Part 11 (2/2)

Peter was silent for a long while. He didn't argue with Johnny. He couldn't. He had long felt that what Johnny had said was right. In the last year he had paid the combine one hundred and forty thousand dollars while keeping about eight for himself. But Johnny was young and too ready to tilt at the windmill. Maybe when he was a little older he would realize that sometimes a man had to have patience.

He turned away from Johnny, walked over to the sink, and drew a gla.s.s of water. He sipped it slowly. Still, there was something in what Johnny had said. If all the independents got together, they could fight the combine and maybe they would win the fight. Sometimes fighting was better than waiting; maybe Johnny was right. Maybe this was the time. He put the tumbler back on the sink and turned to Johnny.

”How much did you say it would cost to make a picture like that?” he asked.

”About twenty-five thousand dollars,” Johnny replied. ”That is, if you wanted Warren Craig to play the lead.”

Peter nodded his head. Twenty-five thousand dollars-a lot of money for one moving picture. Still, if it went over, there was a fortune to be made. ”If we made a picture like that,” he said, ”we must have Warren Craig to play the lead. We can't afford to take any extra chances.”

Johnny pounced on his opportunity. ”You won't actually need twenty-five thousand of your own,” he said eagerly. ”Joe and I can put up five thousand between us, you put up eight, and we can borrow the rest. I was thinking some of the exhibitors would take a chance on a thing like that. They're always crying for something different. If we can give it to them, maybe we can get the dough from them.”

”But we got to get Warren Craig,” Peter said.

”Leave that to me,” Johnny answered confidently. ”I'll get him.”

”Then I can put up ten thousand,” Peter said.

”You mean you're going to do it?” Johnny asked, the pulse now hammering wildly in his forehead.

Peter hesitated a moment. He turned to Esther and looked at her. The words came out very slowly. ”I'm not saying I'm going to do it and I'm not saying I ain't. What I'm saying is that I'll think about it.”

4.

Peter waited for Borden to come out of the synagogue. The synagogue on lower Broadway was the morning meeting-place for many of the important independent picture men. He fell into step with him as he walked down the street.

”Morning, Willie,” he said.

Borden looked over at him, ”Peter,” he said, smiling, ”how's geschaft?”

”No complaints,” Peter answered. ”I want to talk to you. Got time for a cup of coffee?”

Borden took out his watch and looked at it importantly. ”Sure,” he said. ”What's on your mind?”

”You read yesterday's papers?” Peter asked as they sat down at a table in a near-by restaurant.

”Sure,” Borden answered. ”To what are you referring?”

”Specifically,” Peter said, ”the Bernhardt picture and Quo Vadis?”

”Yeah, I saw it.” Borden was wondering what Peter wanted.

”You think bigger pictures are coming?” Peter asked.

”Could be,” Borden answered cautiously.

Peter was silent while the waitress put down the coffee and left. ”Johnny wants me to make a six-reeler.”

Borden was interested. ”A six-reeler, huh? About what?”

”He wants me to buy a play and make a picture out of it and hire the leading man to play in it.”

”Buy a play?” Borden laughed. ”That's silly. Who ever heard of such a thing? You can get all the stories you want for nothing.”

”I know,” Peter said, sipping at his coffee, ”but Johnny says the play's name means customers at the boxoffice.”

Borden could see the sense in that. His interest quickened. ”How will you get around the combine's regulations?”

”Johnny says we should save enough film to make the picture and then do it secretly. They won't know about it until the picture comes out.”

”If they find out they can put you out of business.”

”Maybe,” Peter said. ”Maybe they will and maybe they won't. But somewhere we got to draw the line and fight them. Otherwise we'll still be making two-reelers when the rest of the world is making bigger pictures. Then the foreign producers will come in and take over our market. When that happens we'll suffer more than the combine. We've been feeding on the crumbs from their table long enough. It's time we independents got together to fight them.”

Borden thought that over. What Peter had said was the common sentiment of all the independent producers, but none of them had the desire to buck the combine. Even he would not want to take a chance on a venture as risky as this promised to be. But if Peter was willing to do it, he could see the benefits that would accrue to him if Peter should succeed. ”How much would a picture like that cost?” he asked.

”About twenty-five thousand.”

Borden finished his coffee. He was trying to figure out just how much money Peter had. After a few moments of silent calculation he arrived at the conclusion that Peter had about ten thousand dollars. That meant he would have to borrow the rest. He put a quarter on the table and stood up. ”You going to make the picture?” he asked when they reached the street.

”I'm thinking about it,” Peter replied, ”but I ain't got enough money. Maybe if I could see my way clear on that, I might take a chance.”

”How much you got?”

”About fifteen thousand,” Peter answered.

Borden was surprised. Peter must have been doing better than he had figured. He looked at him with a new respect. ”I can let you have about twenty-five hundred,” he said impulsively. It was a small amount for him to risk on a venture that might lead to as much opportunity for him as this promised. He felt very smug about it. It would be better for him if Peter took the chance.

Peter looked at him appraisingly. This was what Peter wanted to know-whether Borden liked the idea enough to risk his money on it. The small amount that Borden had offered made no impression on Peter; the fact that Borden could advance him the balance of the money needed if he wanted to was lost to him. ”I haven't made up my mind yet,” he said. ”I'll let you know if I decide to do it.”

Now Borden wanted Peter to do it. ”That's right,” he said slyly. ”If you don't do it, let me know. Maybe I'll do it. The more I think about it, the more I like it.”

”I don't know yet,” Peter answered quickly. ”Like I said, I got to make up my mind. But I'll let you know.”

Johnny looked at the door. The lettering on the gla.s.s read: ”Samuel Sharpe,” and underneath it in smaller letters: ”Theatrical Representative.” He turned the k.n.o.b and went in.

The room he entered was a small one. Its walls were covered with pictures, all of them inscribed to ”Dear Sam.” Johnny looked closely at them. They all seemed to be in the same handwriting. He smiled to himself.

A girl came into the room from another door and sat down at a desk near the wall. ”What can we do for you, sir?” she asked.

Johnny walked over to her. She was pretty. This Sharpe could pick them. He threw a card down on the desk in front of her. ”Mr. Edge to see Mr. Sharpe,” he said.

The girl picked up the card and looked at it. It was a simple card, carefully engraved. ”John Edge, Vice-President-Magnum Pictures.” She looked up at Johnny with a quick respect. ”Won't you take a seat, sir?” she said. ”I'll see if Mr. Sharpe is free.”

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