Sheri Cobb South Read Online Free Page A

elbow and all but frog-marching her to the door. “We’ll call you.”
    Her last stop, at Monumental Pictures, proved even more fruitless than all the rest. At least at the other studios a real person had spoken to her, however unpromisingly. At Monumental, however, the reception room stood vacant, without so much as a cold coffee cup on the desk to suggest that it had ever been inhabited at all.
    “Hello?” called Frankie, undaunted. “Is anyone there?”
    Receiving no reply, she ventured past the desk and into the hallway. She could hear the faint sounds of voices further down the corridor, and she started in their direction, the thick carpet beneath her feet absorbing the sound of her footsteps . At the end of the hall was a half-open door bearing a brass nameplate reading “Arthur Cohen, Executive Producer.” As she drew nearer, the voices within began to resolve themselves into words—angry words. A previously unsuspected instinct for self-preservation warned her against announcing her presence.
    “Damn it, Artie, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!”
    The unseen Artie, presumably Mr. Arthur Cohen himself, gave a derisive snort. “Opportunity to go bankrupt, more like. Have you heard what the Mitchell dame and her agent are asking? A hundred grand!”
    “Since when does anybody pay the asking price? Make ‘em a counter offer, and see what happens.”
    “I know what’ll happen. Either they’ll turn it down, and I’m no better off than I was before, or they’ll accept it—and I’m a hell of a lot worse.”
    The first speaker’s response was drowned out by a metallic ringing like a spoon against the cup. A moment later a not unpleasant odor of herbs and almonds filled the air, tickling Frankie’s nose.
    “Mayer says no Civil War picture ever made a nickel,” Artie said once the stirring sound had stopped. “You think you suddenly know more about making pictures than Louis B. Mayer?”
    Frankie gasped. They were talking about Gone with the Wind ! The whole country was hoping for a film version of Margaret Mitchell’s novel, even (maybe especially) those who hadn’t yet read the thousand-page brick of a book.  Forgetting for the moment the hostility with which the issue was being debated, Frankie pictured herself in ruffled hoop skirts, lifting her tear-stained face to the camera and declaring that “Tomorrow is another day.” Then Artie’s companion spoke again, more clearly now, dragging her away from Tara and back to reality.
    “—big Technicolor production, like I wanted to do with The Virgin Queen .”
    “I keep telling you, Technicolor is nothing but a fad—and a damned expensive one at that.”
    “You said the same thing ten years ago about the talkies. If it had been left up to you we’d still be making the old silent flicks.”
    Artie took exception to this accusation, slamming his fist into something—the wall, perhaps, or the top of his desk. “God knows one of us has to show some restraint! ‘Technicolor,’ my Aunt Fanny! Give me a good old black and white horror flick any day. That’s what the public wants—some sweet young thing in a see-through nightie tiptoeing down the stairs with a candle in her hand—”
    “And you were the master of the genre, Artie, no one’s arguing with that,” his companion assured him in conciliatory tones. “But that kind of thing is box office poison these days, thanks to the Hays Office.”
    Artie’s bluntly stated opinion of the Hays Office and its censoring practices caused Frankie to clap one hand over her open mouth.
    “I’m inclined to agree with you, but it looks like they’re here to stay, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Look, if you’re not happy with the way the industry is headed, maybe it’s time you got out, pursued some other interests. I’d be willing to buy you out—”
    “With what?” scoffed Artie. “You don’t have a dime you didn’t make in the business.”
    “And what money do you have