“Perfectly. We’ll pay you, let’s see, twenty-five thousand dollars for a week’s work.”
Stone turned to Ciano. “You look like a perfectly sane person, Mario,” he said. “What the hell is Lou talking about?”
Ciano leaned forward. “We have this scene to shoot this week, a courtroom scene, and the actor who was to play the lawyer got a better offer and wants out. Lou and I would like you to test for the part.”
Stone shook his head. “Gentlemen, you’ll have to forgive me, but I come from New York, where things like this don’t happen. I mean, I’ve heard about Schwab’s Drugstore and the casting couch and all that, but…”
“Schwab’s is long gone,” Ciano said, “and don’t worry, neither Lou nor I wants to fuck you; we just want you to stand in front of a camera and read a few lines. If you do it well, you’ll play a prosecuting attorney who is trying to put the client of a lawyer played by Vance Calder in jail. You’ll lose, of course, but you’ll look good doing it.”
“I can’t believe there aren’t a hundred real actors who could do it better,” Stone said.
“That remains to be seen,” Ciano said. “Don’t worry, if you’re lousy, we’ll hire an actor.”
“Actually, you’d be doing us a big favor if you’d do this, Stone,” Regenstein said. “Mario is due to start shooting the scene tomorrow morning, and he doesn’t really want to spend the afternoon casting instead of shooting.”
“It’s settled, then,” Ciano said. “My first assistant director will direct your test this afternoon. We can do it in a corner of Stage Ten while we’re between setups.”
“I’d really need to talk to Vance about this,” Stone said.
Regenstein produced his tiny cellular telephone and dialed a number. “Betty, this is Lou; find Vance for me, will you?” He looked at Stone. “This’ll just take a moment. Hello, Vance? We’ve solved the casting on the prosecutor; how about Stone Barrington for the part? I’m sitting here with him right now, and Mario thinks he’d be great; we’d do a test this afternoon. Great! See you tonight.” He hung up. “Vance is all for it, Stone, so you’re out of excuses.”
Ciano produced his own phone, called his assistant, and ordered preparations for the test. He hung up. “Welcome to Holywood,” he said, grinning.
Stone stood in the dining room of the Connecticut farmhouse on Stage Ten and listened to the young man who was directing him.
“Okay, you’ve had a few minutes with the lines,” the director said. “You okay with them?”
“Seems almost as if I’ve said them before,” Stone said.
“That’s the way! Now, you pretend that the dining table there is the railing in front of the jury. I want you to deliver the lines across the table as if the jury were there, but don’t look directly into the video camera, just to either side. Got it?”
“I guess so,” Stone replied, putting his script on the table.
“You can hang onto the script,” the young man said.
“I think I can do it without it,” Stone replied.
“All right, here we go.”
A man stepped in front of Stone and held up a slate. “Barrington test, take one.”
The director spoke up. “Camera?”
“Rolling,” the cameraman said.
“Action.”
Stone waited for a moment, then pointed behind him to an imaginary defense table. “That young man sitting over there in his nice blue suit looks like a very nice fellow, doesn’t he?” He stopped. “Can I move back and forth along the table?”
“Cut!” the young man said. “Sure, whatever; we’ll follow you. Ready, here we go again.”
“Barrington test, take two,” the slate man said.
“Camera?”
“Rolling.”
“Action.”