“Flynn,” said Jack Warner, “is that man drunk?” He pointed at me.
“No, Mr. Warner, he’s sick.”
Warner gave Flynn an unbelieving look, sure that he was being made the butt of a silly practical joke involving Flynn and one of his drunken friends.
“Does he work for me?” Warner asked.
“Not exactly,” Flynn replied.
“Good,” said Warner, getting back in his car. “Then get him off the lot.”
That was exactly what he had said four years ago when he fired me.
I let out a laugh and slumped against Flynn. Warner gave me a last look and a shake of his hea and pulled away.
I passed out and woke up four days later.
15
The day I got out of the hospital, the first thing I did was call my sister-in-law to find out how my nephew was. She said he was fine. I didn’t talk to my brother.
Flynn had paid my hospital bills. Part of the expenses, he said. He also paid me my fee for every day I was in the hospital. I took it.
With towing, taxi fares, parking, ruined clothes, phone calls and broken window thrown in, the fee was $464.90.
Hatch had confessed. The story he concocted was part self-defense and part insanity. It was so confused and complicated that it might convince a jury. He had kept out all mention of Lynn, Flynn, me and Warner Brothers.
My arm was still in a sling. I had a steak at Al Levy’s Tavern on Vine and took a Yellow cab to the studio. Sid Adelman was expecting me.
Esther was still reading her magazine, and F.D.R. was still on the desk. The Warner boys were on the wall, and a new writer had moved into Bill Faulkner’s office.
“What happened to Faulkner?” I said.
“Didn’t work out,” Sid answered. “What can I do for you?”
“You got your $5,000 back, and the negative was destroyed. You owe me two hundred bucks.”
He got up and moved for the refrigerator.
“You want a beer?”
“No,” I said, “I want two hundred bucks. You were willing to pay thousands for that picture, and I got rid of it for you. Now you’re arguing about a lousy few hundred bucks.”
Sid straightened his jacket and nodded, always the man to accept a good argument.
“You’re a schmuck,” he said, pulling out his wallet and handing me two hundred dollar bills, “but I always said you were honest. You want your job back here?”
“No thanks,” I said. “Mr. Warner and I don’t get along.”
“You’re not the only one,” he said, “but that doesn’t keep them from working here and getting rich.”
I pocketed the money and started for the door when the phone rang. Sid answered and caught me as I touched the knob.
“For you,” he said.
I took it. A woman’s voice, frightened, musical and familiar answered.
“Mr. Peters,” she said. “Thank goodness I found you. I called your office, and Dr. Minck said I could reach you there. Errol Flynn said you might be able to help me. I need help.”
“Who is this?” I said, reaching for a pencil on Sid’s desk, “and where can I meet you?”
“My name is Judy Garland, and you can meet me at M.G.M as quickly as you can get here. Please hurry, Mr. Peters. I …”
Something or someone cut her off in mid-sentence. I ran for the door, without saying goodby to Sid Adelman or Warner Brothers.
