Post by dans on Mar 16, 2023 16:43:21 GMT
It’s spring, 1943 in the New York City Metropolitan area…
Other than the Brooklyn Navy Yard, one of the busiest places in Brooklyn these days was the headquarters of News On the March, one of the nation’s most prestigious newsreel companies. Located on the north end of Flatbush Avenue, News on the March employed cameramen up and down the East Coast and regularly produced two nationally distributed reels each week which were seen by an estimated 20 million Americans across the country and sent to servicemen on all the fronts, as well as several local reels which were distributed throughout the New York City metropolitan region. It was a thriving business and tough for newcomers to break into. One such hopeful newcomer was young, handsome blue eyed blonde prospective newsreel cameraman Frank Harper. His persistence had finally gained him an interview with Irwin ‘Iron’ McCoy, the President of News on the March. So far, the interview has not gone well.
“It’s a fast, tough game that demands an experienced man!” McCoy was insisting.
“But how can I get experience without a job first?” Harper asked plaintively. “You’ve seen the films I took of the celebration at Gettysburg last November – you know I’m good! And I’m willing to prove myself; I’ll work for nothing while I learn the ropes!”
McCoy had other fish to fry, including his next meeting with a representative of the Office of War Information. “You’re persistent, I have to give you that. OK, I’ll give you an assignment. If you can pull it off, you’re hired. If you can’t, stop bothering me!” He thought for an instant; a sly smile came to his face. “Millionaire isolationist F. Feldman Fishmonger is throwing a birthday party for himself this afternoon. That’s something our customers would pay to see. If you can get me some pictures of that, I’ll hire you.”
“Wow, that’s swell, Mr. McCoy! I’ll get right on it and have pictures for you tonight!” Frank pumped McCoy’s hand enthusiastically, grabbed his hat and headed for the door. He had some quick research to do – who was this Fishmonger guy and where did he live?
‘Well, that’s the last time that kid will bother me!” Iron thought in satisfaction. ‘Fishmonger’s bodyguards won’t let him anywhere near him. And they’ll probably rough him up a bit and smash his camera, as well! Maybe he’ll go pester someone else instead.’ He slapped the switch on the intercom and snapped out an order to his secretary. “Send Sanders in, Miss Perry. Tell him I’m in a hurry!”
“It’s not Sanders today, Mr. McCoy,” his secretary responded apologetically. “His name is Peter DuQuesne – he says to call him ‘Duke’. He’s brand new at OWI, says Sanders isn’t feeling well today so he’s filling in.”
“That’s just peachy,” McCoy snarled, or perhaps he used stronger vintage words. “I’ll probably have to teach him everything about the business before we can get any work done.” Secretly he was pleased. Today’s meeting was about the OWI monitoring the content of the weekly newsreels for war information OWI deemed secret. If this guy was new, he might miss things Sanders would insist on. It was hard enough putting together two reels for national distribution every week without the government constantly insisting that they cut some of their best stuff!
***
On his way out, Harper made a detour through the office of Max Gnomes (pronounced ‘No-mez) and ‘Brick’ Spinner, the Brooklyn office’s two long term veteran newsreel cameramen, to whom he’d been introduced earlier. He surveyed the office space critically. “Good thing there’s room for another desk… I’ll be working with you guys from now on!”
“You talked the boss into hiring you?” Max was almost incredulous. “That’s great! We’ve been telling him we’re shorthanded for months.”
“Yeah, all I gotta do is get some snaps of Feldman Fishmonger’s big birthday bash this evening. Say, either of you guys know where he lives?”
The two veterans looked at each other and shook their heads, then Brick replied slowly, “McCoy was just trying to get rid of you, Harper. Nobody, but nobody, gets pictures of Fishmonger, no way, no how! They call him ‘The Cold Fish’ and people who cross him are usually sorry. You go near him with a camera, and the thugs he hires as bodyguards will likely put you in the hospital. And smash your camera to smithereens!”
Max nodded in agreement. “Yeah, the Cold Fish used to be a big shot with the America First Committee, and made a lot of money from donations to the committee from people who really honestly wanted nothing but peace. But since Pearl Harbor, nobody wants anything to do with him or the AFC. Everybody’s calling him a Nazi and a Jap sympathizer, stuff like that. He’s trying to lay low until people forget, and he’s been avoiding any publicity. Nobody invited to that party but other former members of the Committee. Bunch a Ratzis, the whole lot of ‘em, ask me!”
“Not really fair, Maxie,” Brick admonished him. “The Committee was pretty popular back before the Pearl, and if the Japs hadn’t attacked us, the US might STILL be neutral. We don’t KNOW fer sure that he’s a really Ratzi…”
Max looked stubborn, but before he could reply, a distraught Harper interjected. He sounded crushed. “Say, that’s really rotten. He’s not even giving me a fair chance! I REALLY want the job, and I KNOW I’d be good at it!”
