Chapter Eight. THE summer dragged on and nowhere could they find a place that was willing to take a chance and let them shoot their picture

THE summer dragged on and nowhere could they find a place that was willing to take a chance and let them shoot their picture. Johnny had been to every independent in the business, but could get no help.

They were all sympathetic. They agreed with Johnny that the only way the combine would ever be beaten was by what Magnum was doing, but that was where they drew the line. More than sympathy Johnny could not get. In vain he would argue and point out that Magnum was fighting their fight. That if Magnum won out they would all benefit. They agreed, but none of them would risk losing his license.

By the end of August they had pretty nearly reached the breaking point. Their money was almost gone. Peter had lost his paunch. Esther had let her maid go in July and now Peter found himself looking enviously and speculatively at hardware stores when he passed them.

Joe spent most of his day at the studio engaged in an endless game of solitaire. Neither he nor Johnny had drawn a cent of pay since Magnum's license had been revoked, but they all hung together. To save money they would all eat at Peter's house. The meals were simple but satisfying, and Esther did not complain at the extra work.

Several times Joe had got an odd job at one of the independents and he threw the money he earned into the pot. But it was Johnny who had changed most of all.

He seldom smiled now. Slim he had been when all their troubles had begun. Now he was thin, taut, and intense. His eyes were sunken hollows in his face. Only the flames in them had not dimmed. At night he would lie in his bed and stare sleeplessly at the ceiling. It was his fault, he would think; if

he hadn't been so insistent, this would never have happened.

Making this picture became the one thought in his mind. He knew that once this picture was made, their battle would be won. Each morning he would wake up with the conviction that this would be the day he would be able to talk one of the independents into letting them use his studio. But as time went by, the producers began to get tired of his persistent cajoling. They left orders with their help to shunt him off and if they saw him coming they would try to avoid him.

When Johnny realized what they were doing and that he was being avoided, he grew bitter. "The dirty stinkers," he would think, "they're all heroes when you're doing the fighting for them, but ask them to help a little bit and they won't even talk to you."

Their lawyer had been in court all summer trying without success to get an injunction against the combine to prevent it from applying its blacklist against Magnum. At last he came to Peter one day and told him there was no use in continuing the fight. The license was too cleverly drawn, the combine's position too cleverly planned for an attack to be made on it in such a manner. Besides he wanted some money instead of promises.

Quietly Peter paid him and they continued their struggle. But now it was the end of August and the day of reckoning was fast approaching.

Peter and Johnny and Joe were sitting in the office when Warren Craig came in with Sam Sharpe.

Johnny got to his feet and held out his hand. "Hello, Warren."

Craig ignored it and walked past him to Peter. "Mr. Kessler," he said.

Peter looked up at him tiredly. He hadn't slept too well last night, he had been trying to figure how much longer their money would carry them. It wasn't far. "Yes, Mr. Craig," he answered.

"Mr. Kessler, we must have a definite starting date for the picture or I must give you notice now." Craig's voice was pompous.

Peter spread his hands wearily on the desk. "I'd like to give you a starting date for the picture, Mr. Craig, but how can I? I don't know when we can start the picture myself."

"Then I must give you my notice," Craig said.

Sam Sharpe's thin voice cut in. "Don't be too hasty, Warren. After all, it's not really their fault Maybe if—"

Craig turned on Sharpe quickly. His voice was cutting and sharp. "Maybe nothing, Sam. I let you talk me into this in the first place. When we signed the agreement, the picture was supposed to be completed by mid-July. Now here it is almost September. A new Broadway season is about to start. If you were the proper kind of agent you would see to it that I was set in one of the new plays instead of keeping me waiting for this fool's dream to materialize."

Sharpe seemed to shrink within his clothes. "But, Warren–" he began to say, when a look from Craig shut him up.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Johnny planted himself in front of Craig belligerently. "You've been paid for the time you stood by, haven't you?"

"That's right," Craig admitted.

"Two thousand smackers a month, every month, June, July, and August, isn't that right?"

