He Died Laughing Page 2

  “The purge?” asked Homer.

  “The purge. Every year, at contract time, it happens. There is a week of sweating. Then the renewal notices come through.” He threw out his hands in a simple gesture. “Mine hasn’t come through his year. The Fuehrer has had his say. Mark Richmond has marked me lousy.”

  “Mark Richmond?”

  “Mark Richmond moves the pawns at Piper’s. It’s been going on for five years. He says it cleans out the dead fish. Eliminates the garbage. Promotes efficiency, speeds up production and saves the studio plenty of moola.” He smiled a sad smile. “You see, Homer, I’m a has-been.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re all mixed up. Where does Ellen fit into the story?”

  Kent’s face clouded. “Ellen? Simple. You know Mark Richmond?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Wait’ll you meet the heel. Mark Richmond gets what he wants in that studio. Everything he wants.”

  “But how about Dick Piper? Can’t you go to him and explain? I’m sure he’d do something for you, Mose.”

  “Dick Piper doesn’t blow his nose unless Richmond is on hand. Didn’t you hear what happened to P.D.Q. last month?”

  “P. D. Quillan? You mean that Quillan is out?”

  This was a surprise! P.D.Q. was one of the greatest animators in the business. It was he who had actually started Piper in the animation racket, long before Mark Richmond entered the picture.

  “No, P.D.Q. isn’t out, Homer. It’s worse than that. They demoted him. When Piper doesn’t want to fire a man, he allows Richmond the privilege of demotion. This soothes Piper’s conscience, because demotion doesn’t mean an immediate salary cut. It’s worse. A man can be demoted from head of a department to office boy and retain his old salary. P.D.Q., for instance, is now in charge of a stockroom, at three hundred and fifty potatoes per week!”

  “Weird!” said Homer. “And how long does he stay in that salary bracket?”

  “Maybe a year, maybe two. It depends on the man. A guy like P.D.Q. will resign very soon. He is slowly going nuts in that stockroom.”

  Homer turned to me. “You see, Hank, these are the workings of a phoney democracy. I told you I smelled dead fish in that place.”

  The noon whistle must have blown at the Piper factory, for The Grotto was fast filling with a motley crew of whimsy merchants. Most of the newcomers waved to Mose gaily, hiding their crushed libidos behind wide, boyish smiles. A trio of bright-jacketed boys approached our table.

  “I got mine this morning, Mose,” said a short, bald gent, waving a paper under Kent’s nose. “You want my bromides?”

  Mose introduced the three of them. The little bald man was Louie Cianchini, a director. They all sat. Jimmy Boomer, a three-hundred-pound sack of flesh, thumped Mose on the back. “I’ll take half of those pills, chum. Der Fuehrer has marked me lousy, too.”

  Mose looked up, surprised. “Holy cat! Not you, Jimmy! What in hell will they do for music?”

  “That’ll be easy. Richmond will fiddle while Piper burns!”

  Everybody but De Cluny laughed. De Cluny said, “You should not make the joke about Richmond, Jeemy. Last year you did not talk so, no?”

  Jimmy leaned over the table to snarl at him. “Last year I talked this way, and the year before that! No? And if I am here next year? Will I talk this way next year? Mais certainement! Your small slice of French flesh is pleased because you got a renewal this year, ami—but last year at this time you weren’t so debonair. Comprenez, zut?”

  De Cluny shrugged. “We are all alike, no? Why do we stay year after year? It cannot be so bad.”

  “It couldn’t be worse,” said Cianchini. “This year even my wife suffered. Me, I got gastric ulcers.”

  “If it happened to me, I’d kill that jerk Richmond,” said Boomer, tearing the menu into little pieces.

  “Have you got another job lined up, Jimmy?” Mose asked. “It should be easy for you, after all those Benny the Bear hits.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a job lined up, all right. But it won’t be music we can hear, pals. I’m going to hit Mark Richmond so hard that he’ll hear a symphony of cymbals for the rest of his life!”

  “It is bad to talk this way,” said De Cluny. “You do not say what you mean, Jeemy.”

  “You think I am making the joke, De Cluny?”