“Say…” Brick mused slowly. “Old Iron’s been riding us really hard recently, and I’m tired of it. What say we pull a fast one on him and help the kid?”
“Yeah, and it would be a neat stunt to show Fishmonger what we think of his kind these days, too!” Max jumped in, then turned to the new guy. “Grab your stuff kid, and we’ll show you how a couple of old pros handle things like this!”
***
A few hours later, Carlton Prescott, Fishmonger’s very large butler, stuffed uncomfortably into a wrinkled ‘British Butler’ style outfit, answered the door of his swanky, overly ostentatious mansion on New York’s ritzy Upper East Side. “And what <sniff> may I do for you <sniff>… gentlemen?” he sniffed haughtily, attempting to affect an upper-class British accent, at the two deliverymen at the door. They flanked a package the size of a standing man, and the outline of the wrapping suggested a statue, perhaps a man standing in an heroic pose. The package rested on a small moving cart.
“Hey, Jeeves! Yeah, we got a hurry-up delivery for F. Feldman Fishmonger. The sender said it’s a Birthday present. There’s a card inside with the sender’s name, but we’re supposed to keep it secret until he unwraps it. And it sure is heavy!” the red-headed deliveryman replied.
“Undoubtedly a statue for his collection. Very well, my good men, you may follow me. But don’t damage anything!” He turned and strode away, never looking back to determine if they were following.
“Get a load of that phony Limey accent!” Max whispered as he elbowed Brick in the side, before the two men started pulling their cart through the entrance. “That’s Popcorn Pisarelli or I’m a duck; used to run with Lucky Luniko’s mob before Lucky got the chair.” Brick nodded, but held his finger to his lips to shush his partner.
‘Carlton’ led them to a large ballroom on the first floor, currently lavishly decorated for a birthday and populated by a crowd of about 50 men and women, the men in tuxes and the women in gowns. There were several marble statues around the dance floor. “These good men have a delivery, Mr. Fishmonger. A surprise birthday gift from someone who couldn’t attend your party.” His tone was very unctuous.
Feldman, an older man who resembled almost exactly Rich Uncle Pennybags of Monopoly fame, surveyed the package and pointed to an empty spot among the statues. “Place it there and unwrap it, and if I don’t like it, you can take it back with you!” he ordered peremptorily.
So they did… to reveal (of course…) Frank Harper, standing behind the studio’s prized Fastax movie camera, capable of 5,000 frames per second, already cranking away. Before anyone could react, he did a sweep of the room, then ended up aimed at the reclusive millionaire, who was by now sputtering with rage!
‘When we run that back at normal speed, it will look like he spend several minutes panning the room,’ Gnomes thought in satisfaction. ‘With some good editing, we can make it look like we were invited to the party and spent hours mingling with the rich and tedious.”
Finally, the Cold Fish exploded. “Don’t you DARE take any pictures. I FORBID it!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Guards! Throw these men out! SMASH that camera!”
“You guys take the camera and RUN!” Frank ordered. “I’ll keep the guards busy!” He stepped in front of the three approaching guards, all very large and formidable-looking, even in their ill-fitted tuxedos, and raised his fists in front of his face.
“He’s outnumbered, Brick! You take the camera and git, we’ll be right behind you!” Max ordered, as he stepped up next to the new guy.
“Geez, you always get all the FUN,” Brick complained. “Next time it’s YOUR turn to run!” He picked up the tripod topped by the heavy high speed camera and headed for the door.
Max was a bit stunned when the fighting started – there really wasn’t much for him to do. As the hired thugs approached, Frank took a surprise step forward and swung a punch to side of the head of the first man, and he fell as if he were poleaxed. The next man took a wild swing at Frank’s head; Frank swayed backward and reached up and pushed the man’s arm in the direction of the swing, and the fellow spun around, stumbled, and fell to the ground. The third man was just drawing a gun; a quick sidekick to his stomach and he had other things more important to worry about. Frank then grabbed the arm of the astonished Max and dragged him toward the front hall, and a few seconds later they were piling into the cab of a ‘News on the March’ small truck, temporarily disguised as a delivery truck.
“McCoy was right – this IS a tough business to get started in!” Frank laughed as Brick sped away.
“Man, oh, man, you shoulda seen this kid FIGHT, Brick!” Max was bragging up their new partner. “Took those three thugs down so quick I never had a chance to get into the fun! Betcha even the Volunteer couldn’ta handled them that easy!”
“I can tell, this deal’s gonna work out SWELL!” Brick was enthusiastic. “Stick with us, kid, and we’ll show you the ropes – and we’ll all be going places real soon!”
