When Ashe disappeared below deck, the Captain's eyes lingered on the threshold she entered to return to her room, as if he were half expecting her to reemerge for some reason or another. However, seconds passed and she did not reappear, and so he turned to the black sea which stretched as far as the eye could see. He was caught by surprise at the sound of someone clearing his throat. Englehorn spun his head around to see Carl Denham leaning against the wall, with a lit pipe between his lips and a rather smug expression.
"Interesting chemistry," he mused aloud, as if to himself.
"Eavesdropping? Somehow I'm not surprised," Englehorn said dryly.
The director's face formed into a feigned indignant reaction, "That hurts, Englehorn. Actually, I was here before either of you. Mere coincidence."
The Captain's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he bit his tongue to hold back the urge to reply with an insult. He was certainly not in any mood to engage in a verbal bout with such a nuisance. He was to tense to hold back the need to clock the idiot. So, taking the high road, Englehorn turned to walk away.
"You gotta know there's more here than meets the eye," Denham said suddenly, making Englehorn come to a halt but not to face him. "Somethin' ain't right here. Even you gotta sense it."
Taking a deep breath, as if in restraint, the Captain remained silent. Carl Denham took the opportunity to continue.
"Look, Englehorn," he continued. "I'm here solely to see this thing through to the end. I'm not here lookin' for a fight."
Wheeling around, the look in Englehorn's eyes forced Denham to step back warily, "If it weren't for you, Denham, we wouldn't be in this mess! Your obsession is going to get us all killed!"
Denham hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating his next move. The Captain's temper was flaring, and saying the wrong thing could risk the director a few bruises and a broken nose. When he did not reply immediately, Englehorn turned around once more to leave.
"You could have said no," he said suddenly. Englehorn stopped but didn't look back. "You are as much to blame for this as me. You can stand on that pedestal on you like and preach…but it doesn't change the facts."
A lengthy silence passed, but Englehorn didn't turn around. Denham felt more at ease, as if he knew he pushed the right buttons. He knew that the good Captain had the nerve to clock him. But he was a smooth talker at heart, and he knew what to say and when to say it. A smug smirk settled on his face as he watched Englehorn continue to walk away, his hands curled into fists so tightly his knuckles were white.
Pulling out a cigar, he placed it between his lips and lit a match, inhaling the thick smoky aroma as he looked out to sea. He was as surprised as anyone to actually have been invited on this voyage. Pleasantly surprised, of course. He still had stock this little adventure, and he was intent on collecting. His mind wandered back to the moment he was brought onboard this little quest. Back to the moment he first met Jamison Cunningham.
"If you have any questions, call that number," the mystery woman advised, before turning away and disappearing past the debris of the ruined theatre. He had no idea who she was or where she came from…she just appeared out of thin air.
In all honesty, Carl Denham wasn't even sure what exactly she told him before handing the small slip of a paper with the number to…who was it? Jamison Cunningham? Whoever that was….
"Denham! Carl Denham!" he heard someone familiar call his name…and the tone was anything but pleased. He looked up from the paper to see the Mayor of New York City heading straight for him, like a shark to a seal. Behind him were a few other important people…like the Chief of Police, the Fire Chief, and more than a few city Councilmen.
Rising to his feet, Denham gulped in an attempt to clear his throat to speak but he was cut off.
"Denham! Do you have any idea what the hell you let loose in my city!" the Mayor boomed. Despite being about the same size, the director felt considerably small standing before him. Like a student being reprimanded by a principal for vandalism…or setting a twenty-five foot animal loose in the school gym.
"Mr. Mayor, please…I can explain!" he started. But it was of no use.
"Don't even try it Denham!" he huffed. "Your ass Is goin' straight to County! You're gonna be booked on so many different charges, you're gonna need about twenty lawyers just to see daylight again!"
His rant continued but honestly, Denham didn't really hear the rest of it. It was like he tuned it out. He heard them shouting, swearing. He felt them put the cuffs around his wrists, but it was like a bad dream. One he couldn't wake up from. Leaving the theatre, he ignored the accusing stares from the people they passed by. What do they know?