"Yes," Craig answered, "but—"

"But, hell," Johnny shouted. "We agreed to pay you two thousand for the picture. When we found out the picture wouldn't start on time, you agreed to take two thousand a month until the picture was finished. Now that the summer is over and your dead season is gone, you want to run out on us!"

"I'm not running out," Craig answered uncomfortably. "But I have my career to think of. They forget about you quickly on Broadway if you don't come up with a new play."

"You have a contract with us to make this picture, and, by God, you're going to live up to it!" Johnny shouted, his fists clenched.

"Johnny!" Peter's voice was sharp.

Johnny turned to him in surprise.

"What's the use, Johnny?" Peter said; his voice was low. "Let him go if he wants. The whole thing is no good any­way."

"But we paid him six thousand dollars already," Johnny said.

"We could pay him a hundred thousand more if we had it," Peter answered, "and we wouldn't be any closer to making the picture than we are now." He turned to Craig.

"All right Mr. Craig, I'll accept your notice." Craig started to say something, then changed his mind. He turned on his heel and started out. "Come on, Sam," he called to Sharpe over his shoulder.

Sharpe hung back for a moment. "I'm sorry, Johnny," he said softly. "It wasn't my idea. I tried to talk him out of it." Johnny nodded his head.

"I'll send back my commissions and bonus in the morning," Sharpe said.

Johnny looked at Sharpe suddenly. The man's eyes were warm with understanding. "You don't have to do that," he said quickly; "you earned your money. It's not your fault."

"Our agreement was contingent upon Craig making the picture," Sharpe said simply. "He didn't make it. I don't take pay for not keeping my share of a bargain."

Johnny looked at him. The little man had his pride. "All right Sam," he said. They touched hands and the little man scurried after his client.

Silently they watched him leave. "A square little guy," Johnny said as the door closed behind him.

Peter turned back to his desk and looked at it for a while. He picked up a pencil and toyed with it. He put it down. He picked up a butt of a cigar from his ashtray and put it in his mouth and chewed on it reflectively. Then he turned to Johnny and Joe.

"Well," he said slowly, "I guess that's the finish." "The hell you say," Johnny came back at him. "There are other actors just as good as he is."

Peter looked at him. "Do you think they'll take a chance with us after the experience he had? Even if we had the money, which we haven't?" He spoke with irrefutable logic.

Johnny had no answer. Joe turned up a red queen and put it on a black jack.

"We might as well face it," Peter said heavily. "We're licked." He held up a hand to still Johnny's protest. "Don't tell me any different. You know it too. We tried everything and it didn't work, so we might as well close up shop."

Joe took a vicious swipe at the cards. They scattered into the air and fluttered to the floor. His lips were moving with silent curses.

Johnny said nothing. He couldn't speak even if he wanted to, his throat was all knotted up.

Peter stood up wearily. "I don't know how I'm going to pay you boys back your money."

Johnny found his voice. "You don't owe me nothing."

Joe followed right along. "Me neither," he growled.

Peter looked at them steadily for a few seconds. There was a suspicious moisture in his eyes. He stepped toward Joe and held out his hand. He gripped Joe's hand silently, then he turned to Johnny.

Johnny held out his hand. For some strange reason he couldn't keep it steady. It kept shaking.

Peter took it and held it tightly. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. Then Peter clasped Johnny to him. Tears were running freely from his eyes now.

"You Americans!" Peter said. "What can you say with a handshake?"

Johnny couldn't speak.

"Johnny, Johnny, my boy, don't blame yourself. It's not your fault. You tried harder than any of us."

"I'm sorry, Peter, I'm sorry."

Peter held him at arm's length and looked at him. "Don't give up, Johnny. This is your business. You were meant for it. It's not for old men like me. You'll do great things with it."

"We'll do great things, Peter."

Peter shook his head. "Not me. I'm through." His hands fell to his sides. "Well, I guess I'll be going home." He walked slowly to the door. At the door he turned back and looked at them. He took a half look around the office and tried to smile. He couldn't. He made a helpless little gesture with his hand and shut the door behind him. For a few seconds there was silence in the room. Joe was the first to speak. His voice was strained and cracked. "I think I'll go out and get drunk."

Johnny looked at him strangely. "That's the first good idea we had all summer!"