“Because he’ll be afraid of looking ridiculous. Like Buffalo Bill.”
“No one thinks Buffalo Bill is ridiculous. Besides, people don’t refuse their moment in the sun.”
“He will. To him, it’s not the sun.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be.”
Chance writes something on his pad. “That is unfortunate. But if he refuses to conduct himself as a hero, then for our purposes he is better off dead.”
“Dead?”
Chance laughs. “Not literally dead, Harry. I was thinking more along the lines of an announcement of the great plainsman’s passing – the timing would have to be nicely calculated. You, as friend and biographer, could represent him to the press. That might do very well indeed. There are heroes more compelling dead than they ever were alive. Custer, for instance. Not a man to survive close scrutiny, Custer. Tied to his wife’s apron strings and very foolish. But he made a heroic corpse.”
“And what if Shorty McAdoo doesn’t want to play dead?”
“Well, as I said, it’s a question of timing. You say he has expressed a desire to relocate to Canada. For our purposes, Shorty McAdoo in Canada is as good as dead.”
“And if he changes his mind about Canada?”
Chance lays his little gold pencil down on his desk. “Then it must be changed back.”
“You mean money.”
“Of course, money. Or other persuasions if necessary.”
“Such as?”
“In the past, Mr. Fitzsimmons has proved useful in such situations.”
“Fitz’s tactics – they wouldn’t work on a man like McAdoo. In fact, they’re likely to produce the opposite effect.”
Chance smiles. “I will take that under consideration, Harry. But perhaps we are putting the cart before the horse. We don’t own the rights yet, do we? The rights must be secured. Do you have any idea what we might get them for?”
“He wants fifteen hundred dollars.”
Chance taps his desk blotter with his pencil. “I don’t see that as a problem.”
“Who’s buying them might be. To keep your name out of it, I told him I was working for a publisher. McAdoo doesn’t have much love for the movies.”
“Many people disapprove of the movies. Three-quarters of the authors who sell us rights to their novels claim to despise the pictures. But they swallow their disgust and take the money happily enough. I don’t expect McAdoo will be any different. I don’t intend to have this picture blocked because it costs me a few thousand dollars more. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Mr. Chance. But will McAdoo? He may point-blank refuse to have anything to do with a film.”
“Then,” says Chance, “the contract will need to be framed delicately. My lawyers can draw up the proper phrasing. Something like, ‘for the sum of X number of dollars, all rights to portray Mr. Shorty McAdoo’s life story in any and all forms of artistic expression shall reside in the sole possession of -’ ” He stops in mid-sentence.
“That’s right,” I say. “If you name Best Chance Pictures, or yourself, the cat is out of the bag.”
Chance barely skips a beat. “ ‘Shall reside in the sole possession of Harry Vincent, his heirs, assignees and or partners as the aforementioned party so assigns and determines.’ Mr. McAdoo is not a legal sophisticate, I think something such as that should satisfy him.” Chance composes his hands on his desk. “And once the contract is signed, you will sell me the rights for the sum of a dollar. Agreed, Harry?”
I cross my legs, take my glasses off, pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Reluctance, Harry?”
“Not so much reluctance,” I say. “I know it’s not a question of your cheating him…”
“What then, Harry?”
“But shouldn’t it be his decision – whether or not his life is made into a movie?”
“And if he says no?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Harry,” says Chance, “artists don’t compromise. They pay whatever price is required for their work. Tolstoy exploited the most intimate details of daily life with his wife. Do you think that matters when weighed against
“I know,” I say. “But…”
“What would you do if you were appointed Shorty McAdoo’s guardian angel? See him handsomely paid for his story, or get nothing? Those are the two choices.” Chance sits there, question hanging. The question not only of Shorty’s future, but his, too. He clears his throat. “I am willing to have you fill in a figure on the contract. You can write the number in, Harry. I trust your fairness.”
“I sold him on the truth,” I say. “He expects the truth to be told.”
“Harry, you and I are going to work together very closely on this picture. Who knows the truth better than you?”
“I want four thousand for him.”
Chance falls back in his chair, makes a steeple with his fingers and smiles ironically at me over it. “It’s a rare privilege to play philanthropist with somebody else’s money. But since I offered you the opportunity, I can’t complain. My lawyer will deliver the cash, along with documents for signing, to your apartment by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Get a receipt from McAdoo when the money is paid.”
Suddenly I need to explain. “I feel an obligation to him. He needs the money. He’s taken this pathetic creature Wylie under his wing -”
Chance holds his hand up, stops me. “Harry, I can live with it.”
I am still apologizing. “I know there were moments recently when you had doubts about me, Mr. Chance, but I hope that -”
“My confidence in you has been amply rewarded. Never a second’s doubt.”
“That isn’t what Mr. Fitzsimmons suggested.”
Chance raises his eyebrows. “I think you must have misread Fitz. Being a man of action he is naturally impatient of delays. Impatience is the key to his character. What you must remember is that feelings often run high in our business. It is a business which attracts people of temperament. All three of us are people of temperament. That is why it is so important that we learn to forgive and forget.” He gets to his feet. “And get on with the next picture.”
There is no real difficulty getting McAdoo to sign the contract. Chance is right, he is not a legal sophisticate. What makes him suspicious is all the money.
“Bounty on Indians gone up?” he says.
“I bargained hard for you” is all I tell him. I believe it.
He walks me to my car, we shake hands, I urge him to keep well. He promises he will. He tells me that now he’s flush he intends to put in a supply of good whisky. Whenever I feel inclined I should drop by and take a dram. I am welcome. I tell him not to forget Canada when he’s drinking his whisky, to make sure to get there before the money’s gone.
I leave him then, a gaunt old man whose hollow eyes look every bit as corroded and blackened as the suicide’s farmhouse. I expect this will be the last I’ll ever see of him. He looks no lighter despite his confession.
21
