“I had a better one made, but someone stole it.”

“Stole it? Who?”

Clyde shrugged. “I don’t know. I came in yesterday morning, and the best one I’d made yet had disappeared. None of my boys saw anything. And neither did yours.”

“Do you think someone sneaked in while you were

sleeping?”

“I went back to the house to get a bath and a full night’s sleep. The cleaners might have tossed it out with the garbage, but they claim they didn’t.”

Isaac Bell was troubled that he could not tell for sure whether the young scientist was speaking the truth or making excuses for slow progress. He said, “I’ll post a man in here, overnight, when you’re not here.”

“I don’t leave often.”

“I know. Mr. Van Dorn is impressed by your dedication. Have you heard anything new to do with Imperial?”

Clyde Lynds had made many friends, as was his wont, while wandering the halls and riding the elevators while pondering the knotty science behind his Talking Pictures machine. He shared Bell’s suspicion of the mysteriously wealthy company. “I met an Imperial director who’s taking pictures outside. He got the job ’cause he’s pals with somebody high up in the company. He might know something. Or he might be just another hired hand.”

“What’s his picture called?”

“The Brewer’s Daughter.”

“What’s it about?”

“The hero marries a German immigrant’s daughter, and they live happily ever after.”

“I’ll look into it.”

33

ISAAC BELL DABBED A MIXTURE OF BLACK shoe polish and Pinaud Clubman Wax on his mustache, stuffed his distinctive golden hair under a leather flying-machine helmet, and pulled a big set of birdman goggles over his blue eyes. Then he mounted a shiny black Indian motorcycle and roared up Second Street, weaving in and out of streetcars, autos, trucks, and wagons at breakneck speed. The machine was the brand-new model with an automatic oil pump, a two-speed transmission for lightning starts, and a springy front fork that Bell hoped would help in the jumps.

Leaning into a turn, he cut along the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks toward Aliso. He careened onto Aliso, headed straight for an intersection occupied by an enormous red brick brewery and its bottling plant, and poured on the speed. Closing fast on the brewery, he saw a canvas sign hanging above a roped-off empty lot that read:

IMPERIAL FILM

“THE BREWER’S DAUGHTER”

Extra Players Wait Here

A huge crowd of costumed extras milled around the lot: mustachioed villains, helmeted cops, fat men bulging in loud suits, and dozens of dust-caked cowboys—many twirling lassos—numerous circus clowns, and no less than three female trick riders in buckskin standing on their saddles. Texas Walt was right. Competition was tough. Everyone in Los Angeles wanted to be in a movie. To get the job, you had to stand out.