Free Frames by Loren D. Estleman Page A

charged ahead with his observations and opinions.
     
    “. . . no reason to call Thalberg a philistine for crying editor,” he was saying. “The crazy Austrian expected audiences to catch the first four hours early in the evening, break for dinner, then come back and watch the rest until the milkmen came out. They put in ten hours on the job six days a week, and they weren’t about to spend all Saturday night watching other people get more and more miserable and then go to church a few hours later.”
     
    Valentino rubbed his eyes. “They might have. The thing is we’ll never know. They hated the version MGM released, said it was sordid. But that was the studio’s film, not his. If they had the chance to see this version, his career might have gone the right way.”
     
    “Some say it did. He held up production on Merry Go Round for days waiting for authentic Austrian Army underwear to arrive from Europe, and not a thread of it showed onscreen. By the time Gloria Swanson got him canned from Queen Kelly, he was already on his way out. If Greed were shown his way and made millions, he’d still have wound up playing Kraut heavies for lesser directors. Never underestimate the ability of a mad genius to crap himself in public.”
     
    “So we’ve done it. Found Greed.” Valentino leaned sideways in his chair, feeling charged with energy and drained of emotion at the same time. “What’s next?”
     
    Broadhead turned off the projector. The fans circulating cool air inside spun to a halt. “First, we get as much of it transferred as we can before the cops raid the joint.” He swung open the magazine and removed the full reel. “I gave the techie who helped me unwrap reel one a hundred bucks to print up reel two. I’d have gone in order, but then I wouldn’t have been able to show you the beginning, and I know how you feel about coming in after the credits. By the way, you owe me a hundred dollars.”
     
    “Why me?”
     
    “It’s your property, Rockefeller. Before the Oracle is through with you, you’re going to be hemorrhaging money like Cleopatra. You might as well get used to it now.” He placed the reel in its can. “What did Anklemire say?”
     
    Valentino had decided emphatically not to mention that Anklemire had suggested solving the case for the police; Broadhead’s opinion of the man in Information Services was low enough as it was. “He said I should butter up Sergeant Clifford with a personal tour of our operation.”
     
    “Interesting. Who’d have thought the little troll could make so much sense?”
     
    “He also said I should call her first instead of waiting for her to make the first move, as if I were courting her. I don’t think his sensitivity training took.”
     
    “I didn’t say he’d know why he made sense,” Broadhead said. “He’s a Neanderthal savant. All these new scientific weapons in the war on crime have turned the cop with the flattest feet on the beat into a techno-nerd. If she sees firsthand what we’re trying to do, the expense involved, she might be sympathetic. And he’s right about approaching her. If she has to come fetch what she wants, you’ll have to dig yourself out of a hole just to bargain with her on level ground.”
     
    “In that case, we’d better get back.” Valentino stood.
     
    “Leave the ‘we’ to the little piggy. As soon as I get this back in cold storage, I’m going home to sleep. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since Orson Welles kept me up drinking Paul Maisson and kvetching about what RKO did to The Magnificent Ambersons. ”
     
    Broadhead was gray with exhaustion. Valentino asked if he could get home all right.
     
    “I drive better when I’m asleep. If you don’t stop mothering me, I’ll call Immigration on your construction crew.”
     
    “Thanks, Kyle.”
     
    “Oh. Call Fanta and bring her up to speed. Her number’s in my Rolodex.”
     
    When Valentino returned to his office, Ruth flagged him down with a