The Cat's Pajamas

“He loved film, but he loved money even more. Listen again.”

This time the gunfire was louder, and when the bombardment ceased I said, “Three Comrades, Germany, MGM, 1936.”

Burnham Wood nodded.

There was a ripple of many women laughing. When it quieted I said, “The Women, Norma Shearer, Rosalind Russell, MGM, 1939.”

Burnham Wood nodded again.

There were more cries of laughter, bursts of music. I recited the names I remembered from old film books.

“Possessed, Joan Crawford. Madame Curie, Greer Garson, screenplay by Huxley and F. Scott Fitzgerald. My God,” I said. “Why did he bother with all that and why are all those sounds inside your machine?”

“I’m tearing them up, I’m destroying the scripts. It’s all packed inside with the mix. A Diamond as Big as the Ritz, This Side of Paradise, Tender Is the Night. All of them are in there. When you mix all that junk with the really good stuff you’ve got a chance of laying out a new road somewhere in the past to make a new future.”

I reread the list. “Those are the names of producers and directors and fellow writers over a period of years; some at MGM, a few at Paramount, and more in New York City as late as the summer of 1939. What’s the sum?”

I glanced up at Burnham Wood and saw that he was trembling with anticipation, glancing at the machine.

“I’m going to run back with my metaphorical cement mixer and pour shoes for all those idiot people and transport them to some sea of eternity and drop them in. I’ll clear the way for Scotty, give him a gift of Time so that, please God, finally The Last Tycoon will be finished, done, and published.”

“No one can do that!”

“I will, or die trying. I’m going to pick them up, one by one, on special days in all those years. I’m going to kidnap them out of their environments and deliver them to other towns in other years, where they’ll have to make their way, blindly, having forgotten where they came from and the stupid burden they laid on Scotty.”

I brooded, eyes shut. “Good Lord, this reminds me of a George Arliss film I saw when I was a kid. The Man Who Played God.”

Burnham Wood laughed quietly. “George Arliss, yes. I do feel somewhat like the Creator. I dare to be the Savior of our dear, drunken, foolish, childish Fitzgerald.”

He stroked the machine again, and it trembled and whispered. I could almost hear the siren of the years rushing and tumbling inside.

“It’s time,” said Burnham Wood. “I’m going to climb in, turn the rheostats, and do a disappearing act. An hour from now, go to the nearest bookstore or check the books on my shelf and see if there’s any change. I don’t know if I’ll ever return, I may get locked in some year a long while back. I may get as lost as the people I plan to kidnap.”

“I hope you don’t mind my saying,” I said, “but I don’t think you can mess with time, no matter how dearly you might wish to be the coeditor of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s last book.”

Burnham Wood shook his head. “I lie in bed many nights and worry over the deaths of many of my favorite authors. Poor sad Melville, dear lost Poe, Hemingway, who should have been killed in that African plane crash, but it only killed his ability to be a fine writer. I can do nothing about those, but here, in striking distance of Hollywood, I must try. That’s it.” Burnham Wood brisked his hands and reached out and shook mine. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” I said. “Is there anything I can say to stop you?”

“Don’t,” he said. “My great American elephant beast here will tumble time inside its guts, not cement, but the hours, days, and years—a literary device.”

He climbed into his Mafioso Cement-Mixing Machine, did some adjustments on a computerized bank, then turned to study me.

“What will you do an hour from now?” he asked.

“Buy a new copy of The Last Tycoon,” I said.

“Great!” cried Burnham Wood. “Stand back. Beware the concussion!”

“That’s from Shape of Things to Come, yes?”

“H. G. Wells.” Burnham Wood laughed. “Beware the concussion!”

The lid clanged shut. The great Mafioso Cement-Mixing Machine rumbled, turned in the years, and the garage was suddenly empty.

I waited a long while, hoping that another concussion might cause the great gray beast to suddenly reappear, but the garage remained empty.

At the bookstore, an hour later, I asked for a particular book.