  “You will not be discharged. I am sure of this.”

  “I tell you Der Fuehrer’s got me marked this year. I also tell you that before I leave the Piper plantation I am aiming six or seven straight right crosses at Mark Richmond’s pasty puss. I am telling you, too, that I never miss a right cross!”

  Cianchini interrupted. “Stick your nose in the soup, Jimmy—here comes P.D.Q. If he sits here with us, my ulcers will start their double talk.”

  “Ohmigawd!” said Boomer. “Here goes my appetite.”

  But P.D.Q. made a beeline for our table and squatted sadly in the corner between Boomer and De Cluny. He was a short, neat-looking little man. You noticed his eyes. He had the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen in a human face. They were pale brown, like the wet orbs of a cocker spaniel.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s come at last.” Nobody answered. “Did any of you boys get renewals?”

  Cianchini said, “Of course not, P.D. It isn’t time yet for renewals.”

  “Don’t lie, Louie.”

  Cianchini looked around the table helplessly. “All right—so I did get a renewal. But look at Jimmy and Mose here, they didn’t get theirs yet. You don’t think they’re going to sack two—I mean three of the best men in the plant, do you?”

  P.D.Q. stared at Cianchini. “Then you did get yours? And you, too, Eph?”

  De Cluny shrugged. “What does it matter, the contract? You will not be discharged, P.D. Dick Piper cannot be so—so callous. He has kept many after the contract has expired. What does it matter? You will be paid. You will still work.”

  P.D.Q. stared into his glass. “In the stockroom.”

  “It won’t last,” said Cianchini. “Dick won’t let Richmond do that to you for much longer, P.D. Why don’t you go to him and tell him what’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve tried,” said the little man softly. “But he won’t see me—he won’t talk to me.”

  “Great jumping ginch!” roared Boomer. “I wouldn’t take that from any man!”

  P.D.Q. locked his hands. “It isn’t Dick’s fault. Somebody has poisoned his mind against me. For a long time I didn’t know who did this to me. Now I know.”

  Cianchini fumbled for his watch. “I’ve got to prepare my room for a story conference. Bring Homer and Hank around after lunch, Mose. It’ll show ’em how a short gets under way.”

  P.D.Q. got up slowly. He hadn’t touched his food. He nodded goodbye and headed for the bar.

  “There goes the shell of the greatest animator in the world,” said Mose. “In one year he has been changed from an active talent to a schizophrenic stock boy.”

  “He has all the symptoms of impending mania in his eyes,” said Homer. “Is he still normal?”

  “Quite,” said Mose. “But I’d hate to be Mark Richmond if P.D.’s contract doesn’t come through soon. P.D. holds championships in skeet shooting and archery. And do you know what his hobby is?”

  Homer shook his head.

  “Knife throwing,” said Mose Kent.

  CHAPTER 3

  Through the Looking Glass

  “Which tour do you want?” asked Noyes. “The fifty-cent trip through Piper Town? Or would you rather take the dollar journey?”

  Lloyd Griffin had appointed Barton Noyes our guide. He was a lank, mirthless youth, given to slow motion, slower speech and dry monotones.

  Homer said, “We must absorb. Which way lies the greater absorption?”

  “The long way,” said Noyes, “I always take newcomers t
he full distance. It is only by paralyzing you physically that I can show you the full importance of each cubbyhole on these sprawling Piper acres.”

  He led us across the main lot, along winding concrete paths which squirmed, now and then, through a cluster of small wooden outbuildings.

  “Benny the Bear has been money in the box-office for a long time?” asked Homer.

  “Five years. For a long time the fuzzy little brute didn’t hold the public, you see. Dick began his movie making almost fifteen years ago, gathering a small group of workers around him to experiment with animation. They tested many characters for many years before Benny was born. And even Benny flopped. Nobody seemed able to move the beast through his paces.”

  “I remember those early Benny shorts,” I said. “We used to call him Benny the Jerk.”

