The Dream Merchants Part 14

Johnny looked at Peter. Things were not going the way he had thought they would. But Peter was intent upon Mr. Segale.

"What a question to ask!" Peter's voice was gently amazed. "You know how we're doing."

Mr. Segale straightened in his chair. He looked forward on his desk, his chubby hands searching for a paper. He found it and looked at it. "Hmm, you produced seventy-two reels of film last year."

Peter didn't answer. He, too, was beginning to feel something was wrong. He stole a quick look at Johnny. Johnny's face was cold, his blue eyes hard behind narrowed lids. With a sinking feeling he realized Johnny felt the same thing he did. He turned back to Segale. "Why all these questions, Mr. Segale? All we're asking for is s.p.a.ce to make a serial."

Mr. Segale stood up and walked around his desk to Peter. He stood there in front of Peter's chair and looked down at him. "Are you sure that's all you want to do, Mr. Kessler?" he asked.

Johnny watched them. He was starting to see the inside. The man was playing with Peter as a cat would with a mouse. He knew what they wanted; he had known what they wanted before they came in. Why didn't he say so immediately instead of horsing around?

Peter's voice was bland and smooth as he replied: "Sure, Mr. Segale, what else would we need all that s.p.a.ce for?"

Segale looked down at him for a minute. "I've heard some talk that you want to make a six-reel feature out of the Broadway play The Bandit."

Peter laughed. "Ridiculous. Maybe I did talk about making a serial out of it, but a six-reeler, never."

Segale walked back to his chair and sat down. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kessler, the Sloc.u.m studio is all booked up for the summer and we can't let you have it."

Johnny sprang to his feet. "What do you mean, all booked up?" he said excitedly. "That's a lot of c.r.a.p. I know there isn't a thing shooting there all summer."

"I don't know where you get your information, Mr. Edge," Segale replied smoothly. "But I ought to know."

"I take it, Mr. Segale," Peter injected, "the combine doesn't want Magnum to make a serial."

Segale looked at Peter steadily, leaning back in his chair as he spoke. "Mr. Kessler," he said urbanely, "as of June 1, the combine doesn't want Magnum to make pictures at all. Under paragraph six, section A, of our cross-licensing agreement, we hereby revoke our license to you to engage in the manufacture and production of motion pictures."

Johnny saw Peter's face grow gray as Segale spoke. For a second he seemed to slump in his chair, then he straightened up and color began to flood back into his face. Slowly he got to his feet. "I take it, then, the combine is exercising its monopolistic right in restraint of trade and compet.i.tion."

Segale looked at him closely. "You call it what you want, Mr. Kessler. The combine is only doing what is provided for in its contract."

Peter's voice was heavy and dull, but underneath it was a steely timbre. "You can't stop Magnum from making pictures simply by revoking its contract, Segale. Neither can you stop the free progress of the screen. Magnum will continue to make motion pictures. With or without a combine license!"

Segale looked over at Peter coolly. "The combine is not at all anxious to put you out of business, Mr. Kessler, if you will reiterate your agreement to make and produce only two-reel features."

Johnny looked at Peter. This Segale was a hard customer. First he hit you over the head with a sledge hammer, then he offered you a Seidlitz powder. He wondered what Peter would do. Segale had offered him a way out.

Peter stood there quietly. Many things were turning over in his mind. This was a chance for him to save his business, but if he took it, he would never again have the nerve to try to buck the combine.

It was only a motion picture that he wanted to make. Strips of celluloid, thousands of feet long, with little pictures frozen on them. But when you flashed them on the screen, they came to life. They were real people and real places and they meant something. People laughed at them and wept with them. They were as capable of stirring the emotions as the stage, as literature, as music or any form of art. And an art in order to be important had to be free, even as a man had to be free and unhampered in order to live the way he wanted.

What was it Esther had said when he first went into this? "You do what you want. It's not important that we have a house on Riverside Drive...."

The words flooded over his tongue. He knew just what he wanted to say to Segale, but what came out was something entirely different.

"Magnum will not enter into any agreement that will dictate to it as to what type of pictures it will make, Mr. Segale. It is not important that we have a house on Riverside Drive."

He turned his back and walked out of the room. Johnny followed him.

Behind them Mr. Segale scratched his head and wondered what a house on Riverside Drive had to do with making motion pictures.

7.

The sunlight was white and glaring and hurt their eyes as they stood in the street in front of the combine offices. Johnny looked at Peter. Peter's face seemed white and drawn to him. "Come on, let's get a drink," he suggested.

Peter shook his head slowly. His voice trembled a little as he answered: "No, I think I'll go home and lie down awhile. I-I don't feel so good."

Johnny's voice was sympathetic. It was his fault that Peter had been brought to this. "I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean-"

Peter interrupted him: "Don't be sorry, Johnny. It's not your fault any more than mine. I wanted to do it." He put his cigar in his mouth and puffed at it. It had gone out. He struck a match with trembling fingers and tried to light it, but his hand was shaking so much that he couldn't get it to light. At last, in disgust, he threw his cigar away.

They stood there looking at each other morosely, each occupied with his own thoughts. For Peter it seemed the end of all his plans. Now he would have to figure out something else to do. Already his conscience was troubling him. He had been too hasty in there with Segale. He should have taken up Segale's offer, let somebody else buck the combine. Someone with more money and in a better position. He didn't know. He felt sick and confused. Maybe when he got home and talked to Esther, things would straighten out.

