Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (4 page)

Ann shook her head and sat down again. Denham could read no fear in her expression now, but instead a good-humored tolerance. “No, I'm sorry. I can't. I don't want a job that badly. I'm grateful to you—I
was
starving—but I can't just—”

“What!” Denham stared at her in baffled amazement for a moment, and then he laughed. “Oh, for the love of mike. I get it. Sister, you've got me wrong. This is strictly business.”

“Well,” Ann said apologetically, “I didn't want any—any—”

“Misunderstanding,” Denham finished for her. “Sure, I know you didn't. It's my fault for getting excited and not explaining. I thought you knew who I was—Denham? Carl Denham? Sound familiar?”

Understanding dawned in those blue eyes. “Yes, I've heard of you! You make moving pictures. In jungles and deserts—”

“That's me. And I've picked you for the lead in my next picture. That's the job, Ann. Want it? You have to make up your mind now. We sail at six.”

“Where to?”

Denham bit his lip. “Can't tell you that for a while. It's a long way from New York, though. And before we get there, there'll be a long sea voyage, easy living, good food, the warm sea air, moonlight soft on the water—”

Ann chuckled. “It sounds like a vacation.”

With a shrug, Denham confessed, “I'm selling it because I want you in that picture, Ann. But just think, woman! Whatever happens, no matter where we wind up at the finish, it has to be better than being down on your luck in New York. I know what it's like to be broke, believe me. Must be worse for a girl like you, afraid every night that the next morning will find you in the gutter.”

Ann looked thoughtful. “You're right,” she said at last. “No matter where we wind up at the finish, it has to be better.”

Denham offered her his hand, and when she took it, he helped her up from her chair. He held her hand—and shook it. “It's a deal. I'm square, Ann, and I'll be square with you. No funny business.”

He let go of her hand and noticed her quick glance down, taking in his wedding band. She looked back at his face. “So you can't tell me yet about what I have to do in your picture?”

“I can tell you this much: keep your chin up and trust me.”

Ann looked at him for a long direct moment.

Denham felt himself holding his breath. He had always been lucky, he reminded himself, as his cameraman's gaze again took in Ann's golden hair, her perfect face and lively blue eyes, her graceful, well-proportioned figure.

Ann took a deep breath. “All right,” she said, and immediately Denham tossed some money onto the table, gripped her left arm, and steered her out and toward the shops that just might still be open on Broadway.

3

OFF THE JERSEY COAST
DECEMBER 4, 1932

Ann came wide-awake in the narrow berth and for a few seconds could not remember where she was or how she had got there. For those moments, she could only think that this was the first morning in weeks that hunger had not awakened her. Then memory of the previous night's amazing encounter rushed back, and she sat up. She laughed aloud when she saw beside her berth the bowl of apples.

Denham had bought them at the last moment, adding them to a pile of dress boxes, shoe boxes, and hat boxes that overflowed the taxi. Long past midnight the cabdriver had parked near the gangway of the
Wanderer,
and Denham had roused a red-nosed old watchman to help unload the cab. A muscular young man—Ann couldn't remember if she had been introduced or not—came down the gangway to help carry it all, and they had gone on board.

Ann followed Denham's lead down a narrow, dark corridor, toward the stern of the ship. He opened a doorway and said, “This will be your cabin. And here's a bowl to put the apples in.” He dumped the fruit into a blue china bowl on a stand next to the bunk. “Here's your key.” He set it down with a click next to the bowl of apples. “Okay, pass that stuff in.” This was to the burdened young man, who handed over boxes that Denham stacked in a corner. “Sort this stuff out tomorrow. Right now, you get ready for bed. Bathroom's in there, kind of tight, but you'll make do with it. Good night, sleep tight, and make it a long one. You need your rest, and if I see you on deck before afternoon, I'll have the skipper put you in irons.”

