The Deer Park (25 page)

He squeezed her to him, feeling so many things he could never have told her, excitement at the memory of himself with two women, sensuous pain that she had sold herself for twenty dollars, and with it all, concern, a concern for Elena which almost forced the tears to his eyes. What would happen if he didn’t take care of her?

A little later they decided to go for a swim. While they were having a drink he remembered that Collie was still missing. It was so easy to believe anything; equally possible that they would never see Collie again, or instead see him that night. Playfully, Eitel flipped a coin in the air, and it came down tails. “I’ll never see him again,” he told himself, and the thought was not pleasant. Did it mean he had decided to depend on Collie?

What for superstition? The coin was wrong and Munshin came to their house that evening. It took hours before Elena would go to sleep, and not a word was said about movie scripts. When she finally left them, Munshin became reflective. “We’re in a fantastic occupation,” he said.

Eitel had no patience for this. “How’s the head monk?” he asked.

Munshin smiled. “Charley, I hope our little conference the other night was productive.”

“It gave me an idea or two.”

“I’m still wild about it,” Munshin said. “I haven’t felt enthusiasm like this in years.” Collie often said such things; he would use them as a way of passing from one subject to another. “ ‘What are you gambling here for?’ I said to myself last night. ‘The real gamble is back with Eitel in Desert D’Or.’ ”

“Where’s the gamble?” Eitel said. “Last time we talked you seemed to think the story couldn’t miss.”

“Charley, let’s not negotiate at arm’s length. We’re each too smart for that. Your story, even with my contribution, is a gamble. It’s straight gamble all the way down the line.”

Eitel made a small performance of mixing a drink. “Maybe we ought to drop the idea then,” he said.

“Cut out the sparring, Charley.” Munshin was nibbling on his upper lip with all the pleasure of a fat little boy. “I’ve given a lot of thought to this. Lover, if you want to go it alone, the suggestion I made is yours, and I hope it helps you to pull down a fortune for the script when you want to sell it.”

Eitel made a bored face. “You know very well, Collie, that nobody in the industry will go near me.”

“All you got to do is clear yourself with the Government.”

“Just that little thing. I have my pride, Collie.”

“Then you ought to work with me.”

“Maybe there are other possibilities.”

“Who are you kidding? If you want to make it in Europe, you got to get a passport.” Munshin beamed. He had a better
deal worked out, he said. Eitel would do the script, and he would contribute editorial advice, and when it was done—did Eitel think he could do it in twelve weeks?—Collie would present it to Teppis as his own screenplay. He didn’t have to remind Eitel, he went on, what a Munshin original was worth.

“You ought to be able to get between seventy-five and a hundred thousand for it,” Eitel said.

“Charley, why talk about money now?”

“Because I want to know how we’ll split.”

Munshin pursed his lips. “Charley, talking like this is not your style at all.”

“It may not be my style, but I want ten thousand dollars on advance, and I want us to divide three quarters to me, one quarter to you.”

“I’m bewildered, Charley,” Munshin said. “I don’t understand your point of view.”

“Make an effort.”

“You make the effort. What’s in this for me except worries? If Teppis ever found out I was working with you, he’d hand me my head. You think I’d take a chance for a lousy few bucks?”

“Plus the prestige of a Munshin original.”

“Not worth it.” Munshin shook his head. “No, Charley, no. I see it the other way. Since you’re short of ready money, I’ll give you twenty-five hundred for the script, and then we’ll split three quarters to me.”

“Collie, Collie, Collie.”

“We’ll also forget that loan I gave you.”

“Don’t think I don’t know why you gave it to me.”

They went on for another hour before the rough treaty was drawn. Later—Munshin explained he would have to discuss it with his lawyer—they might or might not draw up a contract, and the best way to pay Eitel would have to be devised for income-tax purposes. But these were details; they could trust each other.

The perfect contract, Eitel thought. Collie would have the
money, and he would have photostats of the script in his own handwriting. He took the best terms he could get. Collie would give him four thousand dollars for writing the script, two thousand tonight, two thousand when it was done. If the script was not sold, it would belong to Munshin; if it was sold, Collie would take two thirds of the sale price. Subsidiary rights would belong to Collie, but he would make certain Eitel got a percentage. It was a simple arrangement. Eitel would do the work and Collie would get the money. In return, if Eitel would cooperate with the Subversive Committee, Collie would do his best to have him direct the picture. They might even share credit for the story.

