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  “That was in ’fifty-seven,” Bozal said. “They might have recut and reshot the picture to build up one of the other players and brought it out later, but the noir cycle was on its last legs. Welles’s Touch of Evil came out the next year and tanked.”

  He snarled out the side of his mouth. “Universal butchered Evil in post-production; shoved Welles right off the cliff, so of course it under-performed. Nothing’s changed in sixty years except the suits. Anyway, the Oliver vehicle went the same way as its star. Nobody gave a rat’s behind about preservation then. Re-release was strictly for proven properties, the studios had already sold their old libraries to television, and there was no video. Desilu edited down the script to an hour for TV, but none of the networks would touch it, even with a new cast. In this town a bad rep has a half-life of a hundred years. You know the title?”

  “Bleak Street,” Valentino said. “Oliver played a racketeer loosely based on Bugsy Siegel. Only he didn’t play him the way pioneer actors played gangsters in the thirties. The few insiders who saw the dailies said he had an entirely new take on the character. If the movie had been allowed to open, it would have revolutionized the crime film the way The Godfather did fifteen years later.”

  “Not just crime pictures. Acting; only it didn’t seem like acting. Edward G. Robinson was nasty, Paul Muni a goon, Jimmy Cagney was like a bomb about to go off. Oliver was entirely natural; you wouldn’t know he was reading lines. Also it’s clear no stunt doubles were used for his fight scenes. It wasn’t like watching a movie, more like something happening right in front of you, that you might be sucked into any time: disturbing, which was ideal for the form. There was even a rumor he wrote the screenplay himself under a pseudonym, or at least made changes in the text. The plot had all the usual clichés, but I’d stand the production up beside anything else out there.”

  As he warmed to his subject, Bozal’s speech shifted away from street lingo toward more formal language, using jargon familiar to any story conference. Clearly the old man’s passion outstripped his affectations. What was more to the point, he wasn’t parroting something he’d read or heard; he spoke as someone who’d seen the evidence firsthand. The shock of hope Valentino had felt settled into a cozy hum. He had little doubt now what was in the can.

  He wondered if he was a latent masochist. He put off asking the question that was foremost on his mind. Instead he drew out the excruciating pleasure of suspense.

  “What made everyone so certain he was killed? Sudden success can be terrifying. Maybe he just dropped out of sight because he couldn’t take the pressure. It was easier then to relocate and make up a new identity.”

  “His kind thrives on pressure; enduring it as well as applying it. How do you think he did such a good job capturing a gangster’s personality? He came here from New York to work for Mickey Cohen, the local mob boss.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Bodyguard; not that the little twerp needed one. He already had an army on the job. He thought surrounding himself with muscle made him look like a bigger shot than he was. Some folks said Oliver got bored with sitting around Mickey’s house in Brentwood watching Roy Rogers and started making hits on the side.”

  “Sounds like typical Hollywood hokum.”

  “Probably. That last part anyway. But he’d been seen around town with Mickey, shooting golf and picking up dames in nightclubs. When the Bleak Street hype started, the attention got to be too much for his employers. They were camera shy after so many big-time operators got themselves deported or shut up for tax evasion. They cut their losses same way they did with Bugsy Siegel back in ’forty-seven, only by then they’d learned not to be so public about it.”

  Valentino banked his fires. His profession had taken him close to criminal territory before, and he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. “How much of this is likely and how much gossip?”

  Bozal tented his shoulders, let them drop. “In this town, who can say? Is there any other place so visible, yet so frequently out of focus?” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the film can.

  His guest couldn’t hold out any longer. “Where’d you find it?”

  5

  “RETIRED FILM EDITOR died last year; he was there when RKO changed hands. I bought his estate.”

  “Don’t tell me. You bought it all just to get that one item.”

  “No, there were some outtakes from a couple of Astaire-Rogers musicals and six minutes of the original Untouchables nobody’s seen in fifty years; also a Movieola machine in cherry condition and a box of cutting and splicing tools. I sold the tools to a collector for five times what they were worth. I usually make money on these deals. Heck, I unloaded that theater in Prague to Hilton.”