Other than the Brooklyn Navy Yard, one of the busiest places in Brooklyn these days was the headquarters of News On the March, one of the nation’s most prestigious newsreel companies. Located on the north end of Flatbush Avenue, News on the March employed cameramen up and down the East Coast and regularly produced two nationally distributed reels each week which were seen by an estimated 20 million Americans across the country and sent to servicemen on all the fronts, as well as several local reels which were distributed throughout the New York City metropolitan region. It was a thriving business and tough for newcomers to break into. One such hopeful newcomer was young, handsome blue eyed blonde prospective newsreel cameraman Frank Harper. His persistence had finally gained him an interview with Irwin ‘Iron’ McCoy, the President of News on the March. So far, the interview has not gone well.
“It’s a fast, tough game that demands an experienced man!” McCoy was insisting.
“But how can I get experience without a job first?” Harper asked plaintively. “You’ve seen the films I took of the celebration at Gettysburg last November – you know I’m good! And I’m willing to prove myself; I’ll work for nothing while I learn the ropes!”
McCoy had other fish to fry, including his next meeting with a representative of the Office of War Information. “You’re persistent, I have to give you that. OK, I’ll give you an assignment. If you can pull it off, you’re hired. If you can’t, stop bothering me!” He thought for an instant; a sly smile came to his face. “Millionaire isolationist F. Feldman Fishmonger is throwing a birthday party for himself this afternoon. That’s something our customers would pay to see. If you can get me some pictures of that, I’ll hire you.”
“Wow, that’s swell, Mr. McCoy! I’ll get right on it and have pictures for you tonight!” Frank pumped McCoy’s hand enthusiastically, grabbed his hat and headed for the door. He had some quick research to do – who was this Fishmonger guy and where did he live?
‘Well, that’s the last time that kid will bother me!” Iron thought in satisfaction. ‘Fishmonger’s bodyguards won’t let him anywhere near him. And they’ll probably rough him up a bit and smash his camera, as well! Maybe he’ll go pester someone else instead.’ He slapped the switch on the intercom and snapped out an order to his secretary. “Send Sanders in, Miss Perry. Tell him I’m in a hurry!”
“It’s not Sanders today, Mr. McCoy,” his secretary responded apologetically. “His name is Peter DuQuesne – he says to call him ‘Duke’. He’s brand new at OWI, says Sanders isn’t feeling well today so he’s filling in.”
“That’s just peachy,” McCoy snarled, or perhaps he used stronger vintage words. “I’ll probably have to teach him everything about the business before we can get any work done.” Secretly he was pleased. Today’s meeting was about the OWI monitoring the content of the weekly newsreels for war information OWI deemed secret. If this guy was new, he might miss things Sanders would insist on. It was hard enough putting together two reels for national distribution every week without the government constantly insisting that they cut some of their best stuff!
***
On his way out, Harper made a detour through the office of Max Gnomes (pronounced ‘No-mez) and ‘Brick’ Spinner, the Brooklyn office’s two long term veteran newsreel cameramen, to whom he’d been introduced earlier. He surveyed the office space critically. “Good thing there’s room for another desk… I’ll be working with you guys from now on!”
“You talked the boss into hiring you?” Max was almost incredulous. “That’s great! We’ve been telling him we’re shorthanded for months.”
“Yeah, all I gotta do is get some snaps of Feldman Fishmonger’s big birthday bash this evening. Say, either of you guys know where he lives?”
The two veterans looked at each other and shook their heads, then Brick replied slowly, “McCoy was just trying to get rid of you, Harper. Nobody, but nobody, gets pictures of Fishmonger, no way, no how! They call him ‘The Cold Fish’ and people who cross him are usually sorry. You go near him with a camera, and the thugs he hires as bodyguards will likely put you in the hospital. And smash your camera to smithereens!”
Max nodded in agreement. “Yeah, the Cold Fish used to be a big shot with the America First Committee, and made a lot of money from donations to the committee from people who really honestly wanted nothing but peace. But since Pearl Harbor, nobody wants anything to do with him or the AFC. Everybody’s calling him a Nazi and a Jap sympathizer, stuff like that. He’s trying to lay low until people forget, and he’s been avoiding any publicity. Nobody invited to that party but other former members of the Committee. Bunch a Ratzis, the whole lot of ‘em, ask me!”
“Not really fair, Maxie,” Brick admonished him. “The Committee was pretty popular back before the Pearl, and if the Japs hadn’t attacked us, the US might STILL be neutral. We don’t KNOW fer sure that he’s a really Ratzi…”
Max looked stubborn, but before he could reply, a distraught Harper interjected. He sounded crushed. “Say, that’s really rotten. He’s not even giving me a fair chance! I REALLY want the job, and I KNOW I’d be good at it!”
