All he had to do was retrace his steps, locate Fay and get over to Sennett’s, and he would be done. But as he descended the stairs, a landing door thumped open right in front of him, near taking his nose with it. Red Peppard halted like he’d been knocked back, more surprised than Tom, his pale eyebrows mounting almost to the copper curls above.
‘Holy moly, Tom … Tom Collins, how the heck you doin’, friend? We ain’t seen you in—’ The penny dropped, and the eyebrows knit together now for a slow-witted glance up the stairs.
‘Red, hey, that’s what I call lucky.’ Tom leaned forward to seize him by the shoulders, as if this unexpected renewal of acquaintance was all he’d ever wished for. ‘You wouldn’t think a guy could forget the layout of this place in six months, would you? I lost my bearings, coming back from the can.’
He wiped his hands together as though he had just washed them, mostly to let Peppard see they were empty. It was a ludicrous excuse for being there and, slow as he was, the boy probably wouldn’t buy it. Tom slipped his hand in his pocket and gripped the heavy flashlight. He was a nice kid, but even so …
‘Oh, yeah,’ Peppard blurted, his cogs finally getting in a full turn. ‘Sure, I heard you were working for Dick Rowland now, but I didn’t see your name on the list. Rush job, was it?’
What Peppard was talking about, or what the president of Metro Pictures had to do with it, Tom had no idea. But he went along with it.
‘Sure, you got it now, Red.’
Peppard’s mind seemed to be engaged on other business anyhow.
‘Look, Tom, ol’ buddy, I don’t want to get you in trouble, but you know the rules. Hell, you probably made ’em, for all I know. Stick to the meeting rooms, no wandering.’ Peppard’s tone was admonishing, but conciliatory. For whatever reason, he didn’t want a confrontation. ‘You best get back in there and rejoin your people before you’re missed. They’re wrapping it up now anyway.’
Still Tom had no clue. But at a guess some kind of pow-wow was going on downstairs. Something big. Enough for Peppard not to want to rock the boat.
‘Sure, Red. You know how it is. I’ll hold it in next time, OK?’
The kid grunted. His eyes darted back up the stairs. He was in a hurry. ‘Bottom of the stairwell, left through the doors, and no straying. Yeah?’
The gratitude in Tom’s handshake did not need to be feigned. He made his way down the last two flights. At the bottom, he pushed loudly through the swing door, then stopped, waiting, until he heard Peppard skipping upwards again. He peered out, ran straight across the stairwell and into the corridor opposite. Two minutes later he was out in the air again, in the gap between the buildings, breathing in deep gulps of relief and leaning his forehead against the cool stucco of the wall.
Whatever Peppard had been talking about, it had saved his neck. Now he had time to, he wondered what Dick Rowland and his ‘people’ from Metro – one of Lasky’s biggest rivals – could be doing right here at the heart of the Lasky operation? A secret deal, maybe? Some kind of merger? That kind of business usually got done in New York, not out here. Still, it would explain all the cloak and dagger, the block on the Vine Street gate, the total shutdown. Something major enough to merit all that.
A roar of automobile engines and a flare of headlamps drew his attention to the far end of the passage. The smart thing, he knew, would be to get straight back across Argyle, find Fay and get the hell off the lot. But the idea that he might have stumbled across something secret spurred him on. Some folk would pay well for a tip-off about a deal between Lasky and Metro – not least of them Phil Olsen.
Out front, the night air was thick with noise. Limousines lined up in two curving rows, engines running, liveried chauffeurs standing by. From his vantage point, Tom had a direct line of sight to the portico of the executive building as a lone figure in a dinner suit emerged, pushed a fat cigar between his lips and struck a match on one of the pillars. Tall, balding and possessed of a nose that would not have looked out of place on a punchbag, there was no mistaking him. Still, Tom had to blink three times before he convinced himself it really was one of Lasky’s biggest, most powerful business rivals. Joe Schenck. Standing there, puffing away, like he had just bought the place.
Tom had no time to think it through. The door swung open again and a stream of voluble men in black dress coats emerged on to the portico and began signaling to the waiting drivers. Again, Tom was dumbstruck. Every one of them was a name of national importance. There was Dick Rowland, as Peppard had said. Beside him the still more eminent Marcus Loew, and the diminutive figure of ‘Uncle’ Carl Laemmle of Universal, William Fox, Sam Goldwyn, Lewis Selznick, Hiram Abrams of United Artists and – godammit, there was good ol’ Doug Fairbanks strolling out alongside him. So much for the stupid story about Valentino, even if he had known it was bunkum from the get-go.
What could have brought all these men together, so many of them known to despise each other? The only ones missing were the Lasky contingent. But then they too emerged: Jesse Lasky and Charlie Eyton and last of all – impossible as it might seem that no news had leaked of his arrival from New York, yet there he was – the president of Famous Players-Lasky and the Paramount Corporation, the most powerful man in movieland: Adolph Zukor.
What in hellfire and damnation was going on?