  “I can’t believe I missed a sale like that. What was the editor’s name?”

  “You wouldn’t recognize it. He was out before the industry gave negative cutters screen credit. It was a private deal in Europe.”

  Valentino was certain this rapid-fire response was a lie. Shrewd as he was, Bozal lacked the imagination to make up a name for his mysterious source that would convince a fellow traveler. Most likely he was protecting a favorite fishing hole.

  “You have the negative?”

  “No such luck. Studio security never let those out of their sight, even when the high exalted muckety-mucks decided against release. He probably remastered the film, made a fresh positive, and smuggled it out in the confusion during the change in management. When you think of how much contraband managed to walk off those lots over the years—”

  Valentino broke under pressure. “Just to be clear, sir; it’s Bleak Street we’re talking about?”

  The old man showed no offense at the interruption. He smiled and scooped a telephone handset from its niche in the wall. “Esperanza.”

  Minutes later the attractive young Hispanic woman entered the booth. Her simple red sheath and modest heels accentuated the contours of her muscular (but by no means unfeminine) calves. She directed another brief appraising glance at the visitor, then shifted her attention to her grandfather.

  “Mr. Valentino will show you what to do.”

  “Grandfather, I know how to handle film stock. On top of what you taught me, my teachers gave me a thorough grounding in all aspects of communications technology, even obsolete—”

  “Handling is precisely what I don’t want you to do, niña. Pay close attention to everything this man says and does. If he isn’t satisfied that you can be trusted to carry on in his absence, I’ll have to be a rotten host and keep him at work.”

  However irked she might have been by Bozal’s lack of faith in her abilities, she slid her eyes toward the archivist in a way that harbored no animosity; quite the reverse.

  Bozal seemed not to notice. Still holding the large flat can, he turned to the archivist. “Is there anything you need that you didn’t bring?”

  “Depends on what condition the film is in. I have a kit in the car, but if the integrity is compromised in any way, I wouldn’t take a chance on screening until the techs have had a chance to examine it back at the lab.”

  “‘Compromised.’ The way you guys talk. You’d think it’s a dame instead of a movie.” Bozal chuckled. “No vinegar stink, no yellowing. A little rust inside one of the original cans, so I had the reels taken out and put in these.” He thumped the can, which was made of brushed aluminum and rust-proof.

  “Molecular sieves?”

  “Yup.”

  “How about the reels?”

  “You tell me. I wouldn’t let anyone unwind and rewind the stock onto fresh ones except an expert.”

  It was Valentino’s turn to smile. “Someone’s been doing his homework.”

  “Sure. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.”

  “Then I’m ready.” Valentino slid a pair of latex gloves from his inside breast pocket.

  * * *

  There were five cans on the rack, each containing a reel. Esperanza was a keen student and a fast learner—all the bett
er for her tutor, who was relieved to break free of her spell early. Throughout the lesson she stood closer than seemed necessary.

  He wasn’t flattered. There was something impersonal in her frank interest; calculating, as if she’d set herself a challenge, either to annoy the family patriarch or to win some kind of bet, perhaps only with herself. No, there was nothing flattering about the situation. He was spoken for, and had no intention of becoming a notch on someone’s belt.

  If getting Grandfather’s goat was her purpose, it seemed to have failed. He showed no interest in her behavior, or for that matter in the process of managing fragile film. Valentino suspected he knew more about silver-nitrate etiquette than he cared to let on.

  So why had he been so eager to invite the film archivist to this private premiere? The man was (in a phrase borrowed from Kyle Broadhead) “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma—with a chewy chocolate center.”

  But this sense of unease fled before the prospect ahead. This was how an archaeologist must feel upon discovering an ancient civilization long thought lost. Descending the steps to the theater, he leaned heavily on the handrail; more so than his elderly host, whose gait remained steady. Valentino had gone rubbery in the knees.

