At 79 Ridge Section, Brooklyn Bay, a six-story limestone residence leased by East Coast United stood along the cold sweep of Shore Road.
The courtyard, paved with Belgian granite, glistened faintly under a thin veil of winter mist. Withered ivy clung to the walls like faded memories, rustling softly in the wind coming off New York Bay.
From the penthouse's living room, Shanestood before the tall windows, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The pale gold liquor caught the faint reflection of the gray sea beyond. In the distance, the Statue of Liberty loomed like a silent sentinel through the haze. The fire in the hearth crackled, throwing restless shadows across the marble floor.
A metallic click sounded at the door.
Volker stepped inside, bringing with him the chill of the harbor, his overcoat damp from the salt air. Behind him came Mikhail, heavy-set and composed as ever.
"Joseph Schenck just called," Volker said, removing his gloves. "He wants to meet you at United Artists this afternoon. He says it's important."
Shane swirled the glass slowly, the ice clinking softly. "United Artists?" His tone was calm, his eyes reflecting the light from the bay. "He certainly knows how to choose the battleground."
Mikhail approached, stopping by the window. "Do you want backup?"
Shane set the glass down, the sound of crystal meeting wood sharp and clear. "No need. Have Vik prepare the car—you'll come with me."
Volker frowned. "At least bring the recorder. We've never wired the conference room at United Artists."
Shane stepped into the cloakroom and selected a dark gray three-piece suit, brushing a hand over the smooth fabric. "Two pens will be enough."
He loosened his collar slightly, choosing a silver-gray silk tie from the rack. "If Joseph Schenck arranged this meeting himself, he won't risk anything foolish on his own turf."
Mikhail drew a nickel-plated Colt automatic from his coat, checking the magazine with practiced ease. "Just in case."
Shane paused, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Leave it in the car."
He glanced at his pocket watch—a gift from Old Henry—and buttoned his vest. "Tell them to be ready at three. I want to review the defense notes from Catterson first."
The fire flared suddenly in the grate, sparks dancing against the screen. Outside, the deep, mournful sound of a ferry whistle drifted across the harbor.
Shane turned at the door. "And have Finance prepare the European cinema accounts. If we're going to negotiate, they should know exactly how strong our hand is."
By 2:45 p.m., Shane's Cadillac LaSalle sedan rolled to a stop before the marble steps of the United Artists Building. The dashboard thermometer read 28 degrees Fahrenheit; winter had a firm hold on Manhattan.
"They're waiting for you on the east side of the third floor," Mikhail said quietly, scanning the sidewalks and alleyways. "Word is, Nicholas Schenck's already there."
Shane adjusted his onyx cufflinks, a faint grin touching his lips. "Then today's performance has two leading men."
He stepped out of the car, breath fogging in the frigid air.
Inside, the receptionist—a young blonde with careful curls—straightened as he entered. "Mr. Cassidy, Mr. Schenck is currently—"
But Shane was already walking past her toward the elevator, Mikhail's imposing frame blocking any protest.
In the polished steel of the elevator door, Shane caught a glimpse of two men in dark suits pretending to read newspapers in the lobby corner. His lips curved slightly.
The third-floor corridor was carpeted in thick Persian weave, muting their steps. Joseph Schenck's secretary straightened at the door, but before he could announce them, Shane pushed the oak door open.
Inside, Joseph Schenck stood by the tall window, while his brother Nicholas sat at the end of the long table, a sheaf of papers spread before him.
Sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, striping the room with alternating light and shadow.
"Mr. Cassidy," Joseph began with a polite smile, "thank you for coming—"
"Skip the pleasantries," Shane said evenly, taking a seat. "What's this about?"
Nicholas's cufflinks gleamed as his fingers tapped the table. "The Technicolor process patent. We want fifty-one percent control of the European distribution rights."
Shane withdrew a fountain pen from his breast pocket and placed it calmly on the papers before him. "That's not going to happen."
Joseph interjected quickly, "We have Judge Clayton's—"
"—rejection," Shane cut in, his voice smooth. "Your emergency motion was denied this morning."
He motioned to Mikhail, who placed a sealed envelope on the table. "Inside are the latest updates from the Federal Trade Commission's antitrust investigation into Kodak. Would you like me to read them aloud?"
A heavy silence fell. The only sound came from the radiator hissing softly in the corner.
Nicholas's jaw tightened. He rose slowly, resting both hands on the table. "You think this is enough to corner us?"
Shane drew a leather-bound ledger from his suit pocket, its gilt edges gleaming. "Not quite," he said calmly. "But I also have the box-office ledgers from MGM's London subsidiary. Do you want me to invite Variety's editor to check your fourth-quarter report?"
Joseph shot his brother a sharp look. Nicholas's hand clenched slightly, his knuckles pale.
Shane waited, then leaned back, uncapping his pen with a quiet click. "Now," he said, "let's talk business."
The pen's tip touched the page.
"First," Shane began, "priority rights to the Technicolor process in Europe—limited to 35mm film only. MGM can test distribution in Germany and France first."
His pen traced a clean curve across the paper.
"Second," he continued, "MGM withdraws its support from Technicolor and cooperates with Pioneer Optics to close the ongoing patent dispute within three weeks." He underlined the words twice.
Nicholas's rhythm of tapping faltered slightly.
"Third," Shane said, tone soft but firm, "we'll make a three-film deal—fifteen percent revenue share, with priority screening for Vanguard theaters. In exchange, you'll receive our new emulsion formula—limited to black and white film only."
The room was still. Dust drifted lazily in the golden light between them.
Nicholas gave a cold, dry laugh, twirling his gold pen. "You seem to forget, Cassidy. Warner Brothers is about to announce their sound film breakthrough next week. Once that happens, color won't matter anymore."
Shane's smile returned. "You mean the Vitaphone system?" His eyes gleamed with amusement. "The one that burns out three amplifiers a day?"
He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, Nicholas—when the press finds out about that, do you think Variety's headline will be 'Revolution in Sound,' or 'Wall Street's Newest Trick'?"
The radiator clicked again, followed by the sharp hiss of steam.
Mikhail shifted subtly toward the door. Shane rose, adjusting his cufflinks once more. "Let's leave it here. My terms stand for three days."
He reached the door, then turned back slightly. "Oh—and do give my regards to Mr. Mayer. I hear he's enjoying France this winter. I look forward to our next conversation."
The door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Nicholas's pen snapped between his fingers, a splatter of black ink staining the pristine white linen—like a drop of blood on snow.
Outside, night had fallen over Manhattan. Broadway's neon signs flickered to life, throwing restless reflections across the glass—light and shadow shifting like the balance of power itself.