With that, Denham had stepped out, closed the door, and left her alone. Ann had done as he said, finding the tiny bathroom adequate, and had put on one of the sedate negligees she had insisted on after Denham had, with an improbable blush, offered to buy her a more daring one. But after climbing into bed, she had spent three or four hours awake, staring at the round porthole with its drifting shadows of snowflakes. At last she had floated into sleep.

Now she brushed her hair back from her eyes and looked at the tiny clock next to the apples. It was just short of eight. She felt it then, the motion of the ship, a long, comfortable kind of roll, and she heard the deep thrum of engines from somewhere far below. She yawned and laughed again. Despite the shortness of her catnap, she was too excited to feel sleepy. And since she foresaw no likelihood of being any less excited for the rest of the day, she decided to risk going out on deck, defying the irons of Mr. Denham's skipper.

Ann swung her slim legs over the edge of the berth, stood up, and went to the porthole. New York had vanished. The snow clouds of the night before had blown out to sea, leaving behind a soft blue sky. Ann opened the porthole and craned to look at the sea. It was calm enough, and the only land she could see was off to the stern, a low, dark, dim line on the horizon. Cool air flooded in, refreshing and brisk. Ann spent some time in sorting her new clothes, shaking her head over Denham's generosity and enthusiasm.

“Buy anything you need, whatever you like, sister,” Denham had said. “Believe me, you'll still come in cheap, compared to what I'd have had to pay a leading lady out of Hollywood or off Broadway. We won't be near a shop again for months, so go ahead, shoot the works.”

Ann had taken him at his word, buying nightgowns, underthings, stockings, shoes, and even lounging pajamas. She purchased coats, dresses, hats. Denham had interceded only a few times, buying three identical sets of slacks and shirts—“Costume,” he explained—and a few other oddments. Now here everything was, in a tottering mountain of boxes that quavered to the throb of the
Wanderer
's engines.

Ann decided she simply had to unpack and find space for everything in the small closet and the chest at the foot of her berth. As a result, it was well after nine before she closed her cabin door and stepped out into the deserted passageway. Under a new coat she wore her own old dress. She didn't want Denham to think that she was too eager to seize her newly found luxury. Still, underneath the dress, a silken smoothness caressed her body from shoulders to toes. She smiled wistfully, remembering her late mother, who always cautioned her about being prepared in case an automobile hit her. Well, she was ready now. Too bad there were no autos on boats.

Ann emerged blinking onto a sunny deck, almost as deserted as the passageway. Although she was only a lady landlubber, Ann easily guessed that the officers and crew must have cleared away the business of departure and gone belowdecks. Only one person was there, sprawled in a corner shielded from the cool breeze, soaking up the warming rays of the sun. He was an old man, brown, stringy, bald, and he hummed as he tied knots for the benefit of a chattering monkey, bundled up in clothing meant for a doll.

Ann drew close, deciding that the old fellow had a friendly face. The monkey looked around at her and scooted closer to the sailor. She crouched down nearby, and the old man gave her an eyebrow-arched smile. “Morning.”

“Teach me to do that,” Ann said impulsively.

The old sailor grinned toothlessly. “Yessum! Well, this here's a running bowline. Now, what you do—” He broke off. “But first and foremost, introductions. Me, I'm Lumpy. The monk here, he's Ignatz.”

“And I'm Ann Darrow,” Ann said.

“Right you are. Mr. Denham told us about you this morning. All right, this here's a running bowline. Up, over, through. Now you try it.”

Ann took the rope, but instead of trying the knot, she gazed out over the placid, rolling green sea. “This is wonderful.”

Lumpy chuckled. “Well, it's a matter of taste, I guess. I'd rather be having a cold one in Curly's Bar, and Ignatz'd probably prefer clamberin' around in a coconut tree. But the sea's fine when the weather's good.”

“I know it won't always be this calm,” Ann said, working with the rope.

