"Howard Waldrop - Occam's Ducks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Waldrop Howard)

“How the hell would anybody know?” asked the extra, looking around at the
painted square moon in the sky. “This is the most fucked-up thing I ever been
involved with in all my life.”
“You can say that again,” said someone else.
“You,” said Meister to the first extra. “You’re fired. Get out. You only get
paid through lunch.” He climbed down as the man started to leave, throwing his
torch with the papier-mache flames on the floor. “Give me your hat,” said Meister.
He took it from the man. He jammed it on his head and walked over with the rest of
the extras, who had moved back off-camera. “I’ll do the damn scene myself.”
Slavo doubled up with laughter in his chair.
“What? What is it?” asked Meister.
“If . . .if they’re going to notice a guy . . .with sunglasses,” laughed Slavo,
“they’re . . . damn sure gonna notice a white man!”
Meister stood fuming.
“Here go,” said Mantan, walking over to the producer. He took the hat from
him, pulled it down over his eyes, took off his coat. He got in the middle of the
extras and picked up an unused pitchfork. “Nobody’ll notice one more darkie,” he
said.
“Let’s do it, then,” said Slavo. “Pauline? Lafayette?”
“Meister,” said a voice behind them. Three white guys in dark suits and shirts
stood there. How long they had been watching no one knew. “Meister, let’s go talk,”
said one of them.
You could hear loud noises through the walls of Meister’s office. Meister
came out in the middle of a take, calling for Slavo.
“Goddammit to hell!” said Slavo. “Cut!” He charged into Meister’s office.
There was more yelling. Then it was quiet. Then only Meister was heard.
Lafayette Monroe took up most of the floor, sprawled out, drinking water
from a quart jug. He wore a black body suit, and had one of the Ping-Pong balls out
of his eye socket. Arkady had on his doctor’s costume--frock coat, hair like a
screech owl, big round glasses, gloves with dark lines drawn on the backs of them.
A big wobbly crooked cane rested across his knees.
Pauline fanned herself with the hem of her long white nightgown.
“I smell trouble,” said Lorenzo. “Big trouble.”
The guys with the dark suits came out and went past them without a look.
Meister came out. He took his usual place, clambering up the ladder to the
walkway above the set. He leaned on a light railing, saying nothing.
 After awhile, a shaken-looking Marcel Slavo came out.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s finish this scene, then set up the next
one. By that time, there’ll be another gentleman here to finish up today, and to direct
you tomorrow. I am off this film after the next scene . . . so let’s make this take a
good one, okay?”
They finished the chase setup, and the pursuit. Slavo came and shook their
hands, and hugged Pauline. “Thank you all,” he said, and walked out the door.
Ten minutes later another guy came in, taking off his coat. He looked up at
Meister, at the actors, and said, “Another coon pitcher, huh? Gimme five minutes
with the script.” He went into Meister’s off ice.
Five minutes later he was out again. “What a load of hooey,” he said. “Okay,”
he said to Mantan and the other actors, “Who’s who?”
When they were through the next afternoon, Meister peeled bills off a roll,
gave each of the principals an extra five dollars, and said, “Keep in touch.”