«I’ll handle it.»
«Be kind to the vultures, Mac, kind and noncommital, they can’t stand that.»
«What do you mean?»
«The nicer you are, the more they sweat, the more they sweat, the better off you are.»
«Kinda like facing down enemy intelligence personnel in Istanbul, right?»
«That’s Hollywood, Mac.»
Morning came, barely dawn to be precise, and the phone in Suite 12A began ringing. Hawkins, who lay supine on the floor of the living room area, was prepared for it. He had received Madge’s «Concept Treatment» at 2:03 A.M., finished reading, rereading, and absorbing the eighteen pages of high tension fashioned by his third wife by three o’clock, had taken the telephone off the desk and placed it on the carpet next to his head, and bivouacked for a few hours of sleep. Rest was a weapon for impending combat, as necessary as superior firepower. However, Midgey had done such a superb job—the narrative explosive, each page dynamic in terms of energy, action, and diversified character sketches—that much-needed sleep was postponed for nearly thirty minutes while the Hawk considered becoming a motion picture producer.
Hell, no! Omaha and the Wopotamis will take up all of my time. Stick to priorities, soldier! Suddenly, the abrasive ringing echoed off the walls of the room.
«Yes?» said Mac, the phone at his left ear on the floor.
«Andrew Ogilvie here, General.»
«What?»
«Yes, I said ‘General,’ chap. I’m afraid my old Grenadier comrade broke the rules and told me who you were. You had a splendid war, old boy. Much impressed, much impressed.»
«Much early, too,» said Hawkins. «You really were with the Grenadiers?»
«A callow youth, to be sure, as was Cavvy.»
«Cavvy?»
«Lord Cavendish, of course. He, too, had a fine war. Got right into the mud and the mortars and never ‘lorded’ it over anyone, if you catch my meaning.»
«Yeah, it’s splendid, real fine. It’s also real early and my troops aren’t ready for muster. Have some morning tea and come up in an hour. You’re first, I’ll give you that.»
The phone replaced, there was a rapid knocking at the corridor door. Mac got to his feet, and in his camouflaged skivvies walked over to it. «Yes?»
«Hey, who else?» shouted the intruder in the hallway. «I knew it was you, I’d know that growl anywhere!»
«Greenberg?»
«Hey, baby, who else? My lovely, adorable wife, who threw me out of the house for no reason whatsoever and took me for a bundle—but who cares, she’s a doll—gave me a rundown and I knew it was you! Lemme in, pal, okay, okay? A deal we can make!»
«You’re second in line, Manny.»
«You got some phonies in there awready? Hey, listen, sweetheart, I gotta whole studio behind me, the big megillah! Wadd’ya want to deal with second-raters for, huh?»
«Because they own England, that’s why.»
«That’s crapola! They make those dumb movies where everybody’s talking and nobody knows what they’re saying because they got gefilte fish in their mouths!»
«Others think otherwise.»
«What others? For every Jimmy Bond, they got fifty underwear Gandhis which never made back their negative costs, and don’t let ’em tell you they did!»
«Others say otherwise.»
«Who you gonna believe? The rotten redcoats who talk funny or the pure Paul Reveres?»
«Come back in three hours, Manny, and call first from the lobby.»
«Mac, give me a break! The whole studio’s got the big eye on me!»
«I’m giving you a break, you horny toad. Maybe you’ll find a none too discriminating sixteen-year-old hooker in the lobby.»
«Hey, that’s slander! I’ll sue the bitch!»
«Just leave now, Manny, or don’t bother to come back.»
«Awright, awright.» The telephone rang again, pulling Hawkins away from the door, although he would have preferred to wait and make sure Greenberg had really left.
«Yes?» said the Hawk, picking the phone up off the floor.
«Suite Twelve A?»
«So?»
«This is Arthur Scrimshaw, head of development for Holly Rock Productions, the rock of Hollywood, with worldwide grosses that would stagger the imagination if I were at liberty to disclose them, and, furthermore, the recipient of a total of sixteen Oscar nominations over the past … harrumph … years.»
«How many Oscars did you win, Mr. Scrimshaw?»
«Very close, very close. Could have gone either way each time. And speaking of time, I’ve found some in my unbelievably hectic schedule for us to have breakfast—shall I say a power breakfast?»
«Come back in four hours—»
«I beg your pardon. Perhaps I didn’t make clear my position—»
«You made everything perfectly clear, Scrimmy, and so did I. You’re third on the list and that means four hours, leaving an hour for my people to prepare for muster.»
«Are you quite sure you want to treat the chief of Holly Rock’s division of development in this manner?»
«Don’t have a choice, Artie boy. The schedule’s been set.»
«Well … harrumph … in that case, and since you’re in a suite, would you perchance have an extra bed?»
«A bed?»
«It’s the damned bookkeepers, you understand. I should fire them all… They seem to frown upon spontaneous reservations, and I never sleep a wink on the redeye from L.A. I tell you, I’m exhausted!»
«Try the Salvation Army mission down in the Bowery. They take all contributions over a dime… Four hours!» The Hawk slammed down the phone, placed it on the hotel desk, and as he turned to head for the nearest bedroom, it rang again. «Goddamn, what is it?» he roared.
«Emerald Cathedral Studios, heah,» began the mellifluous voice, in a thick Southern accent. «A God-fearin’ patriotic bird flew some information down here regardin’ some great patriotic movie you want to get made, a movie based on real facts! And let me tall ya, boy, we ain’t no part of those Hebes and Nigras that’s runnin’ the filum industry. We’ah simon-pure Christian, flag-wavin’ real Amerucuns who believe that might is fuckin’ right, and we want to tell the story of real Amerucuns doin’ God’s work. We also got lots of dollars—quite a few million, fer a fact. Our Sunday telecasts and used car lots where every salesman’s a Christian minister are weekly uranium mines.»
«Be at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., at midnight tonight,» ordered Hawkins quietly. «And wear white hoods over your heads so I’ll know you!»
«Ain’t that kinda obvious?»
«Are you gutless, antimilitary, anti-American liberal types?»
«Hell, no! We put our money where our mouths are, and we got plenty of both. We’ah Jesse’s boys!»
«If it’s the right Jesse, catch a plane and be in Washington tonight. Four hundred feet from the front of the statue and six hundred to the oblique right. You’ll reach the honor guard house, and the men inside will tell you where we are.»
«We got a deal then?»
«A deal you couldn’t imagine. Remember the hoods. They’re vital!»
«Gotcha, boy!»
The phone replaced, MacKenzie walked to the nearest bedroom door and knocked. «Reveille, troops! You’ve got an hour for spit, polish, and mess before engagement. Don’t forget, you’re in combat fatigues and side arms. Place your orders with room service.»