“But I can’t! I couldn’t leave day after tomorrow just like that-!”
Mike was magnificent. “Who said day after tomorrow? Changed our minds. Leave right now.”
She was appalled. “Right now! Just like that?”
“Right now. Just like that.” I was firm.
“But—”
“No buts. Right now. Just like that.”
“Nothing to wear—”
“Buy clothes any place. Best ones in Los Angeles.”
“But my hair—”
Mike suggested a haircut in Hollywood, maybe?
I pounded the table. It felt solid. “Call the airport. Three tickets.”
She called the airport. She intimidated easy.
The airport said we could leave for Chicago any time on the hour, and change there for Los Angeles. Mike wanted to know why she was wasting time on the telephone when we could be on our way. Holding up the wheels of progress, emery dust in the gears. One minute to get her hat.
“Call Pappy from the airport.”
Her objections were easily brushed away with a few word-pictures of how much fun there was to be had in Hollywood. We left a sign on the door, “Gone to Lunch—Back in December.” and made the airport in time for the four o’clock plane, with no time left to call Pappy. I told the parking attendant to hold the car until he heard from me and we made it up the steps and into the plane just in time. The steps were taken away, the motors snorted, and we were off, with Ruth holding fast her hat in an imaginary breeze.
There was a two-hour layover in Chicago. They don’t serve liquor at the airport, but an obliging cab driver found us a convenient bar down the road, where Ruth made her call to her father. Cautiously we stayed away from the telephone booth, but from what Ruth told us, he must have read her the riot act. The bartender didn’t have champagne, but gave us the special treatment reserved for those that order it. The cab driver saw that we made the liner two hours later.
In Los Angeles we registered at the Commodore, cold sober and ashamed of ourselves. The next day Ruth went shopping for clothes for herself, and for us. We gave her the sizes and enough money to soothe her hangover. Mike and I did some telephoning. After breakfast we sat around until the desk clerk announced a Mr. Lee Johnson to see us.
Lee Johnson was the brisk professional type, the high-bracket salesman. Tall, rather homely, a clipped way of talking. We introduced ourselves as embryo producers. His eyes brightened when we said that. His meat.
“Not exactly the way you think,” I told him. “We have already eighty per cent or better of the final print.”
He wanted to know where he came in.
“We have several thousand feet of Trucolor film. Don’t bother asking where or when we got it. This footage is silent. We’ll need sound and, in places, speech dubbed in.”
He nodded. “Easy enough. What condition is the master?”
“Perfect condition. It’s in the hotel vault right now. There are gaps in the story to fill. We’ll need quite a few male and female characters. And all of these will have to do their doubling for cash, and not for screen credit.”
Johnson raised his eyebrows. “And why? Out here screen credit is bread and butter.”
“Several reasons. This footage was made—never mind wherewith the understanding that film credit would favor no one.”
“If you’re lucky enough to catch your talent between pictures you might get away with it. But if your footage is worth working with, my boys will want screen credit. And I think they’re entitled to it.”
I said that was reasonable enough. The technical crews were essential, and I was prepared to pay well. Particularly to keep their mouths closed until the print was ready for final release. Maybe even after that.
“Before we go any further,” Johnson rose and reached for his hat, “let’s take a look at that print. I don’t know if we can—”
I knew what he was thinking. Amateurs. Home movies. Feelthy peekchures, mebbe?
We got the reels out of the hotel safe and drove to his laboratory, out Sunset. The top was down on his convertible and Mike hoped audibly that Ruth would have sense enough to get sports shirts that didn’t itch.
“Wife?” Johnson asked carelessly.
“Secretary,” Mike answered just as casually. “We flew in last night and she’s out getting us some light clothes.” Johnson’s estimation of us rose visibly.
A porter came out of the laboratory to carry the suitcase containing the film reels. It was a long, low building, with the offices at the front and the actual laboratories tapering off at the rear. Johnson took us in the side door and called for someone whose name we didn’t catch. The anonymous one was a projectionist who took the reels and disappeared into the back of the projection room. We sat for a minute in the soft easychairs until the projectionist buzzed ready. Johnson glanced at us and we nodded. He clicked a switch on the arm of his chair and the overhead lights went out. The picture started.
It ran a hundred and ten minutes as it stood. We both watched Johnson like a cat at a rathole. When the tag end showed white on the screen he signaled with the chair-side buzzer for lights. They came on. He faced us.
“Where did you get that print?”
Mike grinned at him. “Can we do business?”
“Do business?” He was vehement. “You bet your life we can do business. We’ll do the greatest business you ever saw!”
The projection man came down. “Hey, that’s all right. Where’d you get it?”
Mike looked at me. I said, “This isn’t to go any further.”
Johnson looked at his man, who shrugged. “None of my business.”
I dangled the hook. “That wasn’t made here. Never mind where.”
Johnson rose and struck, hook, line and sinker. “Europe! Hm-m-m. Germany. No, France. Russia, maybe, Einstein, or Eisenstein, or whatever his name is?”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t matter. The leads are all dead, or out of commission, but their heirs… well, you get what I mean.”
Johnson saw what I meant. “Absolutely right. No point taking any chances. Where’s the rest—?”
“Who knows? We were lucky to salvage that much. Can do?”
“Can do.” He thought for a minute. “Get Bernstein in here. Better get Kessler and Marrs, too.” The projectionist left. In a few minutes Kessler, a heavy-set man, and Marrs, a young, nervous chain-smoker, came in with Bernstein, the sound man. We were introduced all around and Johnson asked if we minded sitting through another showing.
“Nope. We like it better than you do.”
Not quite. Kessler and Marrs and Bernstein, the minute the film was over, bombarded us with startled questions. We gave them the same answers we’d given Johnson. But we were pleased with the reception, and said so.
Kessler grunted. “I’d like to know who was behind that camera. Best I’ve seen, by Cripes, since ‘Ben Hur.’ Better than ‘Ben Hur.’ The boy’s good.”
I grunted right back at him. “That’s the only thing I can tell you.
The photography was done by the boys you’re talking to right now. Thanks for the kind word.”
All four of them stared.
Mike said, “That’s right.”
“Hey, hey!” from Marrs. They all looked at us with new respect. It felt good.
Johnson broke into the silence when it became awkward. “What’s next on the score card?”
We got down to cases. Mike, as usual, was content to sit there with his eyes half closed, taking it all in, letting me do all the talking.
“We want sound dubbed in all the way through.”
“Pleasure,” said Bernstein.
“At least a dozen, maybe more, of speaking actors with a close resemblance to the leads you’ve seen.”
Johnson was confident. “Easy. Central Casting has everybody’s picture since the Year One.”
“I know. We’ve already checked that. No trouble there. They’ll have to take the cash and let the credit go, for reasons I’ve already explained to Mr. Johnson.”