“What’s this?” Barney asked, eyeing them suspiciously out of the comer of his eye as he transferred the horn to his other hand and tried to shake the rivulet of ale out of the sleeve of his cashmere jacket.
“The chunk on the left is cheese, a native product, and the other is knaekbrød, hard bread,” Jens Lyn said. “Or is it the other way around?”
Barney tried a nibble of each, or rather clattered his teeth against them, in rum. “That’s great, really great.’ he said, throwing them back onto the table and looking at the glowing dial of his watch. “The light’s going and we should start back soon. I want to talk to you, Amory, outside, if you can tear yourself away from the party.”
“My pleasure,” Amory said, shuddering as he finished most of his hom, then turned the thick dregs out onto the floor.
The sun had dropped behind an icy band of cloud and a cold breeze was blowing in from the sea; Barney shivered and pushed his hands into his jacket pockets.
“I need your help, Amory,” he said. “Draw up a list of everything we’re going to need to shoot this picture on location here. It doesn’t look as though we’ll be able to help ourselves locally with any commissary supplies-”
“Second that motion!”
“So we’ll have to bring it all with us. I want to do all the cutting here, so set up a cutting room in one of the trailers.”
“You’re looking for trouble, Barney. It will be a devil of a job to turn out even a rough cut here. And what about dubbing? Or the musical score?”
“We’ll do the best we can. Hire a composer and couple of musicians, maybe use a local orchestra.”
“I can hear that already.”
“It doesn’t matter if we have to dub most of the sound again. What does matter is bringing back the film in the can…”
“Mr. Hendrickson,” Jens Lyn called, pushing open the door and coming toward them. He fumbled in the breast pocket of his bush jacket. “I just remembered, there was a message I was supposed to give you.”
“What is it?” Barney asked.
“I have no idea. I presumed it was confidential. Your secretary handed it to me just as we were leaving.”
Barney took the crumpled envelope and tore it open. It contained a single sheet of yellow paper with a brief, typed message. It read:
L.M. on phone says cancel operation,
all work to cease on picture.
No reason given.
6
Barney threw the magazine back onto the table, but the cover stuck to his hand and half tore off. He impatiently peeled away the paper and regretted not having taken the time to wash off the Viking beer before coming here. But canceled!
“Miss Zucker,” he said. “L,M. wants to see me. He said so. He left a message. I’m sure that he is waiting impatiently to hear from me…”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Hendrickson, but he left strictest instructions that he is in conference and cannot be disturbed.” Her fingers poised for a second over the typewriter, her gum-chewing suspended momentarily. “I will notify him that you are waiting as soon as I am able.” The typewriter thrummed again, the jaws moving in slow rhythm with it.
“You could at least ring through and tell him that I’m here.”
“Mr. Hendrickson!” she said, her tones those a Mother Superior might use if accused of running a bawdy house.
Barney went over and took a drink of water from the cooler, then rinsed off his sticky hand. He was drying it on some typing paper when the intercom buzzed and Miss Zucker nodded to him. “You may go in now,” she said coldly.
“What do you mean, L.M.?” he asked the instant the door closed behind him. “What do you mean by sending me that message?” Sam sat propped in his chair as mobile as a log of wood and Charley Chang slumped across from him, sweating heavily and looking miserable.
“What do I mean? What could I possibly mean I mean? I mean you led me up the garden path, Barney Hendrickson, and pulled my leg. You got my agreement to go ahead on a picture when you didn’t even have a script!”
“Of course I don’t have a script, how could I when we just decided to do the picture. This is an emergency, remember?”
“How could I forget. But an emergency is one thing doing a picture without a script is another. In France maybe, they make the arty-schmarty things you couldn’t tell if they had a script or not. But in Climactic we don’t work that way.”
“It’s not good business,” Sam agreed.
Barney tried not to wring his hands. “L.M., look. Be reasonable. This is a salvage operation, have you forgotten that? There are very special circumstances involved—”
“Say bank. The word don’t hurt no more.”
“I won’t say it, because we can beat them yet. We can make this picture. So you called in my scriptwriter—”
“He got no script.”
“Of course he’s got no script. It was just yesterday when you and I finalized the idea. Now you’ve talked to him and explained your ideas—”
“He got no script.”
“Hear me out, L.M. Charley’s a good man, you picked him yourself and you briefed him yourself. If any man can deliver the goods, good old Charley can. If you had a Charley Chang script in your hand for this film you would let production go ahead, wouldn’t you?”
“He got no—”
“L.M., you’re not listening. If. That’s the big word. If I were to here and now hand you a Charley Chang script for this great motion picture titled… titled… Viking Columbus, would you okay production?”
L.M. was wearing his best poker face. He glanced over at Sam, who let his head drop the merest fraction of an inch. “Yes,” L.M. instantly said.
“We’re halfway home, L.M.,” Barney hurried on. “If I were to hand you that script just one hour from now, you would okay production. Same difference, right?”
L.M. shrugged. “All right, same difference. But what difference does it make?”
“Sit right there, L.M.,” Barney said, grabbing the startled Charley Chang by the arm and dragging him from the loom. “Talk to Sam about the budget, have a drink—and I’ll see you in exactly one hour. Viking Columbus is almost ready to roll.”
“My head shrinker keeps evening hours,” Charley said when the door closed behind him. “Let him talk to you, Barney. I have heard rash promises in this rash business many, many times, but this takes the gold plated bagel—”
“Save it, Charley. You got some work ahead of you.” Barney steered the reluctant script writer out into the corridor while he talked. “Just give me your estimate of how long it would take you to rough out a first draft of a script for this film, working hard and putting your best into it. How long?”
“It’s a big job. At least six months.”
“Right. Six weeks. Concentrated effort, a first-class job.”
“I said months. And even six weeks are more than an hour.”
“If you need six months you can have them. You have all the time you need, just take my word for it. And a nice quiet spot to work.” They were passing a photomural and Barney stopped and jabbed his thumb against it. “There. Santa Catalina Island. Plenty of sun, a refreshing dip in the briny when the thoughts grow stale.”
“I can’t work there. It’s lousy with people, parties all night.”
“That’s what you think. How would you like to work on Catalina without another soul around, the whole island to yourself? Just think of the work you could get done.”