Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (24 page)

“Come on, you men!” Englehorn shouted from the surf line. “Now's our chance to get out of this!”

Denham gave no sign of having heard him, but, keeping carefully upwind, approached the fallen Kong. Driscoll cursed and ran forward. “Come on. Are you crazy? Are you hurt?”

Denham didn't even look around. He coughed, turned his face away from the drifting vapor, and replied, “Me? Not a bit! Come on, we've got him now!”

“We've got to get back to the ship!”

At that, Denham turned on Driscoll. “Get the crew to bring back chains, anchor cables, anything that will hold him!”

“What!”

Denham gestured. “He'll be out for at least six hours. Plenty of time to build a raft and float him out to the ship. We'll chain him in the hold—the one I had installed just in case we got a chance like this! It's steel-lined, it'll hold him—”

“Nothing can hold that!”

Denham bubbled with energy. “One thing can, the thing that any human can teach any animal—fear! He's always been king of his world, but now he's got something to learn. Chains will hold him, and fear will hold him, I tell you! This is the most sensational find anybody could make.”

Englehorn and a few sailors made their way up from the shore. “What's keeping you?”

Denham laughed. “Skipper, don't you see? Don't you understand? We've got the biggest capture in the world! There's millions in this, and I'll share with all of you. Listen! A few months from now, it'll be up in lights on Broadway. Not a movie! A living spectacle the world will pay to see. King Kong!” He paused, his eyes sparkling, and Driscoll saw that come hell or high water, Denham was going to get his way. “King Kong—the Eighth Wonder!”

20

NEW YORK
JUNE 30, 1933

The crowd jammed four full blocks above Times Square and spilled over into the middle of Broadway. Traffic cops shook hopeless heads and wearily motioned taxicabs into the side streets above and below. Where the crowd pressed thickest, filling the whole street, a sign hung high announcing to the world in fiery letters:

KING KONG

The Eighth Wonder

Beneath the sign, silk hats from Park Avenue jostled derbies from the Bronx, Paris gowns rustled against off-the-rack frocks, sweaters rubbed dinner coats, slanted caps from Tenth Avenue scraped tip-brims from Riverside Drive.

The Social Register was there, along with a delegation from the underworld. Artistic young women from Greenwich Village were there, and their earnest younger sisters from Columbia Heights. Newsboys, peddlers, traveling salesmen, clerks, waitresses, stenographers, debutantes, matrons, secretaries, and ladies of the evening all swelled the throng. The whole town was there, pushing for the attention of the ticket taker and meanwhile staring up at that teasing, mysterious sign:

KING KONG

The Eighth Wonder

From under a tilted cap, Tenth Avenue asked, “Say, what is this thing Denham has to show, anyway?”

Park Avenue, from beneath his own silk hat, replied, “Some kind of gorilla, they say.”

A Bronx derby jerked around, its owner's face red. “What's that? You callin' names, bright boy?”

The woman holding his arm said, “Don't be a dope. He said Denham has a gorilla. They say it's bigger'n an elephant.”

“Yeah?” asked someone else. “So does it do tricks, or what?”

“I don't know,” the Bronx woman replied. “But I got the word on what it is from a friend who's datin' a stagehand who—”

A few feet behind them, one of the upper crust murmured to her escort, “My dear, what a rabble!”

And behind her, Riverside Drive growled, “Didja hear that? Twenty bucks I pay for a seat, and she calls me a rabble!”

*   *   *

Ann Darrow saw none of this. Around back, shepherded by Jack Driscoll, who looked distinctly uncomfortable in white tie and tails, she made her way to the stage entrance. An old doorman there tipped his hat and beamed at her. “You're looking splendid, Miss Darrow!”

Ann blushed, though she had to admit she was a very different Ann Darrow from the terrifying time on Skull Island. She wore a Paris gown, a confection of shimmering, virginal white net, reaching all the way down to her silver-buckled toes. Only her white shoulders and arms were uncovered, and her honey-gold hair.

Driscoll urged her through the door, and they found themselves in a long, dark corridor. “I don't know about this,” Driscoll muttered. “Denham's too damn cocksure of himself.”

