His claim was swift, leaving little to NO room for rebuttal. James had seen the horrors of Skull Island, but his concern was for its primate ‘king’: a gentle giant that remained the last of its kind. She didn’t know, of course. Mason and the other survivors vowed never to breathe a word of their expedition. The anti-war photographer had even thrown the rolls of film she’d taken of Kong off of the side of the helicopter as they were brought back to the ship. What photos remained were of the landscape and indigenous tribe they encountered, which were now published in the latest Time magazine.
James slid the wad of cash across the table and back to her.
“I don’t know what you expect to find except lush vegetation and the tribe.
Whatever you need to know...”
He tapped his chest once before drinking the last of the scotch. He might not know EVERYTHING about the tribe, but he could recall the events vividly. He’d just arrived from that island over two months ago. He wasn’t keen on going back, mostly because of the exposure that this young author threatened to bring. Edith Cushing. He never read any of her novels, but he knew that if she published a word about Kong, Skull Island would be swarming with bounty hunters. And he might have been ‘for hire’, but he recognized Kong’s purpose. He sure as hell didn’t want any of those beings swarming the streets of London.
