A black Cadillac Fleetwood inched through the California rainstorm toward MGM's headquarters in Culver City. The wipers thudded rhythmically, fighting against the sleet that pelted the windshield.
In the back seat, Joseph Schenck sat in silence, his fingers drumming anxiously on the brown paper bag resting on his lap. Inside it, a single metal film reel rattled faintly — the weight of potential upheaval in Hollywood.
Outside, the ghostly remains of old MGM sets loomed in the fog — Greco-Roman pillars, painted facades, and the crumbling plaster arch once used in Ben-Hur. The colored lights strung across the lot flickered weakly, reflections of a golden era now fading into gray.
"Mr. Schenck, we're here," said George, the driver, his tone cautious.
Joseph didn't reply. His gaze lingered on a lonely camera stand half-buried in snow, Technicolor tape peeling from its side — a relic of vanished glory.
He opened the door and stepped into the storm. The wind slapped his face as he pulled up the collar of his camel coat and clutched the paper bag tightly under his arm. With his head bowed, he crossed the deserted parking lot toward the glowing entrance of the executive building.
Inside, the air was too warm, too thick — heavy with cigar smoke, paper, and wax polish. The elevator was old brass and slow as molasses. He watched the numbers crawl upward, fingers tightening around the paper bag.
When it finally stopped with a metallic shudder, Joseph stepped into a dim corridor lined with mahogany doors. At the end gleamed a brass plaque:
CHAIRMAN
He pushed the door open.
The scent of whiskey and Cuban cigars filled the room. Nicholas Schenck, his older brother, stood with his back to the door, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The storm outside turned the glass into a swirling gray haze.
In the reflection, Joseph saw the Variety Daily headline in Nicholas's hand:
"United Artists and Vanguard Collaborate — Color Film Revolution Imminent."
"You've seen it," Joseph said quietly. He dropped the paper bag onto the desk. Inside, the film reel thudded like a heart.
Nicholas turned slowly. Lines of power and fatigue carved deep into his face. "When Louis dropped this on my desk this morning," he said evenly, "I thought it was some gossip cooked up by a bored reporter."
"This isn't gossip." Joseph unwrapped the paper bag and lifted the reel. "It's real. Watch."
He loaded it onto the projector. The machine came alive with a mechanical hum, casting a beam of light onto the silver screen.
The image flickered to life — a blonde woman in a sunlit garden. The sky shimmered blue, the roses glowed red, the leaves flashed a brilliant green. Every hue was sharp and impossibly vivid — as though the world itself had been reborn in color.
Nicholas's jaw tightened.
"Shane Cassidy isn't crazy," Joseph said, pausing the frame. The woman's smile froze on the wall, her blue eyes staring back at them. "He's cracked the gamma shift problem. What Technicolor's engineers couldn't solve in two years, he fixed with a damned formula."
Nicholas walked to the cabinet and poured two bourbons. The amber liquid glowed in the firelight. "Technicolor's report said his system had 'fundamental flaws.'"
Joseph took the glass and downed it in one swallow. "Then either they're idiots — or someone made them lie."
"Louis," Nicholas muttered. "He had dinner with Technicolor's director last week at the Beverly Hilton."
Only the faint tick of the wall clock filled the silence. Nicholas reached for the black rotary phone, his tone suddenly casual — almost amused.
"Louis," he said softly. "Come up to my office. We need to talk."
The line clicked dead. Nicholas's eyes hardened to steel. "If our dear Louis is playing both sides, we'll find out soon enough."
Twenty minutes later, Louis B. Mayer entered, beaming, his expensive briefcase under his arm. "Gentlemen! The weather's dreadful, but I see we're still in good spirits."
Nicholas didn't smile. "Last Thursday — Beverly Hilton — Technicolor's director. Care to explain?"
He flipped the projector back on. The garden exploded into color once more, painting Louis's round face in surreal blues and reds.
Louis chuckled. "What a coincidence. I came to brief you on that myself." He set his briefcase beside Joseph's bag and said lightly, "Technicolor hid something, yes — but so did Cassidy. You're showing the December 7th reel, aren't you? Did you catch the 0.3-second flicker in frame three?"
Joseph froze. He had missed it.
Louis grinned, producing a photo from his briefcase — a grainy shot of a man slipping into a dockside warehouse. "Technicolor's director paid Cassidy a little visit. My people followed him all week."
Nicholas's fingers drummed the desk — a sound Joseph recognized as his brother's thinking tic.
"So, you're innocent?" Joseph asked skeptically.
Louis's laughter rang out. "Innocent? Joseph, please." He pulled out another folder and spread it across the desk.
It was a contract — a revised Technicolor licensing agreement with higher royalties — and Nicholas's signature at the bottom.
"Signed the same day you were supposedly visiting Mother in New York," Louis said softly.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then Nicholas clapped once, slow and deliberate. "Impressive work, Louis." He opened a drawer, retrieved a thin aluminum record, and placed it on the turntable.
The speakers crackled to life — Louis's own voice:
"As long as they give me my three percent, the report can say whatever they want."
Louis's grin vanished. His hand twitched toward his briefcase.
"Looking for this?" Nicholas lifted a small Dictaphone. "Your blonde secretary passed it along this morning — with tears, I might add. Louis, you've really lost your touch."
The room fell silent except for the faint hiss of the spinning record.
Then Louis smiled again — calm, deliberate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a diamond-studded pen. "You know why I carry this, Nicky?" he asked. "Because it writes the truth."
He uncapped it. The pen's barrel held two chambers — one blue ink, one clear. He smeared the clear liquid over a sheet of paper. Under the firelight, hidden writing appeared — notes from Nicholas's own secret meeting with Technicolor's president.
Time. Place. Figures. Handwriting. Everything.
Joseph felt the blood drain from his face.
Louis collected his papers and slipped them back into his briefcase. "If you've no more surprises, I'll be heading out."
At the door, he paused. "Henry James Hill sent an invitation. He wants to discuss patent sharing on Cassidy's color system. I suppose you'll be hearing from him soon."
The click of the closing door sounded like a gunshot.
Nicholas grabbed his whiskey glass and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames whooshed upward, licking the gold plaque above the mantel:
"In Hollywood, the first one to draw never lives to see the third act."
The firelight danced across the brothers' pale faces. The storm outside raged harder, the wind howling through the cracks.
The war for color — and control — had just begun.