Page 132 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case
P. 132

Soaked to the Bone

          Nick  was  on  surer  ground  here;  G.F.’s  old-style  movie-mogul
        abrasive  aggressiveness  was  well-known—and  marveled  at  as  one
        would  a  living  fossil:  the  younger  set  hid  behind  politically correct
        politeness while preparing their stiletto jabs and draughts of hemlock.
        I was fascinated nonetheless. I knew the identity of the mysterious
        screenwriter, but had no idea Fish was taking such advantage of him.
          Labelle  cut  to  the  chase.  “Did  you  and  Mr.  Fish  come  to  any
        agreement?”
          Nick laughed wryly. “Not a chance. I told him the bean-counters
        at Troglo were always looking for an excuse to hand him his head,
        and that this was the opportunity they would not let pass. He had to
        come up with the name of his author, and produce a receipt for the
        payment. I mentioned auditors. I mentioned lawyers. I even alluded
        to the big-money boys back east and across the great waters.”
          “How did you put it to him?”
          “You mean, did I threaten him? No, no. I was just the messenger,
        bound to be used for target practice by both sides. But, as I said, I
        had to present the arguments forcefully or be demolished. I left—it
        couldn’t  have  been  past  three  o’clock—with  no  resolution,  but  at
        least  he  had  been  apprised  of  the  consequences  of  continuing  to
        stonewall the studio.”
          “Did he threaten you?”
          “With  what?  Bodily  harm?  He  was  all  bluster  and  blubber,  his
        street-fighting days, if any, long behind him. Verbal abuse I expected,
        and that is what I received. I don’t know if Cora told you this, but
        people in our position function as buffers and middlemen, preventing
        huge egos from colliding and sinking the enterprise. My next action
        was to call the vice president of production and tell him that Fish was
        thinking about it. So they both had a chance to cool off a bit before
        their next move.”
          I realized that Nick might not have been the last to see Fish alive,
        at least in the afternoon. Of course he would lie about any pressure
        G.F. might have put on him about his own creative accounting. Who
        could contradict him now? Gene? He had been outside, engrossed in
        the  finer  points  of  property  maintenance.  Alma? She  stayed  in  the
        kitchen listening to salsa on the radio when Fish didn’t need her—
        and  her  English  wasn’t  reliable  enough  to  catch  all  the  slang  and
        subtleties  of  a  conversation  about  the  movie  business.  Maybe  she

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