Chapter Seven. THE sunlight was white and glaring and hurt their eyes as they stood in the street in front of the combine offices

THE sunlight was white and glaring and hurt their eyes as they stood in the street in front of the combine offices. Johnny looked at Peter. Peter's face seemed white and drawn to him. "Come on, let's get a drink," he suggested.

Peter shook his head slowly. His voice trembled a little as he answered: "No, I think I'll go home and lie down awhile. I— I don't feel so good."

Johnny's voice was sympathetic. It was his fault that Peter had been brought to this. "I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean—"

Peter interrupted him: "Don't be sorry, Johnny. It's not your fault any more than mine. I wanted to do it." He put his cigar in his mouth and puffed at it. It had gone out. He struck a match with trembling fingers and tried to light it, but his hand was shaking so much that he couldn't get it to light. At last, in disgust, he threw his cigar away.

They stood there looking at each other morosely, each oc­cupied with his own thoughts. For Peter it seemed the end of all his plans. Now he would have to figure out something else to do. Already his conscience was troubling him. He had been too hasty in there with Segale. He should have taken up Segale's offer, let somebody else buck the combine. Someone with more money and in a better position. He didn't know. He felt sick and confused. Maybe when he got home and talked to Esther, things would straighten out.

Johnny was already figuring on how to make the picture elsewhere. There must be another studio or place they could rent to make the picture. The combine couldn't be the only organization in New York that had a studio big enough for The Bandit. He would have to look around. Maybe Borden could let them have some space at his studio. He made serials and with a little squeezing there certainly was enough room to make The Bandit. After all, Borden had twenty-five hundred bucks in the picture and he wouldn't like to see it go down the drain.

"I'll get you a cab," Johnny said, stepping to the curb.

A cab drew up and Johnny helped Peter into it. Peter looked at him and tried to smile.

Johnny smiled back at him. The guy had guts. "Try not to worry," he said. "We'll find a way out!"

Peter nodded his head; he didn't trust himself to speak. He was afraid he would burst into tears. The cab drew off and Johnny stood on the curb looking after it until it had turned the corner.

Joe was sitting at his desk reading the paper when Johnny came in. He jumped to his feet excitedly when he saw him. "How did—?" he started to ask, but the question was never finished. He saw Johnny's face. He sank back in his chair. "No dice?" he asked.

Johnny shook his head. "No dice."

"How come?"

Johnny looked at him angrily. "They knew all about it. Some scoundrels just can't keep their mouth shut."

Joe nodded philosophically. "It was bound to happen."

Johnny's voice rose almost to a shout. "It didn't have to happen. We coulda got away with it."

Joe held up his hand. "Take it easy, kid. Yelling at me won't help. I didn't tell 'em."

Johnny was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Joe, I know you didn't. But you were right, I shouldn't have pushed Peter into it. If I'd kept my big mouth shut, we'd still be in busi­ness."

Joe let out a whistle. 'It's as bad as that, eh?"

"Yeah," Johnny answered glumly. "They revoked our li­cense."

"Now I need a drink," Joe said.

Johnny looked at him. "Where's the bottle?"

Joe opened a lower drawer of his desk and took out a bottle and two small glasses. Silently he filled them and held one out to Johnny. "Luck," he said. They drained their glasses.

Johnny held his glass out to Joe. Again they were filled and again they drank. They sat there silently for a long while. At last Joe spoke. "What do we do next?" he asked.

Johnny looked at him. Joe was a decent guy. He didn't rub it into him when he could have. "I don't know," he answered slowly. "Laemmle isdown in Cuba making that Pickford picture, but we ain't got the dough to do that. We got to figure out a place to make the picture around here. We ain't going to take this laying down. We'll give them a run for their money."

Joe looked at him, a grudging admiration on his face. "Now I know what Santos meant when he once told me you were a scrapper. You never give up, do you?"

Johnny's mouth was set in determined lines. "We're goin' to make that picture." He turned and picked up the phone on his desk and gave the operator Borden's number. Borden answered the phone.

"Bill," Johnny said into the mouthpiece, "this is Johnny." There was a slight hesitation in Borden's voice before he answered. "Oh—uh, hello, Johnny."

"We were over at the combine's," Johnny said, "and we didn't have any luck there. How about us getting some space at your shop?"

Borden's voice sounded slightly embarrassed. "We're pretty jammed up out here, Johnny."

"I know you are," Johnny replied. "But maybe we could squeeze it in here and there.

We're in this thing pretty deep, know." "I'd like to help you, Johnny"—Borden spoke very slowly— but I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Johnny said angrily. "It was all right with you when Peter agreed to make the picture. You guys could see he was fighting your fight for yuh."

Borden's voice was very meek. "I'm sorry, Johnny. Honest." A light suddenly dawned in Johnny's mind. "Did you hear

from the combine?"

The phone was silent for a second before Borden replied. When he did, his voice was apologetic. "Yes."

"What did they say?"

"You're on the blacklist. And you know what that means."

Johnny felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew what it meant. From now on no independent in the business could have anything to do with Magnum or they would lose their own licenses. "And you're going to pay attention to that?" he demanded.

"What can we do?" Borden queried. "We can't all afford to go out of business."

"And Peter can?" Johnny asked nastily.

"We can't help him if we all lose our licenses," Borden protested.

Then how are you gonna help him?" Johnny asked.

"I– I don't know," Borden stammered. "Let me think about it. I’ll call you tomorrow."

"All right," Johnny said, and hung up the phone. He turned to Joe. "The combine put the word out already. We're on the blacklist."

Joe got to his feet.

Johnny looked at him in surprise. "Where you goin'?"

Joe smiled at him. "Out to git a paper. Want to see what the want ads have got in 'em,"

"Sit down and quit horsin' around," Johnny said. "We got enough troubles."

Joe sat down. "What we gonna do next?" he asked.

"I don't know yet," Johnny answered, "but there must be a way out of this mess. I got him into it an' I gotta get him out."

"All right kid," Joe said seriously. "Count me in. I'm with yuh, all the way."

Johnny smiled at him. "Thanks Joe."

Joe grinned back at him. "Don't thank me. I got twenty-five hundred fish in this, remember."

It was late in the evening when he called Peter's home. Esther answered.

"Esther, this is Johnny. How is Peter?"

Her voice was quiet and even. "He's got a headache. He's lying down in the bedroom."

"Good," Johnny said. "Keep his mind off the business. Make him get some rest."

"Looks bad, Johnny?" Her voice was still quiet and con­trolled.

"Doesn't look bright," he admitted. "But don't worry, things'll look better in the morning."

"I'm not worried." Her voice was clear. "My father, God rest his soul, used to say: 'What will be will be.' A living we can always make."

"Good," Johnny said. "Make Peter feel like that and we can't lose."

"Leave Peter to me," she answered confidently. "But Johnny—"

"What?"

"Don't you start worrying. It's not your fault and we like you too much to want you to get sick over this."

Johnny felt the tears come perilously close to his eyes. "I won't, Esther," he promised.

He hung up the phone and turned to Joe, his eyes shining brightly. "What are you gonna do with people like that?" he asked wonderingly.