Page 132 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case
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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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