The Dream Merchants (17 page)

“I’ll get you a cab,” Johnny said, stepping to the curb.

A cab drew up and Johnny helped Peter into it. Peter looked at him and tried to smile.

Johnny smiled back at him. The guy had guts. “Try not to worry,” he said. “We’ll find a way to lick the bastards yet.”

Peter nodded his head; he didn’t trust himself to speak. He was afraid he would burst into tears. The cab drew off and Johnny stood on the curb looking after it until it had turned the corner.

***

Joe was sitting at his desk reading the paper when Johnny came in. He jumped to his feet excitedly when he saw him. “How did—?” he started to ask, but the question was never finished. He saw Johnny’s face. He sank back in his chair. “No dice?” he asked.

Johnny shook his head. “No dice.”

“How come?”

Johnny looked at him angrily. “They knew all about it. Some bastards just can’t keep their mouth shut.”

Joe nodded philosophically. “It was bound to happen.”

Johnny’s voice rose almost to a shout. “It didn’t have to happen. We coulda got away with it.”

Joe held up his hand. “Take it easy, kid. Yelling at me won’t help. I didn’t tell ’em.”

Johnny was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Joe, I know you didn’t. But you were right, I shouldn’t have pushed Peter into it. If I’d kept my big mouth shut, we’d still be in business.”

Joe let out a whistle. “It’s as bad as that, eh?”

“Yeah,” Johnny answered glumly. “They revoked our license.”

“Now I need a drink,” Joe said.

Johnny looked at him. “Where’s the bottle?”

Joe opened a lower drawer of his desk and took out a bottle and two small glasses. Silently he filled them and held one out to Johnny. “Luck,” he said.

They drained their glasses.

Johnny held his glass out to Joe. Again they were filled and again they drank. They sat there silently for a long while.

At last Joe spoke. “What do we do next?” he asked.

Johnny looked at him. Joe was a decent guy. He didn’t rub it into him when he could have. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “Laemmle is down in Cuba making that Pickford picture, but we ain’t got the dough to do that. We got to figure out a place to make the picture around here. We ain’t going to take this laying down. We’ll give them a run for their money.”

Joe looked at him, a grudging admiration on his face. “Now I know what Santos meant when he once told me you were a scrapper. You never give up, do you?”

Johnny’s mouth was set in determined lines. “We’re goin’ to make that picture.” He turned and picked up the phone on his desk and gave the operator Borden’s number.

Borden answered the phone.

“Bill,” Johnny said into the mouthpiece, “this is Johnny.”

There was a slight hesitation in Borden’s voice before he answered. “Oh—uh, hello, Johnny.”

“We were over at the combine’s,” Johnny said, “and we didn’t have any luck there. How about us getting some space at your shop?”

Borden’s voice sounded slightly embarrassed. “We’re pretty jammed up out here, Johnny.”

“I know you are,” Johnny replied. “But maybe we could squeeze it in here and there. We’re in this thing pretty deep, you know.”

“I’d like to help you, Johnny”—Borden spoke very slowly—“but I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Johnny said angrily. “It was all right with you when Peter agreed to make the picture. You guys could see he was fighting your fight for yuh.”

Borden’s voice was very meek. “I’m sorry, Johnny. Honest.”

A light suddenly dawned in Johnny’s mind. “Did you hear from the combine?”

The phone was silent for a second before Borden replied. When he did, his voice was apologetic. “Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“You’re on the blacklist. And you know what that means.”

Johnny felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew what it meant. From now on no independent in the business could have anything to do with Magnum or they would lose their own licenses. “And you’re going to pay attention to that?” he demanded.

“What can we do?” Borden queried. “We can’t all afford to go out of business.”

“And Peter can?” Johnny asked nastily.

“We can’t help him if we all lose our licenses,” Borden protested.

“Then how are you gonna help him?” Johnny asked.

“I—I don’t know,” Borden stammered. “Let me think about it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“All right,” Johnny said, and hung up the phone. He turned to Joe. “The combine put the word out already. We’re on the blacklist.”

Joe got to his feet.

Johnny looked at him in surprise. “Where you goin’?”