  They took center seats facing the curtained screen. Bozal tilted back the top of an armrest, exposing a row of switches and a gridded speaker. “Refreshment? Popcorn, a soda, something with more of a kick? I like to match the drink to the movie, like the right wine with supper. Rum with Fairbanks, champagne with Garbo, beer with Brando.”

  “And with Oliver?”

  Out came the porcelains. “Scotch, straight up.”

  “Still too early, but thanks.”

  “You’ll never get to be as old as me if you don’t start pickling your innards.” He flipped a switch. “?Sí, Abuelo?” came a youthful male voice from the speaker.

  “Can it, Eduardo. You speak English better than all your teachers. Pour me a Dewar’s.”

  Presently a trim, dark-complected boy of twelve or thirteen entered from the hall carrying a tall tumbler on a tray. His blue-black hair was cut close to the scalp and he wore a white tunic buttoned at the shoulder over black chinos, orange Reeboks on his feet. Bozal scooped the glass off the tray and made a sort of magician’s gesture with his other hand. A folded twenty-dollar bill had appeared on the tray.

  “Thank you, Grandfather.”

  When he’d left, Valentino asked the old man how many grandchildren he had.

  “Eduardo’s a great-grandchild; and I don’t know how many of them there are either.”

  “But you know all their names?”

  “I’m lousy at math.”

  Another switch spread the heavy curtains with a hum, exposing a high-quality screen wide enough to display Lawrence of Arabia in all its original glory. He raised the top of the armrest on his other side and lifted a telephone receiver. Valentino overheard Esperanza’s voice.

  “Ready when you are, I.B.!”

  “Cut the comedy and roll the film.” He hung up and closed the armrest. “You got any kids?”

  “No.”

  “If you ever do, first time they tell a joke, smack ’em in the kisser.”

  “That sounds like something from a movie, but I can’t place it.”

  “It’s in the second reel. Shush, now. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s mugs that yak during the movie.”

  Bozal threw yet another switch. The lights went down. Valentino’s excitement level went up.

  6

  A SQUARE BEAM of light shot through the aperture in the booth and splashed across the screen, followed closely by the clickety-click of celluloid frames clattering through the gate; is there any sound more sweet?

  There were a few seconds of blank footage, the lead-in, and then the old familiar countdown began, the letters and numerals jumping due to broken sprocket holes (not enough to damage the film):

  10

  NINE

  8

  7

  SIX

  5

  4

  3

  2

  A broadcast tower appeared, sending out animated concentric circles from atop the curvature of the earth, accompanied by Morse code beeps: the RKO Studio logo, in razor-sharp black and white and shimmering silver, illuminating the image as if from behind; an effect missing from features printed on modern safety stock. The picture was square, conforming to the original aspect ratio, the blank screen on both sides masked by the gold velvet curtains.

  Now the title pounced onto the screen, with a plosive from the string section, the letters standing out dramatically in pseudo-third dimension, like blocks in a prison wall:

  BLEAK STREET

  With a sigh, Valentino settled in for seventy-nine minutes of voyeuristic bliss.

  His host had been right about the elements of cliché. All the allegorical tropes were in place: the revenge-driven anti-hero, the implausibly patient Good Girl, the poisonous Femme Fatale, the Psycho Villain, and the hapless Squealer, shot to death in a telephone booth whilst informing on his colleagues. Bleak Street had, in fact, every disadvantage of a sub-genre on the verge of extinction.

  However, superior performances, edge-of-the-seat tension, and a cloying miasma of dread made it anything but run-of-the-mill. Even the gutter dialogue, boiled as hard as a ten-minute egg and too glib for ordinary conversation, came off as naturally as infection settling into a neglected wound.