“So, now,” Eitel thought bleakly, “I’m one of the peons Collie keeps locked in a hole.” He was furious. Collie knew people; all of Collie’s peons were honest; he would never make an arrangement like this with a man he could not trust. “After all these years I’m still honest,” Eitel said bitterly as Collie passed over twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. The bargain was made. Eitel felt a tingling in his hand.

Yet if he thought their business was finished for the night, he was to learn that it had only begun. Collie went off on a long account of how he had met Lulu in the gambling casino. “She was with that man. Your flier friend. What’s his name?”

“Sergius.”

“That’s right, Sergius.” Collie sighed. “He’s a nice kid. Not as smart as he thinks.”

“Perhaps.” Eitel merely waited.

“Charley,” Munshin said, “I could cry every time I think of how you ruined your career.”

Eitel refused to answer.

“Did you have to flaunt Elena under H.T.’s nose the night he gave the party?” Collie asked. “You don’t know what a mistake that was. Why do you think he invited you in the first place?”

“I’ve never understood why.”

“Charley, for all your intelligence and all your perception, you’ve always treated H.T. the wrong way. H.T. wants to act like a father to people, and you never give him a chance. Two hours before that party started, before I even knew you were invited, he said to me, ‘I want to do a rehabilitation on Charley-boy.’ Those were his words.”

“No less!” Eitel finished his drink and poured another. “I suppose he was going to take me off the black list?”

Munshin nodded wisely. “He would have fixed it so you testified in secret session. Nobody would ever have known what you said.”

How clever they were, Eitel thought. A secret session, a few lines in the back of a newspaper, and he could have his career again. The word would be out for the gossip columnists to be kind.

“H.T.’s a hard man,” Munshin said, “but he’s a lonely man. Deep down, he misses you. He gave that invitation to the party because he had an idea for a picture that only you could make.”

“Sergius told me,” Eitel said. “A desert musical.”

“Baby, you’re wrong. You don’t understand H.T., I keep telling you.” Collie stuck out a finger. “What he had in the back of his mind was to make a picture about Sergius O’Shaugnessy.”

This was worth a drink. “I’m blind,” Eitel said, “I don’t see it.”

“You’re just rusty. The beau is a war hero with ten planes to his credit.”

“Three planes, Collie, not ten. If you ask Sergius, maybe he’ll tell you it almost made him a mental case.”

“Sue me if I build it up a little,” said Munshin. “The essence of the yarn is not how many planes, but the fact that Sergius is an infant who was left on the steps of an orphan asylum. Movie-wise, could you have anything more viable?”

“It sounds revolting.”

“Take the girl who’s his mother,” said Munshin. “I see her
cast as a bobby-soxer. It’s got a perfect beginning. You could open on her setting a two-month-old baby on the steps of this orphan home and ringing the bell. Then she runs away crying. Somebody opens the door, an old janitor say, and there’s a note pinned to the baby’s diapers. This was H.T.’s idea. ‘I wish I could give my baby a family name,’ the note says, ‘but since I can’t, please call him Sergius because that’s beautiful.’ ” Munshin’s face showed the delight of a man who stares at the Kohinoor diamond. “How can you miss?” he said. “ ‘Sergius, because that’s a beautiful name.’ Take it from there. He goes on to become a war ace. The orphan is a hero.”

Eitel could well believe it. Once, twice, three times a year Herman Teppis would get an inspiration, and then it was up to somebody to develop a movie from his idea. The origins could consist of less than ‘the orphan is a hero’; years ago, Teppis had called Eitel one morning and said, “I have a movie in my mind. ‘The Renaissance.’ Make that movie.” He had managed to divert Teppis to another director, and the movie as it was finally made had another title, but the inspiration had been enough to keep people at Supreme worried for a year. When all was said, it was as good a way to make movies as any other; most of Teppis’ inspirations showed a profit.

“What do you think?” Munshin asked.

“This story has nothing to do with Sergius. I don’t understand why you even want to bother to buy the rights from him.”