Sitting the jail cell, alone, Denham leaned against the wall with the look of utter defeat written all over his face. There were a few cells surrounding his own, each containing the usual low-lives. It was maybe more crowded than usual…chaos had erupted in the city thanks to Kong's little stroll, and people were taking the opportunity to…enjoy a few extra liberties. Looting just happened to be one of them. Hey, it was the holidays.
He could hear people scurrying in the rooms nearby, sounds of telephones ringing off the hook, shouting, yelling….The city had gone to hell in a single night. What the hell was he going to do?
Suddenly the door to his cell creaked open. He glanced up, seeing a patrolman bringing in an old man. He looked more disheveled then he was, filthy like he hadn't bathed in days. Denham knew a homeless guy when he saw one. This day and age, in New York City, it was a pretty common sight.
He shuffled in like he was drunk…by the smell, he probably was. His grey beard was tangled, but grooming wasn't exactly a common courtesy while living on the streets. The stranger settled on the bench across from him, rubbing his hands together as he shivered visibly. Glancing up, he caught sight of Denham looking at him.
"Hey, 'fella," he said gruffly. "Mind sparin' me yer coat?"
"What?" he was caught off guard
"Yer coat…it's a lil' cold outside if you failed to notice," he sighed.
Denham was hardly in the mood to care. He wasn't cold, in fact, he didn't feel hardly anything. With a heavy sigh, he removed his wrinkled wool coat and tossed it to the poor guy, who grasped it as if it were a million bucks. He gave a small nod to the Denham.
"Appreciate it," he said, and he director could see the man was genuinely thankful.
Gratitude was a rare commodity in this day and age. He should know. Hell, if it weren't for him, the world would NEVER have even heard of Kong or Skull Island! And where were his thanks? His praise? Sure, the situation may have gotten out of hand, but that wasn't his fault! He was no criminal! He was the victim in this whole mess! Perhaps if Ann would just have agreed to perform alongside the ape, she could have kept him calm. Maybe if he was provided with the correct amount of sedatives, he could have kept the ape docile. He wasn't to blame! He did all that he could, but the world never sees it his way…the right way.
Skulking in his cell, Denham bitterly wondered how things might have turned out. What could have been? What if Kong never got loose? What if he never brought him to the city? What if they never even made it to Skull Island? He would have lost everything! Not just him, but those he owed as well. Couldn't they see? He was doing this for them!
An hour passed, but the panic never died down. Kong was still on the loose. He was as good as dead by now anyways. In the midst of the mayhem, he was too volatile to risk an attempt at recapturing him. And after this little stunt, the public would undoubtedly call for him to be put down!
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Denham?"
Carl looked up, and beyond the bars of his cell stood a man he never met before. He could tell he was rich, or at least he appeared to be the sort that moved within the inner circles of the rich and powerful. The way he seemed to carry himself made him seem dignified.
"Or perhaps a dollar, given your situation," the stranger continued, his green eyes staring straight into the director's eyes, almost his very soul. He had a piercing gaze, it seemed to imply the wisdom of the ages.
"A few million might do better good," Carl retorted. He glanced over and saw the homeless man with his coat fast asleep. He probably intentionally got locked up in here for a warm place to sleep.
A small chuckle came from the stranger, "Indeed. You are in quite a bind, sir. But you have but yourself to blame."
Denham's eyes narrowed, "Look, old man. I'm not in the mood for a lecture, so if you don't mind, the door's behind you. Don't let it hit you on the way out."
But the man did not move. Instead, he cleared his throat, "'He who sacrifices his conscience to ambition, burns a picture to obtain the ashes', or so the proverb goes."
What the hell did that even mean?
"Who in God's name are you?" Carl asked suspiciously. "My damn fortune cookie?"
"You mean you haven't figured that out?" the stranger questioned with raised brows. "You're lack of perception does you little credit."