“Say…” Brick mused slowly. “Old Iron’s been riding us really hard recently, and I’m tired of it. What say we pull a fast one on him and help the kid?”
“Yeah, and it would be a neat stunt to show Fishmonger what we think of his kind these days, too!” Max jumped in, then turned to the new guy. “Grab your stuff kid, and we’ll show you how a couple of old pros handle things like this!”
***
A few hours later, Carlton Prescott, Fishmonger’s very large butler, stuffed uncomfortably into a wrinkled ‘British Butler’ style outfit, answered the door of his swanky, overly ostentatious mansion on New York’s ritzy Upper East Side. “And what <sniff> may I do for you <sniff>… gentlemen?” he sniffed haughtily, attempting to affect an upper-class British accent, at the two deliverymen at the door. They flanked a package the size of a standing man, and the outline of the wrapping suggested a statue, perhaps a man standing in an heroic pose. The package rested on a small moving cart.
“Hey, Jeeves! Yeah, we got a hurry-up delivery for F. Feldman Fishmonger. The sender said it’s a Birthday present. There’s a card inside with the sender’s name, but we’re supposed to keep it secret until he unwraps it. And it sure is heavy!” the red-headed deliveryman replied.
“Undoubtedly a statue for his collection. Very well, my good men, you may follow me. But don’t damage anything!” He turned and strode away, never looking back to determine if they were following.
“Get a load of that phony Limey accent!” Max whispered as he elbowed Brick in the side, before the two men started pulling their cart through the entrance. “That’s Popcorn Pisarelli or I’m a duck; used to run with Lucky Luniko’s mob before Lucky got the chair.” Brick nodded, but held his finger to his lips to shush his partner.
‘Carlton’ led them to a large ballroom on the first floor, currently lavishly decorated for a birthday and populated by a crowd of about 50 men and women, the men in tuxes and the women in gowns. There were several marble statues around the dance floor. “These good men have a delivery, Mr. Fishmonger. A surprise birthday gift from someone who couldn’t attend your party.” His tone was very unctuous.
Feldman, an older man who resembled almost exactly Rich Uncle Pennybags of Monopoly fame, surveyed the package and pointed to an empty spot among the statues. “Place it there and unwrap it, and if I don’t like it, you can take it back with you!” he ordered peremptorily.
So they did… to reveal (of course…) Frank Harper, standing behind the studio’s prized Fastax movie camera, capable of 5,000 frames per second, already cranking away. Before anyone could react, he did a sweep of the room, then ended up aimed at the reclusive millionaire, who was by now sputtering with rage!
‘When we run that back at normal speed, it will look like he spend several minutes panning the room,’ Gnomes thought in satisfaction. ‘With some good editing, we can make it look like we were invited to the party and spent hours mingling with the rich and tedious.”
Finally, the Cold Fish exploded. “Don’t you DARE take any pictures. I FORBID it!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Guards! Throw these men out! SMASH that camera!”
“You guys take the camera and RUN!” Frank ordered. “I’ll keep the guards busy!” He stepped in front of the three approaching guards, all very large and formidable-looking, even in their ill-fitted tuxedos, and raised his fists in front of his face.
“He’s outnumbered, Brick! You take the camera and git, we’ll be right behind you!” Max ordered, as he stepped up next to the new guy.
“Geez, you always get all the FUN,” Brick complained. “Next time it’s YOUR turn to run!” He picked up the tripod topped by the heavy high speed camera and headed for the door.
Max was a bit stunned when the fighting started – there really wasn’t much for him to do. As the hired thugs approached, Frank took a surprise step forward and swung a punch to side of the head of the first man, and he fell as if he were poleaxed. The next man took a wild swing at Frank’s head; Frank swayed backward and reached up and pushed the man’s arm in the direction of the swing, and the fellow spun around, stumbled, and fell to the ground. The third man was just drawing a gun; a quick sidekick to his stomach and he had other things more important to worry about. Frank then grabbed the arm of the astonished Max and dragged him toward the front hall, and a few seconds later they were piling into the cab of a ‘News on the March’ small truck, temporarily disguised as a delivery truck.
“McCoy was right – this IS a tough business to get started in!” Frank laughed as Brick sped away.
“Man, oh, man, you shoulda seen this kid FIGHT, Brick!” Max was bragging up their new partner. “Took those three thugs down so quick I never had a chance to get into the fun! Betcha even the Volunteer couldn’ta handled them that easy!”
“I can tell, this deal’s gonna work out SWELL!” Brick was enthusiastic. “Stick with us, kid, and we’ll show you the ropes – and we’ll all be going places real soon!”