Joe smiled at him. “Out to git a paper. Want to see what the want ads have got in ’em.”

“Sit down and quit horsin’ around,” Johnny said. “We got enough troubles.”

Joe sat down. “What we gonna do next?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Johnny answered, “but there must be a way out of this mess. I got him into it an’ I gotta get him out.”

“All right kid,” Joe said seriously. “Count me in. I’m with yuh, all the way.”

Johnny smiled at him. “Thanks Joe.”

Joe grinned back at him. “Don’t thank me. I got twenty-five hundred fish in this, remember.”

***

It was late in the evening when he called Peter’s home. Esther answered.

“Esther, this is Johnny. How is Peter?”

Her voice was quiet and even. “He’s got a headache. He’s lying down in the bedroom.”

“Good,” Johnny said. “Keep his mind off the business. Make him get some rest.”

“Looks bad, Johnny?” Her voice was still quiet and controlled.

“Doesn’t look bright,” he admitted. “But don’t worry, things’ll look better in the morning.”

“I’m not worried.” Her voice was clear. “My father, God rest his soul, used to say: ‘What will be will be.’ A living we can always make.”

“Good,” Johnny said. “Make Peter feel like that and we can’t lose.”

“Leave Peter to me,” she answered confidently. “But Johnny—”

“What?”

“Don’t you start worrying. It’s not your fault and we like you too much to want you to get sick over this.”

Johnny felt the tears come perilously close to his eyes. “I won’t, Esther,” he promised.

He hung up the phone and turned to Joe, his eyes shining brightly. “What are you gonna do with people like that?” he asked wonderingly.

8

The summer dragged on and nowhere could they find a place that was willing to take a chance and let them shoot their picture. Johnny had been to every independent in the business, but could get no help.

They were all sympathetic. They agreed with Johnny that the only way the combine would ever be beaten was by what Magnum was doing, but that was where they drew the line. More than sympathy Johnny could not get. In vain he would argue and point out that Magnum was fighting their fight. That if Magnum won out they would all benefit. They agreed, but none of them would risk losing his license.

By the end of August they had pretty nearly reached the breaking point. Their money was almost gone. Peter had lost his paunch. Esther had let her maid go in July and now Peter found himself looking enviously and speculatively at hardware stores when he passed them.

Joe spent most of his day at the studio engaged in an endless game of solitaire. Neither he nor Johnny had drawn a cent of pay since Magnum’s license had been revoked, but they all hung together. To save money they would all eat at Peter’s house. The meals were simple but satisfying, and Esther did not complain at the extra work.

Several times Joe had got an odd job at one of the independents and he threw the money he earned into the pot. But it was Johnny who had changed most of all.

He seldom smiled now. Slim he had been when all their troubles had begun. Now he was thin, taut, and intense. His eyes were sunken hollows in his face. Only the flames in them had not dimmed. At night he would lie in his bed and stare sleeplessly at the ceiling. It was his fault, he would think; if he hadn’t been so insistent, this would never have happened.

Making this picture became the one thought in his mind. He knew that once this picture was made, their battle would be won. Each morning he would wake up with the conviction that this would be the day he would be able to talk one of the independents into letting them use his studio. But as time went by, the producers began to get tired of his persistent cajoling. They left orders with their help to shunt him off and if they saw him coming they would try to avoid him.

When Johnny realized what they were doing and that he was being avoided, he grew bitter. “The dirty bastards,” he would think, “they’re all heroes when you’re doing the fighting for them, but ask them to help a little bit and they won’t even talk to you.”

Their lawyer had been in court all summer trying without success to get an injunction against the combine to prevent it from applying its blacklist against Magnum. At last he came to Peter one day and told him there was no use in continuing the fight. The license was too cleverly drawn, the combine’s position too cleverly planned for an attack to be made on it in such a manner. Besides he wanted some money instead of promises.

Quietly Peter paid him and they continued their struggle. But now it was the end of August and the day of reckoning was fast approaching.

Peter and Johnny and Joe were sitting in the office when Warren Craig came in with Sam Sharpe.

Johnny got to his feet and held out his hand. “Hello, Warren.”

Craig ignored it and walked past him to Peter. “Mr. Kessler,” he said.

