The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (60 page)

"What are you doing in there, anyway?" she asked.
"Every salesman who comes to the door wants to know what you're
making."

I opened the first bottle. "Just tell them you don't
know."

"That's just what I've been telling them. They think
I'm awfully dumb." We all laughed at the salesmen.

Mike was thoughtful. "If we're going to do this sort of
thing very often, we ought to have some of these fancy hollow-stemmed
glasses."

The blonde was pleased with that. "And we could keep
them in my bottom drawer." Her nose wrinkled prettily. "These
bubbles— You know, this is the only time I've ever had champagne, except at a
wedding, and then it was only one glass."

"Pour her another," Mike suggested. "Mine's
empty too." I did. "What did you do with those bottles you took home
last time?"

A blush and a giggle. "My father wanted to open them,
but I told him you said to save it for a special occasion."

By that time I had my feet on her desk. "This is the
special occasion, then," I invited. "Having another, Miss . . .
what's your first name, anyway? I hate being formal after working hours."

She was shocked. "And you and Mr. Laviada sign my
checks every week! It's Ruth."

"Ruth. Ruth." I rolled it around the piercing
bubbles, and it sounded all right.

She nodded. "And your name is Edward, and Mr. Laviada's
is Migwell. Isn't it?" And she smiled at him.

"MiGELL," he smiled back. "An old Spanish
custom. Usually shortened to Mike."

"If you'll hand me another bottle," 1 offered,
"shorten Edward to Ed." She handed it over.

By the time we got to the fourth bottle we were as thick as
bugs in a rug. It seems that she was twenty-four, free, white, and single, and
loved champagne.

"But," she burbled fretfully, "I wish I knew
what you were doing in there all hours of the day and night. I know you're here
at night sometimes because I've seen your car out in front."

Mike thought that over. "Well," he said a little
unsteadily, "we take pictures." He blinked one eye. "Might even
take pictures of you if we were approached properly."

I took over. "We take pictures of models."

"Oh, no."

"Yes. Models of things and people and what not. Little
ones. We make it look like it's real." I think she was a trifle
disappointed.

"Well, now I know, and that makes me feel better. I
sign all those bills from Rochester and I don't know what I'm signing for.
Except that they must be film or something."

"That's just what it is; film and things like
that."

"Well, it bothered me— No, there's two more behind the
fan."

Only two more. She had a capacity. I asked her how she would
like a vacation. She hadn't thought about a vacation just yet.

I told her she'd better start thinking about it. "We're
leaving day after tomorrow for Los Angeles, Hollywood."

"The day after tomorrow? Why-"

I reassured her. "You'll get paid just the same. But
there's no telling how long we'll be gone, and there doesn't seem to be much
use in your sitting around here with nothing to do."

From Mike "Let's have that bottle," and I handed
it to him. I went on.

"You'll get your checks just the same. If you want,
we'll pay you in advance so—"

I was getting full of champagne, and so were we all. Mike
was humming softly to himself, happy as a taco. The blonde, Ruth, was having a
little trouble with my left eye. I knew just how she felt, because I was having
a little trouble watching where she overlapped the swivel chair. Blue eyes,
sooo tall, fuzzy hair. Hm-m-m. All work and no play— She handed me the last
bottle.

Demurely she hid a tiny hiccup. "I'm going to save all
the corks-No I won't either. My father would want to know what I'm thinking of,
drinking with my bosses."

I said it wasn't a good idea to annoy your father. Mike said
why fool with bad ideas, when he had a good one. We were interested. Nothing
like a good idea to liven things up.

Mike was expansive as the very devil. "Going to Los
Angeles."

We nodded solemnly.

"Going to Los Angeles to work."

Another nod.

"Going to work in Los Angeles. What will we do for
pretty blond girl to write letters?"

Awful. No pretty blonde to write letters and drink
champagne. Sad case.

"Gotta hire somebody to write letters anyway. Might not
be blond. No blondes in Hollywood. No good ones, anyway. So—"

I saw the wonderful idea, and finished for him. "So we
take pretty blonde to Los Angeles to write letters!"

What an idea that was! One bottle sooner and its brilliancy
would have been dimmed. Ruth bubbled like a fresh bottle and Mike and I sat
there, smirking like mad.

"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."

A moan from Marrs. "I bet I get that job."

Johnson was snappish. "You do. What else?" to me.

I didn't know. "Except that we have no plans for
distribution as yet. That will have to be worked out."

"Like falling off a log." Johnson was happy about
that. "One look at the rushes and United Artists would spit in
Shakespeare's eye."

Marrs came in. "What about the other shots? Got a
writer lined up?"

"We've got what will pass for the shooting script, or
would have in a week or so. Want to go over it with us?"

He'd like that.

"How much time have we got?" interposed Kessler.
"This is going to be a job. When do we want it?" Already it was
"we."

"Yesterday is when we want it," snapped Johnson,
and he rose. "Any ideas about music? No? We'll try for Werner Janssen and
his boys. Bernstein, you're responsible for that print from now on. Kessler,
get your crew in and have a look at it. Marrs, you'll go with Mr. Lefko and Mr.
Laviada through the files at Central Casting at their convenience. Keep in touch
with them at the Commodore.

Now, if you'll step into my office, we'll discuss the
financial arrangements—"