McKensie’s eyes attacked Littleford. “I’ll tell you, sonny, your best chance was to film my script. With me directing.” He made another disparaging gesture toward Koller. “You haven’t got a lawyer’s chance in heaven doin’ things they way you’re doin’ ’em.”
Fletch was looking at Moxie. His eyes were repeating, Having two directors in the house is like having two ladies wearing the same expensive dress.
“What happened here?” McKensie asked rhetorically, dropping his h’s onto his plate. “The day after my wife was killed there was no filming—of course. That same damn day this failed director—” Again, he jerked his thumb at Koller. “—is flown in by Steven Peterman. Named the director of Midsummer Night’s Madness. My script is thrown into the hopper and the day after that, you all start filming the original pile of garbage. He didn’t even wait until after the funeral.”
“I know, Geoff,” Moxie said. “I spoke to Steve about that. I thought it was rotten. I tried to get him to hold off filming for a few days—”
“It wasn’t respectful, for one thing,” said McKensie. “My wife was a lady who deserved a little respect, you know.”
“I’m sure she was,” Edith Howell said quickly. “I wish we had all known her.”
“But Steve said,” continued Moxie. “Oh, you know what he said. He said, how many thousands of dollars filming costs a day. How many thousands of dollars it cost to have the whole crew idle.”
“‘Idle’,” scoffed McKensie. “Respect for the dead, I’d call it. A little respect for the bereaved.”
“Steve read me the figures,” Moxie said. “Said the investors would have every reason to raise hell if we closed down for a few days.”
“Exactly,” McKensie said. “Investors. Maybe your investors have got more sense than Peterman gave ’em credit for. Maybe in the old days in Hollywood you could pull the line investors don’t want the movie good—they want it Thursday. But films cost a bit too much for that, these days. From my experience with investors, they’d rather have a piece of somethin’ that has a chance of makin’ a profit than a piece of somethin’ that stinks so bad it’ll have to be buried at sea.”
Koller’s face was going through the whole color spectrum. “Tell me, McKensie,” he said. “If you think Misdummer Night’s Madness is basically such a lousy script, how come you agreed to direct it in the first place?”
“You don’t expect me to be honest about that, do you?” McKensie said.
Koller raised and dropped his hands in despair. “Right now, I don’t know what to expect.”
“It was my chance to direct in America,” Geoffrey McKensie said. “I thought I could make a silk slipper out of a dog’s paw. I could have, too.” He sat back on his chair. Lopez was clearing the table. “If I were an investor in Midsummer Night’s Mad-ness, and I knew what was going on on location, I would have murdered Steve Peterman ruddy fast. The bastard deserved it.”
“But there was no one on location, Geoff,” Gerry Littleford said, “except those of us actively making the film. The location had been secured.”
“Bullsdroppings,” said McKensie. “At that moment, there were several alleged members of the press on location. You can’t tell me one of them couldn’t have been a kill artist.”
“Me again,” said Fletch.
“You,” said McKensie. “You’re a member of the press? I haven’t been able to find a typewriter anywhere in this house. I spent the afternoon lookin’. In your own room, there isn’t a pad of paper, or a pencil, a camera…”
“Good point,” said Fletch.
“What the hell were you doin’ on location then?” McKensie asked.
“I admit,” said Fletch, “getting on location wasn’t that difficult. I expect anybody who really wanted to, could have. But… they’d have to show some identification.”
Finally, Koller’s cholera caroomed. “McKensie,” he said, “you’re full of down-under dung. So far you’ve made three small—very small—films, somewhere in the Outback, a million miles from nowhere, no pressure on you, with all the time in the world. Artsy-smartsy films. For God’s sake, they haven’t even really been released outside Australia. Your world-wide audience would fit into a mini-bus. And everyone in the back seat would only pretend to understand what you’re tryin’ to do. And suddenly you’re God Almighty. The Grand Auteur. Listen to me, babe—I’ve made more films that you’ve ever seen. You know how many films I’ve made? Thirty eight! Okay, so the last five didn’t do so well. Three is all you’ve made, buster! Hell, my wife knows more about directing than you’ll ever know, just from listenin’ to me talk. And I’ve made better films than you’ll ever make. Damn it all, at least when I film night scenes like in Midsummer Night’s Madness, I give the audience enough light to see what’s goin’ on. You make that film and the last third of the picture would be so dark, the audience wouldn’t even be able to find their way out of their seats to go home.” Koller took a deep breath. “Just because some of us are courteous to you, kid, don’t think you’re such a hotshot.”
McKensie didn’t seem too disturbed by this laceration. He was eating his lime pie.
“Well,” Edith Howell said into the thick silence, “where did John Meade go? Fletch, you said he was just doing an errand.”
“He is. Just ran up to New York for a minute.”
“New York?” exclaimed Edith. “For a minute? We’re two thousand miles from New York, aren’t we?”
“Just for a minute,” Fletch said. “Doing an errand for Moxie. He’ll be back tonight. John said he’d do anything in the world for Moxie.”
“Mister McKensie,” boomed Mooney in what doubtlessly was meant to be taken as a proper manner. “Mister Peterkin tells me you are about to commence principal photography on a film of William Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Everyone at table looked at everyone else.
“O.L.,” Moxie said gently.
“If so,” continued Mooney, now obviously addressing Sy Koller, “I should very much like to be considered for a part, however small…”
Gerry Littleford giggled.
“Not Oberon, of course,” conceded Mooney, “bit too thick in the leg for that these days. But you might consider me for Theseus, you know. I’ve played it before, and I’ve always thought Philostrate a smashing role.”
“Really, O.L. Stop it.”
“Well, daughter, no one else seems to want to have me, these days. Of course, my managers rather ran up the price of my talents these last few years. I wouldn’t pay myself what people have had to pay me. I’m sure all that salary-fee business can be adjusted, for a small role. Mister McKensie—” Frederick Mooney smiled at Sy Koller. “—you’re in luck, as you’ve caught me between engagements, as it were.”
“Goddamn it!” Moxie exploded. “Why don’t you consider yourself retired?” She pushed her chair back from the table. “Superannuated? Shelved? Out to pasture?”
“Moxie?” Fletch said.
She stood up, nearly knocking her chair over. “Why don’t you think of joining mother in the asylum? You put her there. You’ve put yourself there. Why don’t you go?”
Moxie left the dining room.
“Her exits are getting better as the day goes on,” Stella commented. “I can hardly wait to see how dramatically she goes to bed.”
“She didn’t even slam a door that time,” Gerry said.
“That was good.” Sy Koller looked at where she had been sitting. “She created all the effect of a slammed door without slamming a door. All the effect of knocking over her chair without knocking it over.”