Johnny was already figuring on how to make the picture elsewhere. There must be another studio or place they could rent to make the picture. The combine couldn't be the only organization in New York that had a studio big enough for The Bandit. He would have to look around. Maybe Borden could let them have some s.p.a.ce at his studio. He made serials and with a little squeezing there certainly was enough room to make The Bandit. After all, Borden had twenty-five hundred bucks in the picture and he wouldn't like to see it go down the drain.

"I'll get you a cab," Johnny said, stepping to the curb.

A cab drew up and Johnny helped Peter into it. Peter looked at him and tried to smile.

Johnny smiled back at him. The guy had guts. "Try not to worry," he said. "We'll find a way to lick the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds yet."

Peter nodded his head; he didn't trust himself to speak. He was afraid he would burst into tears. The cab drew off and Johnny stood on the curb looking after it until it had turned the corner.

Joe was sitting at his desk reading the paper when Johnny came in. He jumped to his feet excitedly when he saw him. "How did-?" he started to ask, but the question was never finished. He saw Johnny's face. He sank back in his chair. "No dice?" he asked.

Johnny shook his head. "No dice."

"How come?"

Johnny looked at him angrily. "They knew all about it. Some b.a.s.t.a.r.ds just can't keep their mouth shut."

Joe nodded philosophically. "It was bound to happen."

Johnny's voice rose almost to a shout. "It didn't have to happen. We coulda got away with it."

Joe held up his hand. "Take it easy, kid. Yelling at me won't help. I didn't tell 'em."

Johnny was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Joe, I know you didn't. But you were right, I shouldn't have pushed Peter into it. If I'd kept my big mouth shut, we'd still be in business."

Joe let out a whistle. "It's as bad as that, eh?"

"Yeah," Johnny answered glumly. "They revoked our license."

"Now I need a drink," Joe said.

Johnny looked at him. "Where's the bottle?"

Joe opened a lower drawer of his desk and took out a bottle and two small gla.s.ses. Silently he filled them and held one out to Johnny. "Luck," he said.

They drained their gla.s.ses.

Johnny held his gla.s.s out to Joe. Again they were filled and again they drank. They sat there silently for a long while.

At last Joe spoke. "What do we do next?" he asked.

Johnny looked at him. Joe was a decent guy. He didn't rub it into him when he could have. "I don't know," he answered slowly. "Laemmle is down in Cuba making that Pickford picture, but we ain't got the dough to do that. We got to figure out a place to make the picture around here. We ain't going to take this laying down. We'll give them a run for their money."

Joe looked at him, a grudging admiration on his face. "Now I know what Santos meant when he once told me you were a sc.r.a.pper. You never give up, do you?"

Johnny's mouth was set in determined lines. "We're goin' to make that picture." He turned and picked up the phone on his desk and gave the operator Borden's number.

Borden answered the phone.

"Bill," Johnny said into the mouthpiece, "this is Johnny."

There was a slight hesitation in Borden's voice before he answered. "Oh-uh, h.e.l.lo, Johnny."

"We were over at the combine's," Johnny said, "and we didn't have any luck there. How about us getting some s.p.a.ce at your shop?"

Borden's voice sounded slightly embarra.s.sed. "We're pretty jammed up out here, Johnny."

"I know you are," Johnny replied. "But maybe we could squeeze it in here and there. We're in this thing pretty deep, you know."

"I'd like to help you, Johnny"-Borden spoke very slowly-"but I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Johnny said angrily. "It was all right with you when Peter agreed to make the picture. You guys could see he was fighting your fight for yuh."

Borden's voice was very meek. "I'm sorry, Johnny. Honest."

A light suddenly dawned in Johnny's mind. "Did you hear from the combine?"

The phone was silent for a second before Borden replied. When he did, his voice was apologetic. "Yes."

"What did they say?"

"You're on the blacklist. And you know what that means."

Johnny felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew what it meant. From now on no independent in the business could have anything to do with Magnum or they would lose their own licenses. "And you're going to pay attention to that?" he demanded.

"What can we do?" Borden queried. "We can't all afford to go out of business."

"And Peter can?" Johnny asked nastily.

"We can't help him if we all lose our licenses," Borden protested.

"Then how are you gonna help him?" Johnny asked.

"I-I don't know," Borden stammered. "Let me think about it. I'll call you tomorrow."

"All right," Johnny said, and hung up the phone. He turned to Joe. "The combine put the word out already. We're on the blacklist."

Joe got to his feet.

Johnny looked at him in surprise. "Where you goin'?"

Joe smiled at him. "Out to git a paper. Want to see what the want ads have got in 'em."

"Sit down and quit horsin' around," Johnny said. "We got enough troubles."

Joe sat down. "What we gonna do next?" he asked.

"I don't know yet," Johnny answered, "but there must be a way out of this mess. I got him into it an' I gotta get him out."

"All right kid," Joe said seriously. "Count me in. I'm with yuh, all the way."

Johnny smiled at him. "Thanks Joe."

Joe grinned back at him. "Don't thank me. I got twenty-five hundred fish in this, remember."

It was late in the evening when he called Peter's home. Esther answered.

"Esther, this is Johnny. How is Peter?"

Her voice was quiet and even. "He's got a headache. He's lying down in the bedroom."

"Good," Johnny said. "Keep his mind off the business. Make him get some rest."

"Looks bad, Johnny?" Her voice was still quiet and controlled.

"Doesn't look bright," he admitted. "But don't worry, things'll look better in the morning."

"I'm not worried." Her voice was clear. "My father, G.o.d rest his soul, used to say: 'What will be will be.' A living we can always make."

"Good," Johnny said. "Make Peter feel like that and we can't lose."

"Leave Peter to me," she answered confidently. "But Johnny-"