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commissionaire and through a back door leading to a sound stage. Here dozens of children dressed in blue tulle and sporting silver halos and wings were pulling at the contents of three boxes of pizza. Walking around them were various floor managers and kid wranglers, carrying bags of knitting in case a dull moment should unexpectedly appear.
    “Ernestine, you can’t carry a wand if you’re going to be an alto! The altos aren’t carrying anything. It’s just the little ones who carry wands, dear. Understand?” I outgrabbed a wedge of pizza from under the nose of a blonde, blue-eyed angel, who gave me a withering sneer. Vanessa led the way through the tulle to a control booth overlooking the sound stage. We walked in and closed the door behind us. On a line of illuminated monitors, I could see a band of brass players in grown-up versions of the costumes I’d already seen. The monitors blocked the view of the studio below from the right, and flats on the set obscured it from all the other directions. In fact, the eight or so people sitting closest to the glass could only see what was going on below through one or more of the monitors. Nobody turned around as we came in.
    The angelic brass players were standing on steps rising towards a set of pearly gates. Highlights from the French horns, trumpets and trombones shone through the smoke or fog that was obscuring what was going on. One of the musicians was coughing into a red bandana that probably hadn’t been cleared with the costume department.
    The control room supported a gloom of its own. The monitors supplied the only bright spots in view. The rest of the illumination came from tiny points of red and green lights shining on control panels. Script assistants read by lights so dim as to imperil their vision. For a moment, nobody looked at us; then, when we were spotted, the producer called “Cut!” and everybody went on a five-minute break, while Vanessa and he had words in the suddenly emptied room. “Eric, I want you to meet my new assistant. Eric Carter, Benny Cooperman.” Carter glanced in my direction and bussed Vanessa on both cheeks.
    “I’m half a day ahead of schedule, Vanessa. In spite of the lighting trouble I told you about. The kids are going to be terrific. Just like you said. I can’t believe this woman,” Carter said to me, “she’s right about everything. Even the effects! You said they’d slow us down and you were right, but I’ve got fifty replacement kids so I’ve cut down on the kiddy breaks. I just use different kids and keep rolling. Saved me hours and hours.”
    “When do you wrap, Eric?”
    “Friday night we’re out of here. I won’t cancel our Saturday and Sunday booking just in case—”
    “Sure, insurance. Use the time for publicity stills. Get somebody you trust to handle the turkey-shoot before you head for the hills of Caledon.”
    “Good idea.”
    “Eric’s really a farmer, Benny. He’s happy as hell with his quarter horses nickering for their lunch.”
    “When are you coming out again, Vanessa?”
    Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “You know you’re way over our agreed budget on this, Eric. I make it at least by three hundred thousand. That’s including your saved half-day.”
    “Look at the film, Vanessa. You’ll love it. You’ll see it’s worth every cent.”
    “Where can you save in what’s left? I need this, Eric! Can you reprise anything? Think, love. You’re too dear for this crapshoot.”
    “I won’t have it savaged at this stage!” he said, pursing his thin lips and folding his arms in front of him.
    “You’ll come up with some cuts, or I’ll get somebody else to finish it. You know I’m not kidding.”
    “Vanessa!”
    “Eric, you’re not Mickey Rooney and this isn’t Judge Hardy’s old barn! Get your ass in there and make the hard decisions. You’ve got the band on tape. Do you need them standing around on the steps? Anybody wearing one of those nightgowns can hold a trumpet. Extras cost