November 27, 1927 – Ziegfeld Theatre, New York City.
The curtain for the first act slowly closed, and applause swept through the audience like a rising tide. Shane patted his excited sister, Mary, signaling that she could rest, then picked up the program and glanced at Old Henry seated beside him.
"Go see who's here," Henry murmured, twirling the opal ring on his finger before rising.
The smoking room was on the south side of the lounge. Beneath the gilded dome, pale blue cigar smoke intertwined with the sparkle of champagne bubbles. The halo of crystal chandeliers distorted the whispers of Morgan Bank directors and customs officials in the corners.
Shane swirled his whiskey lightly, the crisp clink of ice providing cover as his gaze swept across the crowd. It landed on a man with a distinguished mustache—Douglas Fairbanks—who was lighting a cigarette for the young man beside him.
The brief flash of flame illuminated a sharp, ambitious profile. Shane recognized him instantly: Howard Hughes.
Sensing his gaze, Hughes turned, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Henry. Whispering a few words to Fairbanks, the two straightened their suits and walked over.
"Mr. Henry Hill! It's been a long time," Hughes greeted warmly, extending his hand. His light gray three-piece suit fit perfectly, the diamond tie pin on his collar gleaming coldly.
"Since we parted, you've only grown more distinguished," Hughes continued, eyes flicking to Shane. "And this is?"
"My partner, Shane Cassidy," Henry replied, lifting two champagne glasses from a waiter's tray, the golden liquid obscuring Hughes's scrutiny.
He introduced them formally. "This is Mr. Howard Hughes, Hollywood's most ambitious young man. And this is Mr. Douglas Fairbanks, founder of United Artists and the legendary on-screen swordsman."
Glasses clinked, and polite conversation followed. Hughes spoke of a new film project, aiming to capture aerial combat with real fighter planes. His eyes burned with fanaticism when describing filming on real sets instead of models.
"An astonishing concept," Shane interjected, calm yet incisive. "But silent film cannot convey the roar of the sky. Audiences need to hear engines, feel the wind, and see the true blue of the sky behind the clouds, with the flash of gunfire."
Hughes froze mid-pour, eyes narrowing. "True blue?" he echoed. "Technicolor's double-exposure technique ruins the sky, turning it into a purple mess."
Shane swirled his glass casually. "If their chief engineer hadn't been injured, the problem of color distortion could have been solved by next year."
The air seemed to stiffen. Hughes's casual amusement vanished, replaced by a hawk-like intensity. Fairbanks maintained a polite smile, though it had stiffened. Henry coughed lightly, the soft sound signaling a subtle diversion.
Hughes chuckled, but the laugh carried an unmistakable chill. "Mr. Cassidy's intelligence channels are better than Wall Street journalists."
"I don't care about accidents; I only care about results," Shane replied evenly. "Professor Hermann's algorithm can ensure precise emulsion coating and accurate color separation."
"I can also solve the projector speed issue," he added. "Twenty-eight frames per second, perfectly synchronized with your aerial footage and future sound design."
"Interesting algorithm," Fairbanks remarked, flipping his silver lighter between his fingers with a practiced flick, closing it with a satisfying click.
Hughes leaned forward, his voice dropping, sharp with pressure. "One hundred thousand dollars. What can you give me?"
Shane's reply was equally measured. "Technical authorization for color film, and—through Mr. Hill's channels—at least thirty percent of nationwide screening rights for your upcoming film."
Henry coughed softly, signaling Shane to stop. A Morgan Bank director approached, and Hughes burst into laughter, raising his voice theatrically. "Color film? We'd have to hire Julia Morgan for set design first!" His exaggerated gestures drew the other's attention.
Once the director passed, Hughes pulled a crumpled storyboard from his pocket, circling 'United Artists Distribution' with pencil marks. "If you include what you just proposed… perhaps equity exchange could be discussed?"
Henry's opal ring cut a green streak through the smoke as he leaned forward, taking a fresh whiskey. "Shane has access to some… special intelligence channels for emerging technologies."
Fairbanks slid an ivory-white business card between his fingers and tucked it into Shane's suit pocket. "Mr. Cassidy, if it's convenient — next Tuesday, 3 p.m., Fifth Avenue, United Artists' office," he said with a smile. "I'm sure you'll enjoy the collection there."
The bell for the second act rang just then, cutting through the lingering smoke. Shane returned to the box, spotting Mary quietly seated, eyes bright and twinkling with anticipation for Show Boat. Her fingers tapped the armrest in rhythm with the overture.
As the singer began Old Man River, Shane's gaze drifted to the third row. Mary Pickford, Hollywood's "America's Sweetheart," observed the performance through diamond-studded binoculars. Her pearl necklace shimmered with a warm glow as she followed the music.
Douglas Fairbanks beside her seemed completely absorbed, tapping his knee to the melody.
"Tuesday afternoon, don't forget the United Artists appointment," Henry whispered, blending his voice with the thunderous applause. "Hughes needs a technical consultant who truly understands color film." His glance lingered toward the theater exit, heavy with meaning.