The Carpetbaggers (42 page)

"Now I'm stuck with an artistic bomb. I talk to all the directors in Hollywood about it. I'm not so dumb altogether that it don't take me long to find out they don't understand it neither, so I hire the director who did the play on the stage, Claude Dunbar, a
faigele
if I ever saw one. But fifty thousand he gets.

"A hundred and fifty I’m in already and no box office. So I call up Louie and say lend me Garbo. He laughs in my face. You ain't got enough money, he says. Besides, we got her in prestige of our own.
Anna Christie
by Eugene O'Neill she's making. Good-by, I says and call up Jack Warner. How about Bette Davis? Wait a minute, he says. I sit on the phone ten minutes.

"The
pisher
thinks I don't know what he's doin'? He's calling his brother Harry in New York, that's what he's doin'. Here I am, sitting on long distance in New York with the charges running up by the minute and he's calling back his brother Harry, who is two blocks away from where I'm sitting. Hang up the phone, I feel like telling him. I can call your brother for only a nickel.

"Finally, Jack gets back on the phone to me ninety-five dollars later. You're lucky, he says. We ain't got her penciled in for nothing until September. You can have her for a hundred and fifty grand. For a hundred and fifty, don't do me no favors, I tell him. The most she's gettin' is thirty, thirty-five a picture, maybe not even that.

"How much you want to pay? he asks. Fifty, I says. Forget it, he says. O.K., then, seventy-five, I says. One and a quarter, he says. One even and it's a deal, I says. It's a deal, he says. I hang up the telephone. A hundred and thirty-five dollars the call costs me to talk two minutes.

"So I go back to Wall Street and tell the underwriters and bankers we now got prestige. This picture is goin' to be so artistic, we'll be lucky if we get anybody into the theater. They're very happy and congratulate me and I get on the train and come back to Hollywood."

Bernie ran out of breath suddenly and picked up the glass of water again and drained it. "Ain't that enough trouble for anyone?"

David nodded.

"So enough troubles I got when I walk into my office this morning, you agree? So who do I find waiting but Rina Marlowe, that
courveh
. 'Rina, darling,' I say to her, 'you look positively gorgeous this morning.' Do I even get a hello? No! She shoves the
Reporter
under my nose and says, 'What's this? Is it true?'

"I look down and see the story about Davis in
Sunspots
. 'What are you getting so excited about, darling?' I say. 'That's not for you, a bomb like that. I got a part for you that will kill the people.
Scheherazade
. Costumes like you never in your life saw before.' And you know what she says to me?" He shook his head sadly.

"What?" David asked.

"After all I done for her, the way she spoke to me!" his uncle said in a hurt voice. " 'Take your hand off my tits,' she says, 'and furthermore, if I don't get that part, you can shove
Scheherazade
up your fat ass!' Then she walks out the door. How do you like that?" Norman asked in an aggrieved voice. "All I was trying to do was calm her down a little. Practically everybody in Hollywood she fucks but me she talks to like that!"

David nodded. He'd heard the stories about her, too. In the year since she had broken up with Nevada, she seemed to have gone suddenly wild. The parties out at her new place in Beverly Hills were said to be orgies. There was even talk about her and Ilene Gaillard, the costume designer. But as long as nothing got into print, they'd looked the other way. What she did was her own business as long as it didn't affect them. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do about it?" Bernie asked. "Give her the part. If she walked out on us, we'd lose twice as much as we're losing right now."

He reached for a cigar. "I'll call her this afternoon and tell her." He stopped in the midst of lighting it. "No, I got a better idea. You go out to her place this afternoon and tell her. I'm damned if I'll let her make it look like I'm kissing her ass."

"O.K.," David said. He started back toward his own office.

"Wait a minute," his uncle called after him.

David turned around.

"You know who I ran into in the Waldorf my last night in New York?" Bernie asked. "Your friend."

"My friend?"

"Yes, you know who. The crazy one. The flier. Jonas Cord."

"Oh," David said. He liked the way his uncle put it, reminding him of the earlier conversation they had had about Cord some years ago. He and Cord had never exchanged so much as a word. He even doubted if Cord knew he was alive. "How did he look?"