And then it dawned on him. "Cunningham?"
A small smile appeared on the old man's face. "Indeed I am."
The director was on his feet so fast, his head felt dizzy. Gripping the bars with a vice-grip, his eyes widened.
"You're the one that lady told me to contact!" he exclaimed. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Stage a big manhunt for the Eighth Wonder of the World all so you could take away what I nearly sacrificed my entire career on! Who the hell do you think you-"
"Stage the hunt?" the he chuckled. "Your little blunder was more than enough to land you in such a tight spot. I and those who I represent are merely here to clean up your little mess. I come to you merely with an offer."
The grip on the bars tightened. His knuckles were nearly white, "He's mine, you hear me! Kong is not for sale! I don't know what you're deal is, but he is not for sale!"
Little expression registered on Cunningham's face, aside from the small hint of amusement he seemed to gather from the director's predicament.
"Given the circumstances, Mr. Denham," he stated smoothly, "there is hardly even a remote chance you can salvage what's left of your reputation. What makes you conceive the idea that you have any say in the matter?"
"Kong is mine, you son of a bitch," Denham snarled. "I staked my entire future on this debacle. You so much as try and take him, dead or alive, and I will bury you! You got that!"
Denham was hardly in the position to negotiate any hope of salvaging his dreams, but that seemed to have little effect on him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Cunningham could see the passion burning in his eyes. Not for Kong, by any means. Nor for the lives lost at Skull Island all thanks to him. While Denham could hope to justify his purpose, it didn't change the facts. People were dead, all because of his ambition. Not just those lost on the island, but the lives Kong took in the city as well. In his attempt to dominate the heart of the unknown…he only succeeded in unleashing its wrath upon a world not willing to accept things they could never hope to comprehend.
Cunningham couldn't help but find it admirable that a man who has lost everything he values still possessed the tenacity he displayed.
"You're willpower is admirable," Cunningham admitted. "But the damage is done, ."
Handing a rather hefty envelope, the Englishman stood outside his steel pen with a rather smug look tugging at the corner of his lips. Denham hesitated for a second, his hand trembling. A gut-wrenching twist tore his insides, and felt the small dread of knowing the contents of the envelope.
"These documents will ensure you are fully reimbursed and the charges that will inevitably render you destitute will be dropped," the continued. "On the condition that you relinquish all rights of the ape to Marshall Industries."
Denham slowly opened the envelope, his heart beat the only thing he could truly hear. His eyes rested on the various documents before him. Most of it was entirely legal documentations and court waivers to reduce the repercussions of the evening. He glanced from the paperwork to the man before him, who held out a rather fine pen to allow him to sign the forms.
For a second, Denham forgot to breath. His throat felt dry, his hands all clammy and shaky. What was he to do? He gave up everything he possibly had on the impression that no mistakes would be made. Could he have truly been so blind?
The tip of the pen reached the paper, but he hesitated another second and looked to Cunningham, "Why are you doing this? What could you possibly have to gain from this?"
Cunningham did not reply immediately, but after a moment of silence he sighed, "The true measure of a man is reflected in that which he pursues. If all you understand is profit, Mr. Denham, than you'll never truly see the grander scheme of things."
Pondering his words in defeated silence, Denham took another extended glance at the paperwork. His hands trembled as the tip of the pen touched the surface. Was it all for nothing? Did fate simply mock him by granting his wish, only to be crushed and humiliated in the end? How could it have come to this?
Swallowing what little ounce of dignity he had, the ruined director scribbled his name in the designated area. Handing it back to the old man, he felt his spirit die.
"I…I never meant for this to happen…I didn't want anyone to get hurt…or killed," he said aloud, mostly to himself. "I just…"
"I'm a businessman, Mr. Denham," Cunningham stated coldly, "not a priest. Your sins are your own business."
Without a single word, the strange old man wheeled around and disappeared beyond the corner of the cell block, leaving Denham with an empty pit in his stomach. Like he had made some bet with the devil that now came to collect on his dues.