Death Paints the Picture

by Lawrence Lariar

  “We share the glory humbly,” said Homer. “The basic idea for Dr. Ohm is the result of many conferences. We created the character together, but Hank should wear the laurel wreath. His was the great brain that transposed the fiction figure into a flesh and blood character.”

  “So?” said Lloyd. “That’s interesting, indeed. We encourage working teams here at Piper’s. We are sure you two will do great things in this place before long.”

  “Thanks,” said Homer. “It shouldn’t be too hard a job. But you know, of course, that neither Hank nor I have had any experience in animated films?”

  “Of course. It is essential that you learn the technique before you begin your real job. Remember that animated cartoons take a long time to produce, Homer. Our last feature, for instance, was over four years in production. We won’t be ready to release these Dr. Ohm shorts before a year or so from today. We must first adapt the comic strip character for animation. Formula drawing will take care of that, combined with the many talents in our creative department.”

  “I don’t follow that,” said Homer.

  “I don’t expect you to see what I mean—yet, Homer, but I’m sure you will after a few weeks of absorbing our methods.”

  The phone rang and Griffin purred into it.

  We left Lloyd Griffin’s office as quickly as possible and started across the lot aimlessly.

  “Where to now?” I asked.

  “We absorb.”

  “But where? What in this factory do we absorb first?”

  Homer made a sharp left turn toward the main gate.

  “Six or seven gin rickeys, Hank. And the sooner the better!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Old Man Mose

  The gateman at Piper’s said, “Gin rickeys? Go down as far as the boulevard and turn right. You’ll see a saloon down there with a red sign hangin’ over the door. That’ll be Shmendrick Schultz’s place. All the boys go there for their hard liquor and free pretzels.”

  When we turned the comer, Shmendrick’s dirty pink sign beckoned from across the street.

  Shmendrick himself, a squat Prussian-looking potato, played barkeep for us. He had a voice full of throaty undertones.

  “You boys from Piper? I ain’t givin’ no more credit if you are. I got a drawer full of dirty IOU’s from that chiseling bunch!”

  Homer waved a ten-dollar bill in his face.

  “What’s the matter with the Piper boys?” Homer asked. “I thought all of them cashed fat checks every Saturday.”

  Shmendrick leaned over the bar. “You kiddin’? The guys with the big dough don’t drink at Shmendrick’s anymore, bud. They clean forgot all about old Shmendrick from the old days. Shmendrick ain’t good enough for ’em, the lousy—”

  He was interrupted by a customer at the far end of the bar. “Hey, Stinky!” yelled the customer.

  “That,” said Homer, “sounds like Mose Kent.”

  “You know him? Hey, Mose! You got company this mornin’.”

  Mose lifted himself slowly from his bar slouch and swayed over. “Bat me over the head, boys, if it isn’t Homer Bull! I haven’t seen you since I gypped you out of a Collier’s gag, chum! But I got to hand it to you, Homer—you tracked me down.”

  “Forget it, Mose, forget it. Have a drink. Have two drinks. And tell me all about everything.”

  Mose was far ahead of us on the rickeys.

  “Look at me,” he said. “I am civilization at its lowest ebb. I am the dregs. You are looking at the sewage side of Hollywood—Mose Kent, the failure, the has-been, the bum. You are looking at the last great gag man in Piper’s pasture.”

  “You at Piper’s?” Homer turned to Shmendrick. “Thought you said you don’t water the Piper stock?”

  “He allus pays. Mose is a right guy.”

  “Mose was,” said Mose. “Mose is now a bum—a moneyed bum. But a week from today Shmendrick will brush me off. A week from today Mose Kent will be a man without a job.” He stared moodily into his glass. “The dirty dog! The dirty, double-dealing, drooling dog!”

  “Who, me?” Shmendrick asked, hurt.

  “Naw,” said Mose.

  The street door opened and a girl ran in.

  Shmendrick said, “She’s here again, Mose!”

  Mose held his head. He moaned. The girl dashed up to him and shook his shoulders. She was very beautiful. She was very much excited. I thought her eyes looked wet with tears.

  “Oh, Mose dear,” she said. “Please, please don’t be a silly boy anymore. Come back with me, now.”

  Mose shook away her arms. “Back to the mines!” he shouted. “Leave me alone, Ellen!”

