the booth as Harry, who said, “You wouldn’t want your name used in no article, would you, Richie?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind.”
“You’d catch hell if they found out at the agency.”
“Fuck the agency.” Richie’s voice was too young and highpitched for his words to convey any force. “I’d rather do real films, anyway.”
“Shit. You call this crap real films?”
“Jerry Castile is a real director.”
I decided to get back in the conversation. I said, “I understand this is Castile’s last hardcore picture.”
“That’s right,” Richie said “He’s going to be doing some very big things.”
Harry shrugged, said, “That’s what he’s doing now, is filming big things,” and he swallowed some beer.
Castile came back, looking irritated.
“The phone’s out,” he said. “Goddamn storm’s worse than I thought.”
He sat in the booth, on my side. Just us four boys, in one cozy booth.
“I’ll be honest with you, Jack,” he said. “I was trying to call the Oui offices, to check you out.”
I’d guessed as much.
“Oh yeah?” I said.
“Since I can’t get through, I’ll just have to assume you’re for real. But if you aren’t… if you’re with the police, and God knows we’re breaking various nonsensical bluenose local laws in shooting our film… you had best show me your warrant now, and be forewarned that anything you have done or do from here on out is going to constitute entrapment.”
“Mr. Castile, I…”
“Jerry. Please.”
“Jerry. I’m just a writer. Not a cop. Not even close.”
“Good. I’m just trying to be as up front with you as I possibly can. Now. Do you have a tape recorder with you or what? You don’t have a pad, I see.”
“I’m not going to do any formal interviewing.”
“Oh, what is it, then? A reaction piece? Your personal reactions to seeing what goes on on set of a porno flick, that sort of thing?”
“Right. Behind-the-scenes look and all that.”
“You didn’t bring a camera?”
“I’m no photographer. Just a writer. I was hoping you’d be able to provide some stills.”
“I can do that.”
“Fine. You see, Mr. Castile… Jerry… this was very last minute. I got the call late this morning and just started out driving. By the time I got here the snow was getting out of hand, and I guess I’m stuck here like the rest of you.”
Harry belched irritably. The blond kid, Richie, looked at Harry in a weird combination of admiration and embarrassment.
Castile didn’t mind or anyway didn’t acknowledge Harry’s editorial comment. Instead he looked at me and said, “I don’t mean to hassle you, Jack, but I do need to be sure of you.”
“I can understand that. I know about the pressures on people in your business these days.”
“The fuck film business, you mean. Yes. Which is part of why I’m getting out. Going aboveground.”
“Why is that?”
“Hey, fuck films are a dead-end street. Artistically, commercially, every way. And it looks like we’re heading into a repressive period again, and people involved in making films like this are maybe going to be tossed in jail. So I’ve taken an offer from a major studio, and I’ll soon be into safer, more rewarding work. More rewarding in every sense of the word.”
As he was saying this, the dark-haired young woman who had been hunched over the tape recorder in the adjacent room approached the booth and I got my first good look at her.
She was wearing a dark blue long-sleeve sweater that was somewhat loose but clung nicely to her breasts, which were not large, but were there, bobbling provocatively; jeans clung nicely to the rest of her trim but shapely figure. She wore wire-frame glasses with huge round lenses that dwarfed her small, delicately featured face, giving her a little girl look. Her eyes were large and brown as her hair.
She wasn’t as sexy as Castile’s wife, but she’d do.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said, “that we’re going to be stuck here overnight.”
“Afraid so,” Castile said. “Would you call me a chauvinist if I asked you to check out the food situation?”
The girl said, “Yes, but I’ll do it,” and smiled, and looked at me for the first time, and her smile fell.
She’d just realized something that I had realized a few seconds before, when I got that first good look at her.
We knew each other.