The Last Don - Mario Puzo [133]
Marrion spoke in his usual low, pleasant voice, but there was now no mistaking his anger.
“Skippy, what do we give a fuck if the picture comes in on budget? We don’t own the picture anymore. We panicked, we made a stupid mistake. All of us are at fault. We do not own this film, an outsider does.”
Skippy Deere tried to interrupt him. “LoddStone will make a fortune on distribution. And you get a percentage on profits. It’s still a very good deal.”
“But De Lena makes more money than we do,” Bantz said. “That’s not right.”
“The point is that De Lena did nothing to solve the problem,” Marrion said. “Surely our studio has some sort of legal basis to regain the picture.”
“That’s right,” Bantz said. “Fuck him. Let’s go to court.”
Marrion said, “We threaten him with court and then we cut a deal. We give him his money back and ten percent of the adjusted gross.”
Deere laughed. “Eli, Molly Flanders won’t let him take your deal.”
“We’ll negotiate directly with De Lena,” Marrion said. “I think I can persuade him.” He paused for a moment. “I called him as soon as I got the news. He will be joining us very shortly. And you know he has a certain background, this suicide is too fortunate for him, I don’t think he will care for the publicity of a court case.”
Cross De Lena, in his penthouse suite at the Xanadu Hotel, read the newspaper reports of Skannet’s death. Everything had gone perfectly. It was a clear case of suicide, the two farewell notes on the body clinched it. There was no possibility the handwriting experts could detect the forgery, Boz Skannet had not left any great body of correspondence and Leonard Sossa was too good. The shackles on Skannet’s legs and arms had been purposely loose and had left no marks. Lia Vazzi was an expert.
The first call Cross received was expected. Giorgio Cleri-cuzio summoning him to the Family mansion in Quogue. Cross had never deceived himself that the Clericuzio would not find out what he was doing.
The second call Cross received was from Eli Marrion asking him to come to Los Angeles and without his lawyer. Cross said he would. But before he left Las Vegas he called Molly Flanders and told her about the phone call from Marrion. She was enraged. “Those slimy bastards,” she said. “I’ll pick you up at the airport and we’ll go in together. Never even say good morning to a studio head unless you’ve got a lawyer with you.”
When the two of them walked into LoddStone Studios and Marrion’s office they knew there was trouble. The four men waiting there had the seriously truculent look of men about to commit strong-arm.
“I decided to bring my lawyer,” Cross said to Marrion. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“As you wish,” Marrion said. “I merely wanted to save you a possible embarrassment.”
Molly Flanders, stern-faced and angry, said, “This is going to be really good. You want the picture back but our contract is iron.”
“You’re correct,” Marrion said. “But we are going to appeal to Cross’s sense of fair play. He did nothing to solve the problem, whereas LoddStone Studios has invested considerable time and money and creative talent without which this movie would not have been possible. Cross will get his money back. He gets ten percent of the adjusted gross and we will be generous in determining the adjustments. He will not be at risk.”
“He has already survived the risk,” Molly said. “Your offer is insulting.”
“Then we will have to go to court,” Marrion said. “Cross, I’m sure you will find that as distasteful as I do.” He smiled at Cross. It was a kindly smile that made his gorilla-like face angelic.
Molly was furious. “Eli, you go to court twenty times a year and give depositions because you’re always pulling crap like this.” She turned to Cross and said, “We’re leaving.”
But Cross knew that a long court case was something he could not afford. His buying the film followed by Skannet’s opportune death would be held up to scrutiny. They would dig up everything about his background, they would paint him in such a way that he would become too much of a public