  “Animation,” said Noyes. “The animation was horrible, but this was because the understructure of the bear was poorly drawn. You see, each cartoon figure must be rationalized into a simple pattern before it is ready for animation. This basic drawing is then broken down into a formula diagram which can be adapted by the animators it was this formula that Dick lacked. As a matter of fact, he was about to abandon Benny when P.D.Q. came along and solved the riddle.”

  “Stout fellow,” said Homer.

  Barton Noyes didn’t answer. We had reached the small concrete clearing before the main entrance. Homer turned his back on it and let his eyes wander across the lot. “A masterpiece of layout,” he said. “Where did it all begin?”

  “It all began right on this spot, Homer. Legend has it that this main building housed a pioneer blacksmith, and Dick bought it because it reminded him of another more distant stable on a street in New Jersey. Dick’s father was a blacksmith, you know. But the stable lost its identity a long time ago. New small buildings were attached to the original barn and connected by dark and narrow halls. You can walk for an hour inside this main building without once sniffing fresh air.”

  “Let’s take a deep breath and go in,” I said.

  We went inside. Noyes led us through the dim halls, pointing out the dark retreats of “Management,” “Personnel,” “Production” and “Accounting.” Further back, in the southernmost section, we reached the inner sanctum of the Piper domain.

  “This is Dick’s section of the building,” said Noyes. “Beyond that door is his office, which forms a special south wing and ends at the parking lot. No need to take you inside. You’ll see only a few modest doors marked ‘Dick,’ ‘Mark,’ and ‘Clark.’ These offices house Mark Richmond, who is Dick’s first lieutenant, and Clark Threadgill, the personal attorney for Dick and the studio.” He made a right about-face. “We’ll take this exit now and examine a few sweatboxes.”

  A sweatbox is a smallish room, full of chairs, a small screen and a projection booth. The one we entered was empty, save for a light veil of cigarette smoke and the smell of men recently departed.

  “It is in rooms like this that all shorts are previewed,” Noyes explained. “You can understand, of course, the reason for the name. Men enter sweatboxes to sweat, you see. The raw film is flashed on the screen. After the final fade-out, the conference begins. Gags are pulled apart, discussed, and put together again. Many cigarettes are smoked. The air turns thick with argument, criticism and bad breath. After an hour or so of life in a sweatbox, a man is ready to commit suicide or resign.”

  “Then these rooms are reserved for the gagging departments?”

  “Not at all. Animators use these holes as often as gag men—perhaps more often. The animation director calls his men to account in here. Faulty animation sometimes can be spotted only after thousands of drawings are photographed.”

  Homer sniffed. “Why aren’t they air-conditioned?”

  Noyes shrugged. “You aren’t acquainted with fan magazine publicity, I see. Dick Piper makes a fetish of frugality.”

  “Does the great man himself use these rooms?”

  “Yes, indeed, Dick uses these sweatboxes along with the rest of the staff. He—ah—believes firmly in the democratic system. Nobody in the studio has special privileges.”

  “If this be democracy, give me air-conditioned fascism,” moaned Homer. “Let’s get out.”

  Out on the lawn we paused for a cigarette, while Noyes traced the historical pattern of Dick Piper’s rise to success, from his early struggles to the day when a certain wealthy clothing merchant named Albert Essig took Piper under his wing and financed his first effort.

  The first office in the second building was labelled “Publicity.” When Noyes opened the door, a horn-rimmed gent with a wide bay window almost collided with us. High blood pressure ran riot on his flabby cheeks.

  “Terrible! Terrible!” he said in a shrill voice “It’s happened again. Hello, Barton.”

  Barton Noyes introduced us. The roly-poly was Hugh Pentecost, director of publicity.

  He waved a news-clipping under our noses. “Terrible! Our Eastern office can’t be releasing this stuff! This is the third time—no, the fourth time this week. Dick’ll be furious—I can’t imagine who is responsible.”

  I read the clipping. It was an item from a gossip column in a movie trade journal:

  “… Contract trouble will be responsible for the slowing up of production on Dick Piper’s new Benny the Bear short. This makes the fifth break in Piper production. Who’s throwing the monkey wrench? And what happens when the exhibitors don’t get the new shorts they signed for?”

