Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Please,” Carella said.

Krantz buzzed for his secretary. In keeping with company policy, she was a tall and beautiful redhead wearing a tight green sweater and skirt. She listened attentively as Krantz told her to try Cooper's number again, and then said, “We’re ready on that call to the Coast now, Mr. Krantz.”

“Thank you,” Krantz said. “Excuse me,” he said to Carella and Meyer, and then he lifted the receiver. “Hello, Krantz here. Hello, Frank, what is it? Who? The writer ? What do you mean , the writer? The writer doesn’t like the changes that were made? Who the hell asked him for his opinion? Well, I know he wrote the script, what difference does that make? Just a second now, start from the beginning, will you? Who made the changes? Well, he's a perfectly capable producer, why should the writer have any complaints? He says what ? He says it's his script, and he resents a half-assed producer tampering with it? Listen, who is this fellow, anyway? Who? I never heard of him. What's he done before? The Saturday Review says what? Well, what the hell's some literary intelligentsia magazine got to do with the people who watch television? What do I care if he's a novelist, can he write television scripts? Who hired him, anyway? Was this cleared here, or was it a Coast decision? Don’t give me any of that crap, Frank, novelists are a dime a dozen. Yeah, even good novelists. It's the guy who can write a decent television script that's hard to find. You say he can write a decent television script? Then what's the problem? Oh, I see. He doesn’t like the changes that were made. Well, what changes were made, Frank, can you tell me that? I see, um-huh, the prostitute was rewritten as a nun, um-huh, I see, and she doesn’t die at the end, she performs a miracle instead, um-huh, well, how about the hero? Not a truck driver anymore, huh? Oh, I see, he's a football coach now, I get it. Um-huh, works at the college nearby the church, um-huh. Is it still set in London? Oh, I see. I see, yes, you want to shoot it at UCLA, sure, that makes sense, a lot closer to the studio. Well, gee, Frank, off the top of my head, I’d say the revisions have made it a much better script, I don’t know what the hell the writer's getting excited about. Explain to him that the changes are really minor and that large stretches of his original dialogue and scenes are intact, just the way he wrote them. Tell him we’ve had pressure from the network, and that this necessitated a few minor—no, use the word ‘transitional’—a few transitional changes that were made by a competent producer because there simply wasn’t time for lengthy consultations about revisions. Tell him we have the highest regard for his work, and that we’re well aware of what the Saturday Review said about him, but explain that we’re all in the same goddamn rat race, and what else can we do when we’re pressured by networks and sponsors and deadlines? Ask him to be reasonable, Frank. I think he’ll understand. Fine. Listen, what did the pregnant raisin tell the police? Well, go ahead, guess. Nope. Nope. She said, ‘I was graped!’ “ Krantz burst out laughing. “Okay, Frank, I’ll talk to you. Right. So long.”

He hung up. The door to his office opened a second afterward, and the pretty redhead paused in the doorframe and said, “I still can’t reach Mr. Cooper.”

“Keep trying him,” Krantz said, and the girl went out. “I’m sorry about the interruption, gentlemen. Shall we continue?”

“Yes,” Carella said. “Can you tell me who was in that booth with you last night?”

“You want the names?”

“I’d appreciate them.”

“I anticipated you,” Krantz said. “I had my secretary type up a list right after you called this morning.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Carella said.

“In this business, I try to anticipate everything .”

“It's a pity you couldn’t have anticipated Gifford's death,” Carella said.

“Yeah, well, that was unforeseen,” Krantz said absolutely straight-faced, shaking his head solemnly. “I’ll have my secretary bring in that list.” He pushed a button on his phone. “She used to work for our head of production out at the studio. Did you ever see tits like that before?”

“Never,” Carella said.

“They’re remarkable,” Krantz said.

The girl came into the office. “Yes, sir?”

“Bring in that list you typed for me, would you? How’re you doing with Mr. Cooper?”

“I’ll try him again, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and went out.

“Remarkable,” Krantz said.

“While she's getting that list,” Carella said, “why don’t you fill us in, Mr. Krantz?”

“Sure. Gladine was in the booth with me, she's usually there to take any notes I might—”

“Gladine?”

“My secretary. The tits,” Krantz said. He gestured with his hands.

“Oh. Sure.”

“My associate producer was up there, too. Dan Hollis is his name, he's been with MBA for close to fifteen years.”

“Who was minding the store?” Meyer asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If you and your associate were in the sponsor's booth—”

“Oh. Well, our unit manager was down on the floor, and our director was in the control booth, of course, and our assistant director was making sure everyone—”

“I see, okay,” Meyer said. “Who else was in the sponsor's booth with you?”

“The others were guests. Two of them were sponsors’ representatives; one was a Hollywood director who's shooting a feature for the studio and who thought Gifford might be right for a part; and the other two were—”

The door opened.

“Here's that list, sir,” Gladine said. “We’re trying Mr. Cooper now.”

“Thank you, Gladine.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and walked out. Krantz handed the typewritten list to Carella. Carella looked at the list, and then passed it to Meyer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Feldensehr, who are they?” Meyer asked.

“Friends of Carter Bentley, our unit manager. He invited them in to watch the show.”

“That's all then, huh? You and your secretary, your associate Dan Hollis…Who's this Nathan Crabb?”

“The Hollywood director. I told you, he—”

“Yes, fine, and Mr. and Mrs. Feldensehr, and are these last two the sponsor's men?”

“That's right.”

“Eight people in all,” Carella said, “And five of them were guests.”

“That's right.”

“You told us there were six guests, Mr. Krantz.”

“No, I said five.”

“Mr. Krantz,” Meyer said, “last night you told me there were six.”

“I must have meant Gladine.”

“Your secretary?” Carella said.

“Yes. I must have included her as one of the guests.”

“That's a little unusual, isn’t it, Mr. Krantz? Including an employee of the company as a guest?”

“Well…”

There was a long silence.

“Yes?” Carella said.

“Well…”

There was another silence.

“We may be investigating a homicide here, Mr. Krantz,” Meyer said softly. “I don’t think it's advisable to hide anything from us at this point, do you?”

“Well, I…I suppose I can trust you gentlemen to be discreet.”

“Certainly,” Carella said.

“Nathan Crabb? The director? The one who was here to look at Stan, see if he was right for—”

“Yes?”

“He had a girl with him, the girl he's grooming for his next picture. I deliberately left her name off the list.”

“Why?”

“Well, Crabb is a married man with two children. I didn’t think it wise to include the girl's name.”