"Not just MY gain. You and me together." Joey looked at the red-plush photo album and rubbed his hands. "I'll bet we got pictures in that album worth a hundred grand."
Abruptly, Ewing stepped past Joey and seized the album. He cradled it in his arms. "That's out of the question." He tottered toward the fireplace. "Mr. Barrett," he pleaded, "I beg you to go now."
Anger simmered in Joey—anger and frustration. "All right," he said, forcing himself to be reasonable. "Those are your pictures." He faced Ewing at the fireplace. "But if I take some, will you give me the formula so I can develop them?"
Stubbornly, the old man shook his head.
"What IS the formula?" Joey demanded.
"I've never written it down." Ewing clutched the red-plush photo album with one hand and gestured imploringly with the other. "Mr. Barrett, every moment you stay here, you jeopardize us both. Leave now. Please. Forget we ever met ... that you ever heard of Formula #53."
"Forget!" Joey's hands clenched and unclenched in mounting desperation. "You can't start a guy on a thing like this, Ewing, and then tell him to forget it!" For a long second, they stared at each other. Ewing was breathing heavily and perspiration beaded the parchment face.
Joey tried another tactic: "Look ... if you don't want to give me the formula, at least let me have a few of the pictures in that album. Whatever I get out of them, I'll split with you." He reached out tentatively.
Ewing shrank back. "Go away. Let me alone. There's nothing in the album. I burned the pictures."