"And Cord Explosives owns the other half," I said. "Cord Explosives also holds over half a million dollars of mortgages on ICA planes, most of which are past due right now.
If I foreclosed on them, I'd wind up owning all of Inter-Continental Airlines."
He stared at me angrily for a moment, then his face relaxed into a grin.
"I shoulda known better, Jonas. I shoulda learned my lesson when I lost that Waco to you in the poker game."
I smiled back. "You're a great flier, Buzz. You stick to flying and leave the business end to me.
I’ll make a rich man out of you yet." He reached for a cigarette.
"O.K.," he said easily. "But I still think you're nuts to build this plane. We could lose our shirt on it."
I didn't answer as we walked out to my car.
There was no use explaining to Buzz the simple rules of credit. ICA would order twenty of these planes from Cord Aircraft.
The two companies would then give chattel mortgages on them to Cord Explosives. And Cord Explosives would discount those mortgages at the banks, even before the planes were built.
The worst that could happen, if the plane was no good, was that Cord Explosives would end up with a whopping tax deduction.
I got into the car. "Good luck with the picture!" Buzz yelled after me as I pulled away.
I turned into the main gate at the Norman studios.
The guard looked out and waved me on.
"Good morning, Mr. Cord," he called.
"Good luck, sir."
I smiled and drove toward the parking lot. There was a small marker with my name on it. mr. cord.
They didn't miss a trick when it came to sucking ass.
There was a reserved table with my name on it in the executive dining room. I also had a private bungalow with a suite of offices and two secretaries, a liquor cabinet stocked to the brim, an electric refrigerator, a private can and shower, a dressing room, a conference room and two secretarial offices in addition to my own.
I went through the back door of my bungalow and directly into my office.
I wasn't at the desk more than a moment when one of the secretaries came in.
She stood in front of the desk, looking very efficient with her notebook and pencil.
"Good morning, Mr. Cord," she said brightly. "Any dictation?"
I shook my head.
You'd think by this time she'd know better.
For the past five weeks, this had been going on every morning.
I never write anything – messages, memos, instructions.
If I want anything written, I call McAllister.
That's what lawyers are for.
The telephone on my desk buzzed.
She picked it up. "Mr. Cord's office."
She listened a moment, then turned to me. "They've completed rehearsal on Stage Nine. And they're ready for their first take.
They want to know if you'd like to come down."
I got up. "Tell them I’m on my way."
Stage Nine was at the far end of the lot.
We built the New Orleans set there because we figured it was quieter and there wouldn't be any interfering sounds coming across from the other stages.
I began to hurry along the brick paths, cursing the distance, until I saw a messenger's bicycle leaning against one of the executive bungalows.
A moment later, I was pedaling like mad down the path. I heard the messenger start yelling behind me.
I pulled around to front of Stage Nine and almost clashed into a man opening the door.
He stood there and looked at me in shocked surprise. It was Bernie Norman.
"Why, Mr. Cord," he said.
"You didn't have to do that. You could have called for a car to bring you down here."
I leaned the bike against the wall.
"I didn't have time, Mr. Norman," I said.
"They said they were ready to start. It's my money and my time they're spending in there."
They were ready to play the first scene, the one where Max, as a young man, is having his first interview with the madam of the fancy house.
That wasn't the opening of the picture, but that's the way they shoot them. They make all the interior scenes first, then the exteriors.
When it's all finished, an editor splices it together in its proper sequence.
The actress playing the madam was Cynthia Randall, Norman's biggest female star.
She was supposed to be the sexiest thing in the movies. Personally, she didn't do a thing for me.