“He could never sue us. That’s not the point. Only look at the story. It stinks. Nobody would believe it unless you could build around a real-life person. That’s what’s got H.T. excited. The publicity values.”

“I don’t believe Sergius will give you the rights,” Eitel said.

“You think so,” said Munshin, “I think differently. There’s twenty thousand dollars in it for him.”

“Then why don’t you have a talk?”

Munshin sighed. “It’s too late. You know how H.T. is with his enthusiasms. He wanted you to make the picture because
Sergius would co-operate with you. Now it’s all ruined. You had to insult H.T. gratuitously.”

“Collie, why are you bringing up old history?”

“Why? I don’t know.” Munshin put a finger in his ear and rubbed vigorously. “Maybe it’s because I have an idea in the back of my mind.” he announced. “If we could get the kid to okay this project, I feel, Charley, that I could still talk H.T. into letting you direct it.”

Eitel laughed. “In other words you want me to prove to Sergius that it’s a good idea.”

“I want you to help me and to help yourself as well.”

“Everybody benefits,” Eitel said. “Sergius is rich again, I direct, and you bring back what H.T. sent you here for.”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“What if H.T. won’t let me direct?”

Munshin looked the least bit tentative. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “What we might be able to do in that case is change the terms of our agreement on your script. I don’t want you left out in the cold.”

“How lucky we’re partners already,” Eitel said. Collie was marvelous, he decided. He had come to Desert D’Or because H.T. had told him to buy the life of Sergius O’Shaugnessy. But if Collie went down to the market, it was to borrow with one hand while he sold with the other. So it did not matter what happened now: Collie could hardly lose. Eitel found himself wondering how many other deals Collie had made this week.

“Sergius doesn’t want your twenty thousand dollars, does he?” Eitel asked abruptly.

“We left it an open question.”

“What did you do, discuss it over a roulette wheel?”

“It’s as good a place as any.”

“And is Lulu working on Sergius too?”

Collie had to smile. “Well, it’s a little complicated. H.T. is just morbid on the subject that she should get married.”

“To Teddy Pope?”

Collie nodded. “The thing is, however, given favorable circumstances, I believe H.T. could see his way clear to Lulu marrying Sergius.”

“What a beautiful end to the movie.” Eitel roared with laughter. “For a fat man, Collie,” he managed to say at last, “you can certainly squeeze into a lot of narrow places.”

Munshin laughed with him. They sat in Eitel’s living room, laughing and laughing, but Collie was the first to finish. “I’m crazy about you, baby,” he said, wiping his eyes, “you’re the only character I know who can see through me.”

“That is a compliment,” Eitel said genially.

“You’ll give me a hand with Sergius, won’t you?”

“No,” said Eitel, “I won’t lift a finger.”

M
UNSHIN
let out a surly belch. “I figured that would be your reaction,” he said, and he leaned forward in his chair. “What would you say, Charley, if I tell you that I think you owe me something?”

Eitel knew he was getting drunk; he was aware suddenly of his anger. “I don’t owe you anything,” he said, and his voice throbbed. “Not after the pennies you just bought me with.”

Munshin nodded confidently. “Yes, I know. I’m no good. I’m a cheap crook to you. But if you could think for two minutes of anything but yourself, maybe you’d realize that you don’t—” Munshin held up a finger—“begin to appreciate my feelings in this.”

“I appreciate them perfectly,” Eitel said. “You want help on one of your maneuvers.” The easy rhythm of the whisky had been
spoiled, and his mind was clear again, too clear—it was trying to be ready for anything Collie might be preparing. “Munshin, don’t you ever rest?” Eitel said irritably.

“Listen, Charley, call me any kind of monster you want, but just remember I’m the only monster in that lousy cutthroat studio who cares two-bits about what happens to you.” Munshin’s voice was taking on new tones with every phrase. “So don’t play around with me. I wouldn’t want to find out which one of us has got the muscle. Because, whether you want to believe it or not, I care about you, Charley.”

Eitel laughed, but his laugh was slightly high in pitch to his critical ear. He was furious at the self-betraying affection he felt for Munshin, and so he said, “Yes, I see a successful producer crying his heart out.”

“Damn you, Eitel,” Munshin said in a low tone, “I didn’t say I’m sobbing myself to sleep over you. I said I cared a little.”