The public records section at the Glendale Library smelled like cardboard and heat. James sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor with a stack of Variety issues leaning precariously against the base of the microfilm cabinet. He flipped slowly through the yellowing pages, scanning production notes, crew credits, and back-page ads for rental houses and union locals.
He was looking for names not the top ones, just the second or third listed. The people who weren't famous. People who worked fast and cheap, and who had at least shot something that made it to a screen, however small.
He jotted each on a legal pad under the heading:Cinematographers (Low Budget – Horror/Genre)
He remembered a few off the top of his head from films he'd seen in his old life, mostly Corman pictures and indie exploitation flicks that survived on word of mouth. Some of them probably didn't even work anymore. Others might've already moved on to bigger projects. It didn't matter. He needed ten names.
By late afternoon, he had a list that looked like a cross between a crew sheet and a longshot betting form. Some of the entries had full numbers from production companies. A few were vague references like "ask at Glendale Equipment Rentals." One had a P.O. box.
James walked back to the office and handed the pad to Linda, who was already sorting the week's expenses.
She looked at the list, flipped a few pages, then raised an eyebrow.
"You're going to call all of these?"
"Yeah. You can help me log responses."
"You want me to talk to them?"
"No. Just track what happens."
Linda reached for her notepad, uncapped her pen, and said, "Alright. What are we offering them?"
"Reality."
She snorted once. "So nothing."
"Four hundred a day. Maybe five, if we go under ten days."
She wrote that down like it was already being used as evidence.
James sat at his desk and picked up the phone. The hum on the line sounded louder today like even the dial tone was skeptical.
He turned to Linda. "Ready?"
"Always," she said. "But I hope you're good at rejection."
He dialed the first number on the list.
And the real work began.
The first three calls went straight to dead numbers.
Disconnected. Static. One rang nine times before cutting off with a mechanical click.
Linda marked a red X beside each and kept writing.
The fourth was a rental house in North Hollywood that claimed to have worked with "the New World Pictures crowd." When James asked for a cinematographer by name, the woman on the line paused and said, "He hasn't worked out of here since '76. Try his agent." She didn't offer the agent's number.
The fifth answered. A man with a tired voice and a smoker's cough.
"Who gave you this number?" the man asked.
"I found it in a listing from Variety."
The man chuckled once, without warmth. "Tell you what, kid. If I wanted my name in Variety, I'd have bought an ad."
Then he hung up.
James scratched his chin and moved on.
Some calls made it further. One DP Steve, something said he was between gigs and might be interested. Then asked if the job was union. When James said no, the call ended ten seconds later.
Another man sounded interested until he heard James was eighteen. "Call me in five years when you've screwed something up," he said. "Then you'll know how to run a set."
Linda didn't say much during the calls. She just logged the names, circled the few that didn't go horribly, and drew a horizontal line across the page whenever they finished a batch of five.
By late afternoon, James's voice was hoarse, and they had exactly two maybe's both soft, both vague. One had asked for the full script. The other requested a shooting schedule James didn't have.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes.
Linda placed a small index card on his desk.
Cundey – 818 area code – Found in '77 Equipment Rental ad
James sat up straight. "You found a number?"
"Loosely. It's probably old. Might be a general listing."
He took the card, read it again. "Thanks."
"I wouldn't get your hopes up," she said. "If he's that good, you're not the only one trying to reach him."
James nodded. "Still worth a shot."
He dialed. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Five times.
Then silence.
No pickup. Just a quiet click.
He replaced the receiver slowly.
"Anything?" Linda asked.
"Nothing."
She shrugged. "Mark it and move on."
James did. But he didn't cross it out.
He left the name untouched. Underlined.
The last long shot on the page.
The office was quiet near closing.
James sat slouched in his chair, staring at the ceiling, a legal pad resting on his stomach with five names crossed out and two circled faintly in pencil. Linda was finishing the week's expenses double-checking receipts, adding a new roll of paper to the calculator.
The phone rang.
Not sharply. Just once, then again. A long, even tone.
Linda picked it up like she always did. "Fantasy Pictures."
She paused.
Then turned slowly to James and covered the receiver with her palm.
"He said his name is Cundey."
James sat upright.
She handed him the phone like it was hot.
He cleared his throat. "This is James."
"Dean Cundey."
His voice was calm. Even. Not warm, but not irritated either.
"You called earlier," Cundey said.
"I wasn't sure it was the right number," James said.
"It was."
There was a beat of silence.
James continued, tone measured. "Thanks for calling back. I appreciate it."
"Let's not waste time," Cundey said.
"Yes. My company's first film. It's written. Registered. I'm directing."
"Who's producing?"
James hesitated. "Me."
"You got a crew?"
"Not yet."
"Money?"
"Privately funded. Tight but clean."
"Union?"
"No."
"What's the shoot?"
"Ten days, maybe twelve. Single location. Mostly exteriors, few interiors. Low dialogue, high action."
Another pause.
"You shot anything before?" Cundey asked.
"Animation."
Another pause.
James waited.
Then Cundey said, "Send me the script."
"I can do that."
"If it's trash, I won't call back. If it's halfway decent, we'll talk."
"That's fair."
Cundey gave him a PO box address in Studio City. Nothing fancy. Just a number and a zip code.
"Put your name on the front. Label it clearly. Include a number. No cover letter."
"Understood."
Then the line went dead.
James sat there for a moment, phone still in hand.
Linda didn't ask. She could tell from his face it wasn't a yes but it wasn't a no, either.
He stood, opened his drawer, and pulled the second copy of the script he'd printed that morning. He found an envelope, addressed it by hand, added the phone number, and sealed it.
Linda watched him tape it shut.
"That him?" she finally asked.
"Yeah."
She nodded once. "Okay."
He didn't say anything else.
Just walked out the door and toward the mailbox at the corner.