I shook my head. “That doesn’t matter. The leads are all dead, or out of commission, but their heirs… well, you get what I mean.”
Johnson saw what I meant. “Absolutely right. No point taking any chances. Where’s the rest—?”
“Who knows? We were lucky to salvage that much. Can do?”
“Can do.” He thought for a minute. “Get Bernstein in here. Better get Kessler and Marrs, too.” The projectionist left. In a few minutes Kessler, a heavy-set man, and Marrs, a young, nervous chain-smoker, came in with Bernstein, the sound man. We were introduced all around and Johnson asked if we minded sitting through another showing.
“Nope. We like it better than you do.”
Not quite. Kessler and Marrs and Bernstein, the minute the film was over, bombarded us with startled questions. We gave them the same answers we’d given Johnson. But we were pleased with the reception, and said so.
Kessler grunted. “I’d like to know who was behind that camera. Best I’ve seen, by Cripes, since ‘Ben Hur.’ Better than ‘Ben Hur.’ The boy’s good.”
I grunted right back at him. “That’s the only thing I can tell you.
The photography was done by the boys you’re talking to right now. Thanks for the kind word.”
All four of them stared.