In her 18th floor suite at the Four Seasons hotel, Jennifer Lynch has two things that stoke her creativity: a quiet place for meditation, which is a daily habit she learned from her father, director David Lynch; and a panoramic view of the Mississippi River, which is the lifeblood of the movie she intends to film here in the autumn. But it doesn't have an ashtray, so the hearty woman in the army parka and pink dreadlocks asks if we could step outside to the lobby-bar balcony while we wait for her associates.
As Lynch marvels at the photogenic factories on the East Side, an animated fellow wearing a black-leather jacket over a hoodie steps into the night air.
"I just got a message from Tim Roth," says producer David Michaels as he motions for Lynch to toss him a smoke. "We really need to get him a copy of the finished script."
That script is "A Fall from Grace," a murder mystery that Lynch is polishing with Eric Wilkinson, the wiry, soft-spoken ex-Marine who joins us on the balcony. Wilkinson points to an abandoned warehouse south of the Arch where he organized rave parties in the '90s, before he moved to Hollywood, and says the city is full of ghosts for him. It was on a return visit to his hometown that he crossed the old Chains of Rocks Bridge and felt a shiver down his spine. When he subsequently learned that the bridge was the site of an infamous double murder, it became the inspiration for his screenplay.
Tonight he's returning to the bridge and bringing Lynch, who has never been to St. Louis before, and Michaels, who lived here from age 5 to 10. I've asked to tag along to get the straight story of how the daughter of a famously eccentric director emerged from her father's shadow.
In the parking lot I'm startled by a white-haired old gent who bears an eerie resemblance to the star of "Baretta."
"I'm Bob," says the mystery man, hooking an arm around my shoulder. "Wanna go for a joyride?"
"I'm with them," I explain.
"We're all together. And you're driving."
Before I know it, we're packed into my Fury, with Bob at my shoulder and Lynch beside him taking pictures. We head north on Broadway, through the gauntlet of liquor stores and scrap yards. "This reminds me of my father's movie 'Eraserhead,'" says Lynch, whose own debut was 1993's nightmarish "Boxing Helena." "It's like this town has already been art-directed for us."
As we pass the vast Calvary Cemetery, I mention that Tennessee Williams was the first dead body I ever saw, before his burial here in 1983.
Bob grins. "You never forget your first one."
On Riverview, we glimpse the gates of Cementland, the industrial playground that artist Bob Cassilly spent a decade developing before he died in a bulldozer accident last year. Another ghost.
We stop at the western gate of the Chain of Rocks Bridge and find it unlocked. Although the cantilevered iron bridge has been restored as a daytime bike-and-pedestrian path, in the cold moonlight it still evokes the vibe of the abandoned structure where two girls were assaulted and drowned in the river in 1991.
"This is where it happened," says Wilkinson, pointing to a manhole cover.
While Michaels snaps pictures of the nostalgic gas pump at the dog-leg bend in the center of the bridge, I volunteer to return to the car and meet them on the Illinois side.
Bob rushes to my side. "Hell fire, walk with me."
In silence we drive on I-270 across the river, then double back across Chouteau Island to the eastern gate of the bridge. On the marshy bank below the pylon, I spot something that looks like a human ear but convince myself I'm hallucinating.
Suddenly we're strafed by headlights as a police cruiser barrels across the bridge. It skids to a stop and the filmmakers spill from the car, marked "Madison Police Department."
"Thanks for the ride, Sgt. Ritz," says Wilkinson as he waves goodbye to their escort.
While Lynch uses her cellphone to photograph some particularly distinctive rivets, Wilkinson opens my car door. "We have to get back to the Four Seasons," he announces. "We've got a television interview in the morning."
"But there's so much more to see," says Bob. "You can use it for your movie." He points me toward Granite City, and Wilkinson mentions that his father used to work at the steel mill there.
On Chain of Rocks Road we spot a bar called the Hideaway with a sign listing the bands that will be playing there this weekend: Leadfoot, Bonehead, Incognito. Bob insists we have to stop for a drink.
Inside, I explain that I can't drink alcohol because I've got gout.
"C'mon, you look like you're wild at heart," he says. "Have a beer."
"All right, I'll have a Heineken."
"Forget that stuff! Pabst Blue Ribbon!"
A flyer by the pool table advertises a fundraiser for a single mother who was paralyzed in a car crash. Lynch says that the people in St. Louis seem so nice, like the Canadians she met while filming a movie called "Surveillance."
"We shot it in Regina, Saskatchewan," she says, "the city that rhymes with fun."
Wilkinson points to his watch and we adjourn outside. But Lynch says she needs to find some electronic cigarettes she can smoke in her hotel room, and we follow her across the street to a liquor store.
As Lynch asks the bemused Indian behind the counter to recommend a brand, Bob gives Wilkinson a bottle of blood-red wine and a conspiratorial smile.
Soon we find ourselves on Route 66, the lost highway of yore. Bob fidgets on seat beside me. "Can't this lawnmower go any faster?"
A neon sign with a winking martini glass says "Luna Cafe," and Bob orders me to stop. This was Al Capone's place, he says. The second floor was a brothel, and if the cherry in the martini glass was lit, it meant that the girls were on duty.
Sure enough, the oak-paneled walls of the tavern are decorated with posters of Capone, and the friendly barmaid who answers Bob's call for four Bloody Marys says that the gangster's ghost still haunts the place.
While Lynch absorbs the history lesson, Michaels tells me he's got seven movie projects in various stages of development, and he just directed a film called "M" starring Woody Harrelson. He's excited about shooting "A Fall from Grace" in St. Louis, but he may have to base the production on the Illinois side of the river to take advantage of the state's tax credits.
Wilkinson is still worried about the time and he pulls Lynch away from a sad, bewigged waitress whom the director vows to cast in the movie.
Back in the car, Bob tells me to take the scenic route down Illinois Highway 3. Smokestacks belch fireballs into the night sky. "Behold the inland empire," he says.
Bob stomps on my gas pedal and we careen through Venice. When he spots an arrow for a bar called the Robin's Nest Lounge, he yells for me to turn. Down a gravel road and between twin peaks of piled coal, we spot what looks like the roughest roadhouse between here and Joliet.
"This doesn't seem like a good idea," I say.
"Robins represent love," he replies, and he's heading for the front door.
Inside the joint is jumpin,' with Motown and middle-aged revelers. Bob orders a round of Blue Velvets as Wilkinson frowns.
"This place is a dream come true," says Lynch.
A customer takes a picture of the wide-eyed white visitors, and almost instantaneously it's projected on the front wall.
The deejay plays Otis Redding's "I've Been Loving You Too Long," and Lynch beams. "This is my favorite song," she says. Her father used it on a DVD he made for her 40th birthday, with all the footage he shot of her as a child. "I was born to come here."
"And there's a cherry on the pie," says Bob as he waves us out the door.
On Highway 3, we can see the McKinley Bridge to St. Louis, but Bob yanks the wheel to the left. "Last exit to Brooklyn!" he announces. There are neon lights ahead of us, like a dream of dark and troubling things. We enter an oasis of busy strip joints with suave names: the Peek-a-Boo, The Pink Slip, Bottoms Up. Michaels rolls down the window to take pictures of the signs, and Wilkinson says maybe we've got time for one more drink after all.
"No," declares Bob as the dashboard clock strikes twelve. "We've got a date with the candy-colored clown they call the Sandman."