"The same," his uncle replied. "Like a bum. Wearing sneakers and no tie. I don't know how he gets away with it. Anybody else they would throw out, but him? Shows you there's nothing like
goyishe
money."

"You talk to him?" David asked curiously.

"Sure," Norman answered. "I read in the papers where he's making another picture. Who knows, I says to myself, the
schnorrer
might get lucky again. Besides, with prestige like we're stuck with, we could use him. We could pay a lot of bills with his money.

"It's two o'clock in the morning and he's got two
courvehs
on his arm. I walk over and say, 'Hello, Jonas.' He looks at me like he's never seen me before in his life. 'Remember me,' I says, 'Bernie Norman from Hollywood.' 'Oh, sure," he says.

"But I can't tell from his face whether he really does or doesn't, he needs a shave so bad. 'These two little girls are actresses,' he says to me, 'but I won't tell you their names. Otherwise, you might sign them up yourself. If I like a girl,' he says, 'I put her under contract to Cord Explosives now. No more do I take any chances and let them get away from me the way you signed that Marlowe dame.' With that, he gives me such a playful shot in the arm that for two hours I can't raise my hand.

"I made myself smile even if I didn't feel like it. 'In our business, you got to move fast,' I says, 'otherwise you get left behind the parade. But that's over and done with. What I want to do is talk to you about this new picture I hear you're makin'. We did a fantastic job for you on your last one and I think we should set up a meetin'.'

" 'What's the matter with right now?' he asks. 'It's O.K. with me,' I says. He turns to the girls. 'Wait right here,' he says to them. He turns back to me an' takes my arm. 'Come on,' he says, draggin' me off. 'Come up to my office.'

"I look at him in surprise. 'You got an office here in the Waldorf,' I ask him. 'I got an office in every hotel in the United States,' he says. We get on an elevator an' he says 'Mezzanine, please.' We get off and walk down the hall to a door. I look at the sign. 'Gentlemen,' it says. I look at him. He grins. 'My office,' he says, opening the door. We go inside an' it's white and empty. There's a table there and a chair for the attendant. He sits down in the chair and suddenly I see he's very sober, he's not smiling now.

" 'I haven't decided yet where I'm going to release the picture,' he says. 'It all depends on where I can get the best deal.' 'That's smart thinking.' I says, 'but I really can't talk until I know what your picture is about.' 'I'll tell you,' he says. 'It's about the fliers in the World War. I bought up about fifty old planes — Spads, Fokkers, Nieuports, De Havillands — and I figger on havin' a ball flyin' the wings off them.'

" 'Oh, a war picture,' I says. 'That's not so good. War pictures is dead since
All Quiet on the Western Front
. Nobody'll come to see them. But since I got experience with you and we was lucky together, I might go along for the ride. What terms you looking for?' He looks me in the eye. 'Studio overhead, ten per cent,' he says. 'Distribution, fifteen per cent with all expenses deducted from the gross before calculating the distribution fees.' 'That's impossible,' I says. 'My overhead runs minimum twenty-five per cent.'

" 'It doesn't,' he says, 'but I won't quibble about it. I just want to point out some simple arithmetic to you. According to your annual report, your overhead during the past few years averaged twenty-one per cent. During that period,
The Renegade
contributed twenty-five per cent of your gross. Deduct that from your gross and you'll find your overhead's up to almost thirty-six per cent. The same thing applies to the studio,' he says. 'Volume governs the percentages and if I supply the volume, I shouldn't be burdened with ordinary percentages. I want some of the gravy, as you picture people call it.'

" 'I couldn't afford it,' I says. 'The way the picture business is going,' he says, 'you can't afford not to.' 'My board of directors would never approve it,' I says. He gets up, smiling. 'They will,' he says. 'Give 'em a couple of years an' they will. Why don't you take a piss long as you're here,' he says. I’m so surprised I walk over to the urinal. When I turn around, he's already gone. The next morning, before I get on the train, I try to locate him but nobody seems to know where he is. His office don't even know he's in New York. He disappeared completely." Bernie looked down at his desk. "A real
meshuggeneh
, I tell you."

David smiled. "I told you he'd learn fast. His arithmetic is right, you know."

