The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,13
on an ensemble show like this. But it’s a good part, the Carl Phillips reporter one, I mean. I’m the one describing the monsters, plus I get to be burned alive on the air!”
“What fun,” Gibson said, appreciatively. “Not just your ordinary death scene. But Mr. Stewart doesn’t seem as enthusiastic about the piece.”
“Well, Paul’s a tough taskmaster. But the thing is a little...I don’t know, it’s missing something. Just kinda lays there. You know, when Orson did ‘Dracula,’ that vampire came alive...or as alive as the living dead can come. But these monsters just aren’t making the grade. What the hell—it’s early yet.”
“Early? You broadcast on Sunday!”
Readick shook his head, grinned. “Oh, Welles and his buddy Jack Houseman, and Paul...and for that matter Howard, their writer...they’re maniacs, polishing and goosing these things up till the last second.” He pointed out the window to the podium. “Hell, Orson rewrites and cuts and shapes while he’s on the air. He’s a madman! A wonderful madman, but a madman.”
“Frank, one thing I don’t get—isn’t Orson the director? Paul introduced himself as that, and as far as I can see, he’s the one running things.”
“Paul directs the rehearsals—he does the casting, gets these things on their feet. You see, Orson is busy with this latest play the Mercury is putting on—it opens in about a week—and anyway, the boy wonder is always involved in multiple things. But on Sunday, believe me, it’ll be Orson’s show, all right. Top to bottom.”
“Then Orson is the director.”
Readick’s eyes tightened. “I’d say more...conductor. He stands up there on that podium like Toscanini and wrings the ‘music’ outa these scripts.”
“So it’s not an ‘in-name-only’ thing.”
“You mean like Cecil B. DeMille on the Lux Radio Theatre? Not at all—ol’ C.B. just plays the director on that show. Strictly an actor. Orson...he’s a real DeMille around this place.”
The author and actor chatted a few more minutes, then the latter took his leave. And his place in the mike-area rectangle.
A few minutes later, while Gibson sat smoking a Camel and watching through the window—as Stewart moved around the room giving instructions to actors, sound-effects technicians and even the orchestra conductor—another figure slipped into the cubicle.
An Ichabod Crane of a spindly six-two or -three, in his early thirties, with a spade-shaped face and unruly blond hair, in a rumpled tan suit and dark-brown tie, the fellow had the abashed manner of someone reluctantly knocking on your door for charity. He also had hollow, tired eyes and the pallor of one who rarely got outside.
In other words, a writer.
“Mr. Gibson?” The voice was earnest and even a little timid, which was almost a relief after all these sonorous radio tones.
“Yes?” Gibson got to his feet.
“I’m Howard Koch—the one-man Mercury writing staff.” He extended his hand, which Gibson promptly shook. “I’ve been turning these sixty-page shows out at a rate of one a week, all season so far. And you must be the only man on the planet who thinks I’m a piker.”
With a burst of a laugh, Gibson sat back down, gesturing for Koch to pull up a chair and join him. “We pulp writers do make you hardworking radio writers look like you’re loafin’...but then, I don’t have to put up with the endless meetings and rewrites.”
Koch rolled his eyes. “It does get a little hairy around here. Welles and Houseman consider sleep a luxury—their saving grace is they deny themselves, too.”
“Even I don’t envy you your time schedule, Howard...considering you’re adapting and carving up huge novels, most of the time, to fill a little old hour.”
Koch chuckled wryly. “It’s either that or pad out a short story to the same purpose. Butchered or bloated, those are the options.”
“Say what you will, but my wife and I would never miss your show.”
With half a smile, Koch said, “Even when you’re on deadline?”
“Howard, I’m like you—always on deadline.”
With a sigh, the radio writer said, “I just wish I had something better this afternoon, to share with you. This one’s kind of a...a mess, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t know why. Destroying the world ought to fill an hour perfectly well. And hell, you’ve got Martians doing it!”
“That’s the problem. It’s so goddamn unbelievable. With what’s going on in the world right now, fantasy has its appeal, all right...but it can be a hard sell to people beaten down by horrific realities.”
“Maybe the fact that it takes place forty years ago will make the fantasy go down smoother.”
Koch shifted in his seat. “Walter, tell ya the truth,