?What, are they down off Notre Dame
?Why? An hour ago Roy and I were on Everest. Now he?s gone to hell and I?m sunk with you in Galilee. Explain.?
?You and your winning ways,? said Fritz. ?Who knows? Manny?s mother died. Or his mistress took a few wrong balls over the plate. Constipation? High colonies? Choose one. Roy?s fired. So you and I do Our Gang comedies for six years.
We stepped into Manny Leiber?s office.
Manny Leiber stood with the back of his neck watching us.
He stood in the middle of a large, all-white room, white walls, white rug, white furniture, and a huge all-white desk with nothing on it but a white telephone. A sheer blizzard of inspiration from the hand of some snow-blind artist over in Set Design.
Behind the desk was a four-by-six mirror so that if you glanced over your shoulder you could see yourself working. There was only one window in the room. It looked down on the back studio wall, not thirty feet off, and a panoramic view of the graveyard. I could not take my eyes away.
But Manny Leiber cleared his throat. With his back still turned he said: ?Is
I nodded quietly at his stiff shoulders.
Manny sensed my nod and exhaled. ?His name will not be mentioned here again. He never was.?
I waited for Manny to turn and circle me, working off a passion he could not explode. His face was a mass of tics. His eyes did not move with his eyebrows or his eyebrows with his mouth or his head twisting on his neck. He looked dangerously off-balance as he paced; at any moment he might fly apart. Then he noticed Fritz Wong watching us both, and went to stand by Fritz as if to provoke him to a rage.
Fritz wisely did the one thing I noticed often when his world became too real. He removed his monocle and slipped it into his breast pocket. It was like a fine dismantling of attention, a subtle rejection. He shoved Manny in his pocket with the monocle.
Manny Leiber talked and paced. I half whispered, ?Yeah, but what do we do with Meteor Crater!?
Fritz warned me with a jerk of his head:
?So!? Manny pretended not to hear, ?Our next problem, our
?Say that
?No ending!? I cried. ?Have you tried the Bible??
?We
?Job,? I muttered.
?Shut up. What we need is??
?Matthew, Mark, Luke, and me!?
Manny Leiber snorted. ?Since when do beginning writers reject the greatest job of the century? We need it yesterday, so Fritz can start shooting again. Write good and someday you?ll own all
He waved.
I looked out over the graveyard. It was a bright day, but invisible rain washed the tombstones.
?God,? I whispered. ?I hope not.?
That did it. Manny Leiber paled. He was back on Stage 13, in the dark, with me, Roy, and the clay Beast.
Silently, he ran to the restroom. The door slammed.
Fritz and I traded glances. Manny was sick behind the door.
?
Manny Leiber staggered back out a moment later, looked around as if surprised the place was still afloat, made it to the telephone, dialed, said, ?Get in here!? and headed out.
I stopped him at the door.
?About Stage 13??
Manny had his hand over his mouth as if he might be sick again. His eyes widened.
?I know you?re going to clean it out,? I said, quickly. ?But I got a lot of stuff on that stage. And I want to spend the rest of the day talking with Fritz here about Galilee and Herod. Could you leave all the junk so I can come tomorrow morning and claim my stuff?
Manny?s eyes swiveled, thinking. Then, hand over his mouth, he jerked his head once, yes, and turned to find a tall thin pale man coming in. They whispered, then with no goodbyes, Manny left. The tall pale man was I. W. W. Hope, one of the production estimators.
He looked at me, paused, and then with some embarrassment said, ?It seems, ah, we have no ending for your film.?
?Have vou tried the
