The next problem was Bert Firestone, the boy-genius director who was breaking Pan-Pacific Studios. Firestone’s picture, There’s Always Tomorrow, had been shooting for a hundred and ten days, and was more than a million dollars over budget. Now Bert Firestone had shut the production down, which meant that, besides the stars, there were a hundred and fifty extras sitting around on their asses doing nothing. Bert Firestone. A thirty-year-old whiz kid who came from directing prize-winning television shows at a Chicago station to directing movies in Hollywood. Firestone’s first three motion pictures had been mild successes, but his fourth one had been a box-office smash. On the basis of that money-maker, he had become a hot property. Sam remembered his first meeting with him. Firestone looked a not-yet-ready-to-shave fifteen. He was a pale, shy man with black horn-rimmed glasses that concealed tiny, myopic pink eyes. Sam had felt sorry for the kid. Firestone had not known anyone in Hollywood, so Sam had gone out of his way to have him to dinner and to see that he was invited to parties. When they had first discussed There’s Always Tomorrow, Firestone was very respectful. He told Sam that he was eager to learn. He hung on every word that Sam said. He could not have agreed more with Sam. If he were signed for this picture, he told Sam, he would certainly lean heavily on Mr. Winters’s expertise.
That was before Firestone signed the contract. After he signed it, he made Adolf Hitler look like Albert Schweitzer. The little apple-cheeked kid turned into a killer overnight. He cut off all communication. He completely ignored Sam’s casting suggestions, insisted on totally rewriting a fine script that Sam had approved, and he changed most of the shooting locales that had already been agreed upon. Sam had wanted to throw him off the picture, but the New York office had told Sam to be patient. Rudolph Hergershorn, the president of the company, was hypnotized by the enormous grosses on Firestone’s last movie. So Sam had been forced to sit tight and do nothing. It seemed to him that Firestone’s arrogance grew day by day. He would sit quietly through a production meeting, and when all the experienced department heads had finished speaking, Firestone would begin chopping down everyone. Sam gritted his teeth and bore it. In no time at all, Firestone acquired the nickname of Emperor, and when his coworkers were not calling him that, they referred to him as Kid Prick from Chicago. Somebody said about him, “He’s a hermaphrodite. He could probably fuck himself and give birth to a two-headed monster.”
Now, in the middle of shooting, Firestone had closed down the company.
Sam went over to see Devlin Kelly, the head of the art department. “Give it to me fast,” Sam said.
“Right. Kid Prick ordered—”
“Cut that out. It’s Mr. Firestone.”
“Sorry. Mr. Firestone asked me to build a castle set for him. He drew the sketches himself. You okayed them.”
“They were good. What happened?”
“What happened was that we built him exactly what the little—what he wanted, and when he took a look at it yesterday, he decided he didn’t want it anymore. A half-million bucks down the—”
“I’ll talk to him,” Sam said.
Bert Firestone was outside, in back of Stage Twenty-Three, playing basketball with the crew. They had rigged up a court and had painted in boundary lines and put up two baskets.
Sam stood there, watching a moment. The game was costing the studio two thousand dollars an hour. “Bert!”
Firestone turned, saw Sam, smiled and waved. The ball came to him, he dribbled it, feinted, and sank a basket. Then he strolled over to Sam. “How are things?” As though nothing were wrong.
As Sam looked at the boyish, smiling young face, it occurred to him that Bert Firestone was a psycho. Talented, maybe even a genius, but a certifiable lunatic. And five million dollars of the company’s money was in his hands.
“I hear there’s a problem with the new set,” Sam said. “Let’s straighten it out.”
Bert Firestone smiled lazily and said, “There’s nothing to straighten out, Sam. The set won’t work.”