  She sat next to him, undaunted. “I tell you everything is going to be all right. Everything!”

  “Back to the mines!” said Mose. “G’wan back to your boyfriend!”

  She looked at Homer helplessly. “If we could only get him out. He’ll lose his job if he keeps this up. He mustn’t lose his job. He can’t!”

  “Theatrics!” yelled Mose. “Dramatics! Nobody gives a tinker’s damn about me and my job. She’s stooging for personnel, Homer. ’Magine that—sending a dame over for the great Mose Kent! You know why? A picture. A stinking little Benny the Bear short! They can’t finish it without Mose Kent—I’m dying of laughter!”

  “That isn’t so,” sobbed the girl. “Oh, Mose, if you’d only listen to me.”

  She was breaking my heart. “Why don’t you listen to what she has to say?” I asked him.

  Homer tapped him on the shoulder. “How about a cup of black coffee, Mose?”

  “Never use it. Makes me sober!”

  I pulled Shmendrick down to the end of the bar. “Slip him a Mickey on the next round,” I ordered.

  “I ain’t slippin’ no Mickeys to good customers. What do you take me for, a louse?”

  “For five bucks could you be a louse?”

  “For five bucks I am butchering my grandmother.”

  I edged the girl toward the door and out into the street. This was a doll indeed. This was Joan Blondell in the frame, Hedy Lamarr around the eyes, and from the hips down Betty Grable. I didn’t mind her voice, either. It was low-pitched and sweet.

  “Mose will be back after lunch, Ellen. I fixed it with Shmendrick.”

  She stopped sobbing. “Oh, thank you. Mose will thank you, too, I’m sure. It would have been too bad if he hadn’t showed up this afternoon. He might have been fired, you know.”

  “He seems to think that he’s fired already.”

  She bit her lip. “That’s because of the contract. His new contract hasn’t been offered him.”

  “Then he really is through?”

  “Oh, no. You see, Mark Richmond—”

  But she was interrupted by Homer and Shmendrick. They came through the door carrying the limp figure of Mose Kent. Ellen turned on her heel and ran down the street. We laid him tenderly in the roadster.

  “Head for a drive-in,” said Homer. “Mose’ll need plenty of coffee.”

  “I can use a few dozen cups myself. What’s wrong with Old Man Mose?”

  “Wrong? The first big shock of his artistic career, Hank. Mose Kent is probably the greatest gag man in the country. He’s worked everywhere—radio, the movies, and now animated movies. He’s been with Piper for a long time, you see. Everybody has always told him that Piper couldn’t do without him—that he was the life blood of Benny the Bear. And yet—maybe his number’s up now, though I can’t imagine why.”

  “Ellen mentioned Mark Richmond.”

  Homer’s eyebrows went up. “Could be. Mark practically owns the studio, you know. Piper made him his right hand after the Katie Hinds scandal broke. Since then Richmond has run the studio completely. Piper backs up his every move.”

  “He must be a good manager. Piper’s been making plenty of dough th
ese last five years.”

  “I wonder,” mused Homer. “I wonder whether an outfit like Piper’s couldn’t very well run itself.”

  I turned sharp left into a drive-in and parked well back from the street. An hour and five cups of coffee later Mose regained his ego.

  “I am a dope,” he said. “I apologize to both you guys. Guess the studio got me down this morning. What happened to Ellen?”

  “She is one swell little wren,” I said. “She scooted back to the studio. You want more coffee?”

  “No. I’m hungry. Let’s go to The Grotto. It may be my last meal there.”

  So we went to The Grotto, the luncheon hangout of the upper bracketed Piper boys. Everybody smiled at Mose when we walked in. Everybody seemed to like him.

  “You don’t own a piece of this place, do you?” I asked.

  Mose smiled a wry smile. “I’ve been eating here every day for five years. I’ll miss this dump.”

  “Who told you you’re fired?’ I asked.

  That one made him laugh out loud. “Who told me? Do you think they let you know things like that at Piper’s? That would be normal—that would be nice. But Piper doesn’t work that way. He tells you you’re through by not telling you. He kills you with a frosty silence. When your contract is due for renewal, the dirty work begins. The studio sweats. The story department is a mass of gooseflesh and bromides. Then comes the purge.”

  “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 the 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.”