Peter looked up at him tiredly. He hadn’t slept too well last night, he had been trying to figure how much longer their money would carry them. It wasn’t far. “Yes, Mr. Craig,” he answered.

“Mr. Kessler, we must have a definite starting date for the picture or I must give you notice now.” Craig’s voice was pompous.

Peter spread his hands wearily on the desk. “I’d like to give you a starting date for the picture, Mr. Craig, but how can I? I don’t know when we can start the picture myself.”

“Then I must give you my notice,” Craig said.

Sam Sharpe’s thin voice cut in. “Don’t be too hasty, Warren. After all, it’s not really their fault. Maybe if—”

Craig turned on Sharpe quickly. His voice was cutting and sharp. “Maybe nothing, Sam. I let you talk me into this in the first place. When we signed the agreement, the picture was supposed to be completed by mid-July. Now here it is almost September. A new Broadway season is about to start. If you were the proper kind of agent you would see to it that I was set in one of the new plays instead of keeping me waiting for this fool’s dream to materialize.”

Sharpe seemed to shrink within his clothes. “But, Warren—” he began to say, when a look from Craig shut him up.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Johnny planted himself in front of Craig belligerently. “You’ve been paid for the time you stood by, haven’t you?”

“That’s right,” Craig admitted.

“Two thousand smackers a month, every month, June, July, and August, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Craig answered, “but—”

“But, hell,” Johnny shouted. “We agreed to pay you two thousand for the picture. When we found out the picture wouldn’t start on time, you agreed to take two thousand a month until the picture was finished. Now that the summer is over and your dead season is gone, you want to run out on us!”

“I’m not running out,” Craig answered uncomfortably. “But I have my career to think of. They forget about you quickly on Broadway if you don’t come up with a new play.”

“You have a contract with us to make this picture, and, by God, you’re going to live up to it!” Johnny shouted, his fists clenched.

“Johnny!” Peter’s voice was sharp.

Johnny turned to him in surprise.

“What’s the use, Johnny?” Peter said; his voice was low. “Let him go if he wants. The whole thing is no good anyway.”

“But we paid him six thousand dollars already,” Johnny said.

“We could pay him a hundred thousand more if we had it,” Peter answered, “and we wouldn’t be any closer to making the picture than we are now.” He turned to Craig.

“All right Mr. Craig, I’ll accept your notice.”

Craig started to say something, then changed his mind. He turned on his heel and started out. “Come on, Sam,” he called to Sharpe over his shoulder.

Sharpe hung back for a moment. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he said softly. “It wasn’t my idea. I tried to talk him out of it.”

Johnny nodded his head.

“I’ll send back my commissions and bonus in the morning,” Sharpe said.

Johnny looked at Sharpe suddenly. The man’s eyes were warm with understanding. “You don’t have to do that,” he said quickly; “you earned your money. It’s not your fault.”

“Our agreement was contingent upon Craig making the picture,” Sharpe said simply. “He didn’t make it. I don’t take pay for not keeping my share of a bargain.”

Johnny looked at him. The little man had his pride. “All right Sam,” he said. They touched hands and the little man scurried after his client.

Silently they watched him leave. “A square little guy,” Johnny said as the door closed behind him.

Peter turned back to his desk and looked at it for a while. He picked up a pencil and toyed with it. He put it down. He picked up a butt of a cigar from his ashtray and put it in his mouth and chewed on it reflectively. Then he turned to Johnny and Joe.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess that’s the finish.”

“The hell you say,” Johnny came back at him. “There are other actors just as good as he is.”

Peter looked at him. “Do you think they’ll take a chance with us after the experience he had? Even if we had the money, which we haven’t?” He spoke with irrefutable logic.

Johnny had no answer. Joe turned up a red queen and put it on a black jack.

“We might as well face it,” Peter said heavily. “We’re licked.” He held up a hand to still Johnny’s protest. “Don’t tell me any different. You know it too. We tried everything and it didn’t work, so we might as well close up shop.”

Joe took a vicious swipe at the cards. They scattered into the air and fluttered to the floor. His lips were moving with silent curses.

Johnny said nothing. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, his throat was all knotted up.