“But they say the show's sold out for the next six months,” Ann reminded him. “And he's in business to make money.”

“Yeah,” Driscoll admitted. “But the whole voyage back was screwy. Why did Denham insist on taking that old lady from the island?”

“I don't think she gave him much choice. Besides, she seemed to calm Kong down,” Ann pointed out.

“Her and her herbs and her torches. Well, Denham's got her stashed somewhere tonight. He won't let anybody talk to her, not even the skipper.”

Ann touched his arm. “I think Kong would have died without her. She was the only one who could feed him for the longest time. And she wouldn't let Carl hurt Kong.”

“Yeah, not much. But Denham was rough enough with him when we first made port, when they were building the cage and all. He broke the big guy, all right.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Ann whispered.

“For Denham?” Driscoll asked in surprise. She didn't answer.

*   *   *

Driscoll paused at the end of the corridor. To the right was a dressing room. Straight ahead lay the stage. Ann clasped his arm. “Let's not go out onto the stage, Jack,” she said. “I don't like to look at him, even if he is chained. It makes me feel the way I did back on the island, on that night when—” She broke off.

Driscoll put a comforting arm around her. “I wish you weren't even here. But Denham insisted. Said he needed both of us for the publicity.” He grunted. “Beauty and the Beast. Sometimes I think he's cast me in the role of—here, this room's empty. We can wait in here.”

He led Ann into the dressing room and turned on all the lights, even the glaring incandescent bulbs around the makeup mirrors. Driscoll shook his head. The glamour of Broadway somehow escaped him, especially back here, in a brightly lit room that smelled of stale greasepaint and sweat. Ann sank gratefully into a chair and looked at herself in the mirror. “Carl did dress me up nicely, though.”

Driscoll paced. “I'm worried. He says it's safe as houses, but if that's so, where's Denham's wife and kid? I noticed he didn't bring them down for the big premiere. Next week, he says, when the excitement dies down.”

“I'm glad we're here,” Ann insisted. “I don't mind, if it helps Carl. I owe so much to him. And besides, it helps us, too.”

The restless Driscoll perched a hip on a corner of the makeup table and shook his head. “Maybe! Sure, it'll give us a nice nest egg to get married with, and—I don't know. Something's going to go wrong. I don't know what, but something. I've got a hunch.”

Denham's jaunty voice burst out from the door. “A hunch! What's a hunch worth, Jack?” The laughing director tapped on the door frame. “May I?”

Ann smiled. “Come in, Carl.”

Denham swung through the door, and Driscoll reflected that he had changed as much as Ann. A Denham in a silk top hat, a tailcoat, and an impeccable gardenia did not in the least resemble the man in khaki who had dashed to within feet of a gigantic menace to hurl a bomb. Now he was a shrewd Denham, a showman in his element, ready to reap his hard-earned profits.

Denham shook Driscoll's hand. “Hello, Jack. You look swell in that monkey suit. Stand up, Ann, let me have a look at you. For the love of mike, will you look at this gorgeous creature? I'm glad we sprang for that outfit!”

Ann's eyes sparkled. “It was terribly expensive!”

Denham laughed. “We can afford it, sister! Ten thousand dollars from tonight's box office, and the same tomorrow and every day after that for the rest of the summer!”

Despite himself, Driscoll whistled. At that rate, he and Ann together would receive a thousand dollars a night, for as long as the show ran. In a week, he'd have earned more than in a year at sea.

Denham slapped his shoulder. “And this is just the beginning, kids! Every bank in town wants to back me on a movie now—I can write my own ticket. With the footage I brought back from Skull Island, and with the script I've got in mind, you two are going to wind up as movie stars yet!”

“Not me,” Driscoll protested.

“Yes, you, you mug!” Denham returned. “Hey, don't worry. It takes no talent at all—just a great director, and don't tell me you don't have one of those, because if you do, I'll punch you in the snoot!”

In the corridor, the doorman called, “Mr. Denham! Do you want me to let these newspaper fellows in?”

“Publicity!” Denham said. “Come on, kids!”