  Van Oliver was the keystone. From the moment he made his entrance, stepping down off a train from New York and pausing, only his eyes moving as he stood on the platform with one hand hidden inside the breast of his trenchcoat, searching for friends or enemies (possibly both in one package), the movie became unique, and all his. He was a lean man in his early twenties, with dark Mediterranean features under the turned-down brim of his fedora, piratically handsome. When he opened his mouth to deliver his first line, Valentino half expected an exotic accent. Pure American came out instead, in a casual baritone that took on a dangerous edge when he met resistance. He acted balletic rings around the veteran cast. It was impossible to take one’s eyes off him. Even the scenes in which he didn’t appear crackled with tension, actors and audience alike anticipating his return. He seemed to have star tattooed on his forehead.

  The action scenes—Oliver disarming a rival with one hand, punishing him with a backward swipe of the other, retreating into a pitch-black doorway from the approach of a cruising police car—again with one hand out of sight beneath his coat, ready to commit cold-blooded murder in his obsession with his grim purpose—were exciting and fresh. There was little on-screen violence, however. One of the hallmarks of this school of filmmaking was its sardonic compliance with the stern Hays/Breen censorship code, averting graphic scenes of bloodshed by casting the action in shadow on an alley wall. Like the offstage murder of King Duncan in Macbeth, the device compelled the audience to supply the gory details from its imagination, creating a tableau far more disturbing than any special-effects team could create.

  This was the form, pure and simple: Spun by writers, directors, actors, and cinematographers from the whole cloth of wartime angst, released in an unbroken chain of mostly second features to feed an insatiable appetite for gritty realism. It was dismissed by critics, censors, and sometimes the creators themselves as pulp, melodrama, sordid trash; even subversive anti-American propaganda. It took a colony of French reviewers, exposed all of a sudden to this fare in one undigested lump at the end of World War II, to give it a name: cinema noir (black film). Like so many of America’s native contributions to world culture, it could be traced back to foreign lands, smuggled onto our shores by refugee directors from Fascist Europe, introducing the look of German Expressionism, French existentialism, and the nihilistic view of a world gone terribly wrong.

  Pools of harsh cold light. Cameras tilted at precarious angles. Shadows cut out as if by a shiv. Rain-slick streets stuck in perpetual midnight. It was all conspiracy, wrought by auteu
rs, scenarists, studio electricians, and second-unit crews to create a nightmare that was still there when you awoke. Desperate characters speeding headlong toward destruction, like a sedan careering down a mountain road with a roadblock at the bottom and the audience riding in the back seat.

  The ending riveted. Oliver’s death scene was defiant, not contrite, and bore all the earmarks of a life actually expiring on camera, not at all play-acting. His curtain line—“You and what army?”—belonged in any reference book on great movie quotations. It could not have occurred during the gangster cycle of the Depression—the powerful Catholic Anti-Indecency League would never have allowed it—and its lack of inner conflict was a slap in the face to the standard view of 1940s noir. Had the picture been released, this drastic departure might have revitalized the genre, extending its existence another twenty years. Valentino found himself applauding when the closing credits appeared.

  The lights came up. Ignacio Bozal, lounging now in the adjoining seat with legs crossed, observed his companion’s expression with a smirk. “Quite a show, eh? Paul Newman would never have got a shot at The Left Handed Gun if Oliver had hung around: All that Actors Studio bunk would’ve stunk like cheap aftershave next to the real deal. That’s why I buy into all that hype about mob connections. You don’t pick up that stuff mawking over your little dog getting run over when you were six.”

  “I don’t know if I agree about Paul Newman, but Bleak Street could have jump-started the revolution of the sixties ten years early.”

  “It would also have buried the studio system that much faster. The red-baiters in Washington jumped on any excuse to denounce a picture as pro-Communist; it meant headlines and re-election. The studio moguls didn’t know it at the time, but Oliver getting killed was the best thing that could’ve happened to them. It saved their butts from unemployment and probably indictment.”

  Valentino pointed to where the credits had faded from the screen. “Whatever happened to Madeleine Nash, the bad girl? She looked familiar.”