Murder on the Yellow Brick Road by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

a psychiatrist.
    Roloff was equally tweedy and even more grey than Fleming though about ten years younger.
    â€œDr. Roloff has been kind enough to give me some ideas for my next picture,” Fleming explained, “a version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
    I must have looked surprised because Fleming added, “I know its been done with Freddie March. A good film, but I have some ideas and Spencer Tracy is interested. But that’s another game. What can I do for you, Peters? Can we get you something to eat?”
    â€œNothing to eat, just some information and I’ll get out of your conference. The police talked to you today about an argument you saw between two people dressed in Munchkin suits.”
    Fleming nodded and I went on.
    â€œWhat exactly did you see and hear?”
    â€œVery little,” said Fleming, taking a belt of coffee. “I was coming back from breakfast with Clark Gable, and we saw the two little people arguing. Clark looked. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had a year of working with them. Most of them were fine, but a lot of them were a pain in the ass. They argued, disappeared, showed up late. Once they screwed up a take on purpose by singing “Ding Dong the Bitch is Dead”. I didn’t notice it. The sound man didn’t notice it. We had to reshoot it.”
    â€œIt’s not surprising,” Roloff put in, “short people, midgets especially, are sometimes inclined to be highly agressive toward normal size people. They’re also inclined to use obscenity more than the average to assert their adultness, to overcompensate. I had one midget as a patient who knew he was overcompensating with big cigars and sexual overtures to full-sized women. He knew he looked ridiculous and obscene to others, but he couldn’t stop. It was a kind of self hate, a punishment for himself. It’s hard to live your life knowing that whenever you go out on the street people will stare at you. Exhibitionism may result or the person may become a shy and bitter recluse.”
    â€œJust like movie stars,” I added.
    â€œSure,” said Roloff.
    â€œSorry I can’t help you, Peters,” Fleming joined in. “I can give you a lot of stories about Munchkins, but I don’t think it will help. It just supports what Dr. Roloff has been saying. I’ll give you an example. One of them got drunk one day and almost drowned in a toilet. Another time one of them pulled down his drawers in a crowd scene. We didn’t even notice that the first time through the rushes. As for the fight this morning, when I saw it was two little people in Munchkin suits, I paid no attention. I stepped in between them a few times when we were shooting the picture, and I had no desire to take the abuse again. When I saw those two this morning, I didn’t know why they were wearing costumes from the movie and I didn’t give a Hungarian crap.”
    He paused to look around the room and regain his composure. The thought of the Munchkins had sent his temper flying.
    â€œI like what we did on that picture,” he continued patting down his hair. “I came in on it late after a couple of other directors, and I was pulled off it early to take over Gone With The Wind. Still, I spent more than a year on Oz and it was the toughest damn thing I’ve ever done. Those two pictures have been damn good for me, but I wouldn’t want to make either one of them again. Even if no one remembers Oz, I will and with mixed memories.”
    â€œI like it,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a strange movie,” said Roloff pushing his cup away and fiddling with his pipe. “Depending on who views it and what’s going on in his or her life, it can be a lot of things.”
    â€œLike what?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s a child’s dream of accepting the adult world. A girl at puberty dreams of seeking the aid of a magical wizard, aided by three male figures, each not quite a