Driscoll stayed protectively close to Ann. In the hallway, a cluster of reporters clamored, holding up cameras, demanding statements. Denham raised his hands. “Okay, okay! Sure, boys, you'll get your story! Sure, I know you, all of you—the
Sun,
the
Herald-Tribune,
the
Times
—you get rid of that idiot of a movie critic yet? The
World-Telly,
yes, I see you, too. I see you've brought your photographers along.”

Driscoll whispered to Ann, “Have you ever been interviewed, honey?”

Ann shrugged. “Just for a job. But I'm better dressed for this one, at least!”

Denham was waving them forward. “Gentlemen of the press, meet my star, Ann Darrow! And this big guy is Jack Driscoll, the heroic first mate of the
Wanderer.
They're engaged.”

One of the photographers fired off a flashbulb and whistled. “Boy oh boy! Driscoll, you knew what you were doin' when you rescued this doll!”

The
Times
man held a pad and pen. “Mr. Driscoll, we hear you had your share of trouble on the island.”

Driscoll started to shake his head, but Ann said, “Don't make any mistake about that. He saved me from Kong's den, and he was all alone when he did it. The other men in the rescue party all died in the attempt.”

Driscoll's collar felt tight, and he ran a finger around it. “I didn't do so much. And the guys who died were just as brave as I was, maybe braver. I caught some good breaks. Anyway, Denham's the one who actually captured Kong. The rest of us were retreating, but fast. Denham was the only one with nerve enough to stand his ground and bring the big brute down.”

Denham shook his head. “No, no, boys, don't bring me into this. Ann's your real story. If it hadn't been for Miss Darrow, we'd never have got near Kong. She drew him back to the village, where we had a shot at him. My movie will tell the whole story—Beauty and the Beast.”

“That's a great tagline!” one of the photographers said, getting another shot of Ann.

“Beauty and the Beast,” Denham repeated. “Next year at this time everyone in the world can see the greatest movie ever made, and that's the title. A Carl Denham production, boys!”

“How about some pictures of the Beast?” another man yelled from the back of the crowd, and the newspapermen all clamored along with him.

Denham held up a hand. “Okay, okay, in just a minute. Look, I'll take you right out on stage and let you shoot away. Just as soon as the curtain goes up, while I'm out announcing Ann and Jack. You'll have the first pictures of Kong ever made available to the civilized world. And you can get as many shots of Miss Darrow and Mr. Driscoll as you want, right alongside of Kong.”

“This is going to be good!”

“Shut up, Lyons,” another man said. “Look, Denham, don't let this guy pull his usual stunt of crowding out the rest of us. The
Sun
can't hog this story.”

Lyons turned on him indignantly. “Me? Hey, don't worry. My boss don't like animal stories. He won't do much with this.”

“Not much more than four columns!” the second photographer shot back.

Lyons started to protest, but his partner, the reporter from the
Sun,
shushed him and said to Denham, “Look here, I've heard this Kong is over twenty feet tall. Is he tied up good and tight?”

“You scared?” someone shouted from the back.

The reporter growled, “No, but I'm wearing my best suit. I don't want it mussed up.”

Denham shook with laughter. “Don't worry. Take a look for yourself.” Driscoll and Ann moved aside as the herd of reporters and photographers pushed past, into the wings. They gasped at what they saw out behind the closed curtain.

Driscoll followed, drawn to the sight himself. He felt a strange pang. Kong stood there, a king no longer.

He crouched in a gigantic steel cage, weighed down by a tangle of heavy chains. They led from his hunkering body to ringbolts in the steel floor of the cage. Manacles bound his wrists and his ankles, with more chains snaking from them to secure anchors. His great head was free, and he swung his gaze toward the men. Driscoll saw deep sorrow in those astonishingly human eyes.

Denham was talking to the reporters: “He can roar like a pride of lions, but he's been quiet for days. And if those arms of his weren't bound, he'd be drumming on his chest right now, challenging us to a fight.”

Music rose from beyond the curtain. Denham craned and beckoned. “Ann! Jack! Come on. The curtain goes up in five minutes, and I want you onstage with me when it does. You gentlemen of the press, wait until I call you out—then shoot all the photos you want.”

Driscoll became aware that, beside him, Ann had pressed her palms to her face. “Oh, no,” she said weakly.