“No, it goes the other way—behind, see? Well, about the weather, you're right there, too. We'll be headin' into warmer waters, and sometimes that means storms. But this is a good old ship, and you've got nothin' to worry about. We'll get you there safe enough, wherever
there
is. Now you got it!”

A whistle shrilled from somewhere behind them, and Lumpy jumped up with surprising ease. “Keep an eye on Ignatz for me, Miz Darrow. Sounds like there's work to do!”

Before the whistle died away, six more sailors came rushing past, coming from aft, not far from the companionway she had taken. Lumpy joined them, and a moment later the whistle's owner stepped past her, so intent on his work that he didn't even notice Ann. It was the same muscular young man who had helped carry her things the previous night. Ann frowned, trying to remember if Denham had mentioned his name.

She couldn't recall, but in the light of day, this young man held her interest. His long, well-muscled body, his strong dark face, his general air of being master and knowing it, challenged her. He wore a working outfit this morning, jeans and a heavy black shirt. “Hurry along, man!” the young fellow snapped at a late sailor, who replied, “Aye, aye, Mr. Driscoll.”

“Driscoll.” Ann mouthed the name. This wouldn't be the captain—too young. He stood with his back to her, and she rose to her feet to see what he was having the men do.

Driscoll wore an officer's cap, and Ann thought he could never have bought his thick woolen shirt on a common sailor's wage. “Rig for stowing,” Driscoll shouted, and the men got busy.

Ann looked past him. Whatever the crew was doing dealt with a huge wooden crate near the bows and a tangle of ropes. Bright red letters stenciled across the faces of the container warned
DANGER
, making Ann wonder what it might hold. Old Lumpy secured lines to the crate, and then waved. Driscoll lifted a hand to his mouth and ordered, “You, Warren, carry that line aft!” He gestured behind him with his left hand, almost hitting Ann in the face. “Aft, you farmer! This way! Aft, aft! Back there!” This time he jerked his thumb back over his left shoulder so furiously that his knuckles brushed Ann's cheek, hard enough to sting. She gasped and jumped backward, scaring Ignatz. The monkey leaped to the rail, chattering madly, as the startled young man swung around, exclaiming, “Who the—” He broke off, his face showing his surprise. “What are you doing on deck? Denham said you'd sleep until noon.”

Ann rubbed her cheek. “I just wanted to see,” she explained, feeling oddly guilty, like a child that had been spying on grown-ups.

Driscoll let out his breath, which steamed in the cool morning air. “I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Ann smiled and shook her head. “Not really. You surprised me. I'm Ann Darrow.”

“Yes, we met last night. My name's Jack Driscoll,” he said. “Hang on a minute.” He turned back to the work party and shouted orders. They heaved and hauled, lifting the crate, swinging it over an open hatch, and then gingerly lowering it. Some of the crew went below to secure it, and in fifteen minutes the work was over, the hatch cover replaced, and the men scattered.

“Now,” Driscoll said, turning back to Ann. “Hope I didn't bruise you.”

“It takes a harder punch than that,” Ann said, and she laughed.

Driscoll grinned, sheepishly. “So you're the girl that Denham turned up at the last minute.”

Ann nodded. “He didn't tell me much. But it's exciting so far. I've never been on a ship before.”

With a grunt, Driscoll said, “I've never been on a ship with a woman aboard.”

Surprised at his gruff tone, Ann said, “You don't sound like you approve of the idea.”

Driscoll shrugged. “Nine times out of ten, a woman on a ship is a nuisance.”

Ann's first impression of Driscoll cooled considerably. “I'll try not to be,” she said in a level voice.

“I'd appreciate that,” Driscoll told her. “When there's work to be done, you'd better stay below and out of the way.”

“I wasn't in the way!” Ann protested.

“You were in
my
way,” Driscoll reminded her.

Ann couldn't tell whether he was teasing or not. “Do you want me to stay in my cabin for the whole voyage?” She couldn't keep an edge of anger from the question.