His uncle looked up at him. "Don't you think I know it's right?" he asked. "But is he so poor that I have to give him bread from my own mouth?"

* * *

"If you'll follow me, sir," the butler said politely. "Miss Marlowe is in the solarium."

David nodded and followed silently up the staircase and to the back of the house. The butler halted before a door and knocked.

"Mr. Woolf is here, mum."

"Tell him to come in," Rina called through the closed door.

The butler held the door open. David blinked as the bright California sun suddenly spilled down on him. The roof of the room was a clear glass dome and the sides were of glass, too.

There was a tall screen at the far end of the room. Rina's voice came from behind it. "Help yourself to a drink from the bar. I’ll be out in a minute."

He looked around and located the bar in the corner. There were casual, canvas-covered chairs scattered all about the room and a large white rug over most of the floor.

Ilene Gaillard came out from behind the screen. She was wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled to just above her elbows, and black man-tailored slacks that clung tightly to her narrow hips. Her white-streaked hair was brushed back in a severe straight line.

"Hello, David. Let me help you."

"Thanks, Ilene."

"Make another Martini for me," Rina called from behind the screen.

Ilene didn't answer. She looked at David. "What will it be?"

"Scotch and water," he answered. "Just a little ice."

"O.K.," she said, her hands already moving deftly behind the bar. She held the drink toward him. "There, how's that?"

He tasted it. "Great."

"Got my Martini ready?" Rina said from behind him.

He turned. She was just coming from behind the screen, tying a white terry-cloth robe around her. From the glimpse he caught of the tanned thigh beneath the robe as she moved, he guessed she was wearing nothing underneath. "Hello, Rina."

"Hello, David," she answered. She looked at Ilene. "Where's my drink?"

"David's obviously here on business," Ilene said. "Why don't you wait until after you've had your talk?"

"Don't be so bossy!" Rina snapped. "Make the drink!" She turned to David. "My father gave me Martinis when I was a child. I can drink them like water. Ilene doesn't seem to understand that."

"Here." Ilene's voice was clipped.

Rina took the Martini from her. "Cheers, David."

"Cheers," David replied.

She belted down half her Martini, then led him to one of the chairs. "Sit down," she said, dropping into another.

"Lovely house you have," he said politely.

"It is nice," she said. "Ilene and I had a wonderful time furnishing it." She reached up and patted Ilene's cheek. "Ilene has the most wonderful sense of color. You should speak to your uncle about letting her try her hand at art direction. I'm sure he'd find out that she could do a terrific job."

"Rina," Ilene said, a happy note in her voice, "I’m sure David didn't come here to talk about me."

"I'll speak to Uncle Bernie," he said politely. "I’m sure she could, too."

"See?" Rina said. "The trouble with Ilene is that she's too modest. She's one of the most talented people I ever met."

She held up her empty glass toward Ilene. "Refill."

David caught a glimpse of her lush, full breasts. It would take more than massage to keep her weight down if she kept on drinking like that.

Rina cut into his thoughts. "Did the old bastard decide to give me that part in
Sunspots
?"

David looked at her. "You have to understand my uncle's point of view, Rina," he said quickly. "You're the most valuable asset the company has. You can't blame him if he doesn't want to put you in a picture that's almost certain to lay an egg."

Rina took the drink from Ilene. "What it all boils down to," she said belligerently, ''is that he thinks I can't act. All I’m good for is walking around as near naked as he can get me."

"He thinks you're a fine actress, Rina. But more important, you're the one in a million who is a star. He's just trying to protect you, that’s all."

"I'll protect myself," she snapped angrily. "Do I get the part or don't I?"

"You get it."

"Good," she said, sipping her drink. She got out of her chair and he realized that she was slightly drunk. "Tell your uncle for me that I won't wear a brassière the next time I come to his office."

"I’m sure that will make him very happy." David grinned at her. He put down his drink and got to his feet.

"I think he wants to fuck me," she said, weaving slightly.

He laughed. "Who doesn't?" he asked. "I can name at least sixty million men who've thought about it."

"You don't," she said, her eyes suddenly looking right into his.

"Who says?"

"I do," she said seriously. "You never asked me."

"Remind me to get up my nerve sometime."