  Pentecost grabbed the clipping. “Where’s Dick? I must see him! Try him on the phone, Ellen! Good Lord, this’ll be a bombshell! Excuse me! Excuse me, men!”

  He ran out of the office. I saw Noyes’ lips curl, then drop limp into his deadpan again.

  Ellen Tucker said, “You ought to explain, Barton, that this isn’t the usual routine in the publicity department.”

  “I was about to,” said Noyes, with a mock bow. “This, my friends, is usually the quietest spot in the studio. It is a shrine, this office. Here Hugh Pentecost, aided by Ellen Tucker, plots the deep and devious details of publicity.”

  “Oh, Barton, stop!” said Ellen. “You make this place sound like a sweatbox.”

  “A sweatbox doesn’t sound,” I said. “It smells.”

  Homer said, “What was Pentecost excited about? Does bad publicity break into print often?”

  “Often?” Ellen was astonished. “You’re kidding, Homer. Nobody likes bad publicity. It’s our job to see that no news of that sort ever leaves the studio. Matter of fact, it’s our job to supervise all publicity. Is there ever any bad publicity released by a company press-agent?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” smiled Homer. “How did it get out, if you didn’t release it?”

  “That’s what’s got Hugh worried. We don’t know. Neither Hugh nor I would ever send an item like that back East. We can’t ever admit to our exhibitors that we’re being slowed down by interoffice troubles.”

  “I am a detective by instinct,” said Homer with mock seriousness. “I’ll ask you again. How did that news break reach the East? Somebody must have sent it there. Who’s the traitor?”

  Ellen laughed, but not too long. “I wish we knew. Why don’t you find out? It’ll save the publicity department a lot of embarrassment.”

  “To say nothing of ‘Personnel’,” said Noyes. “They’ll have the Gestapo working overtime now. Nobody will be safe from questioning.” He winked at Ellen. “Wait’ll Lloyd Griffin hears about this, eh, Ellen?”

  She made a little face at him. “That’s not nice. You’ll be having these men think this place is honeycombed with an underground spy movement and it’s bad form to discover such things in the publicity department.”

  “Touché!” said Noyes. “Gentlemen, let us move out into the hall, where I can explain.”

  We moved. In the hall, Barton Noyes explained. For four months, the Pipe
r Studios had been annoyed by adverse publicity of the sort we had just read. It meant that somebody in the studio was shipping the reports back to the various outlets in New York City. But who?

  “Nobody knows yet,” said Noyes. “Such information must be ferreted out by the personnel department. The personnel department moves like the Gestapo, you know, slowly and in mysterious ways.”

  Homer was incredulous. “Spies? You’re not serious, Noyes.”

  “I’m always serious. That is a fault of mine.”

  I said, “Fault? A good guide should always be serious.”

  “Thank you. But I’m not a guide. I conduct tours because Lloyd Griffin likes my line of chatter.”

  “Your double talk is enigmatic,” said Homer. “Aren’t you a part of personnel?”

  “No. I’m a story man, Homer.”

  “A story man?” I said.

  Noyes smiled wryly. “I can see no reason for keeping you in the dark. You have just heard that mysterious scandals and bad breaks in publicity are leaking out to New York. Who is suspect? How would news of this sort leak out? From the higher-ups, of course. Every man in the studio who earns over forty dollars a week is a higher-up. None of the cheap help can hear such rumors. The next step is obvious. If a higher-up is spilling such vile yarns, he must be a disgruntled higher-up. Do you follow me?”

  “You were a disgruntled higher-up?”

  “One of many. Most of the story men have long been disgruntled. I am working, even now, on borrowed time. My contract wasn’t renewed last year. I may be fired at any moment. For that reason the big boys decided to try breaking my back. They demoted me.”

  “I begin to understand,” said Homer. “They did the same to P.D.Q.”

  “Precisely. They made me a member of personnel, at the same salary. They are quite aware that I am suffering in my new job. I didn’t come to Piper’s to be a guide. I’m a story man. If times were better, I’d have quit and tried another animation studio. But the war knocked too many of the others out of business. So I stay on here, hoping for a change, but never knowing just how it will come.”