The Dream Merchants (23 page)

Gordon’s face turned red. “Why in hell can’t he confine himself to presiding over the lousy board meetings and keep his God-damn long nose out of the studio?” he roared. “He’s only screwing up the works.”

I walked over to my chair and sat down behind the desk. I looked at him. “Now, take it easy, boy.” I reached for a cigarette and lit it slowly. “You gotta remember that he don’t know nothin’ about the picture business. You know what he is. A guy with dough who got greedy when he saw there was a fast buck to be made in pictures. When he found out that the racket wasn’t all peaches and cream like he thought, he got a little nervous and now he’s scratchin’ around looking for something that will either guarantee his dough back or give him an out.”

When he saw how calmly I was sitting there, he simmered down a little. He watched me closely for a moment. “You got an angle?”

“Sure.” I smiled reassuringly. “I got an angle. I’m gonna sit tight and let him beat his brains out. When he gets tired of that he’ll come back to papa.”

He looked skeptical. “He’s a stubborn bastard,” he said. “What if he insists on giving Farber an in?”

I didn’t answer him for a second. If Ronsen insisted on that, I couldn’t stop him and then I was through. Maybe it would be a good thing. I’d spent thirty years here and I had enough dough not to worry no matter what happened. Maybe it would be nice just to sit back and forget about everything. But it wasn’t as easy as that. A good piece of my life had gone into this and I couldn’t let it go so easy.

“He won’t,” I finally answered, more confidently than I felt. “When I get through with him, he’ll be afraid to take Farber in if he was offered the United States mint.”

He walked to the door. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said as he went out.

I looked after him. “That makes two of us,” I thought.

The phone rang and I picked it up. It was Doris.

“Where were you?” she asked. “I called all over and couldn’t get you.”

“I fell asleep in the office,” I answered ruefully. “I came here after I left you and nobody knew I was in.” I changed the subject. “How’s Peter doing?”

“The doctor just left. He’s sleeping normally now. The doctor thinks he’s improving.”

“Good,” I said. “And Esther?”

“She’s right next to me,” Doris replied. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Put her on.”

I heard the receiver change hands, then Esther’s voice came on. For a moment I was shocked, it had changed so much. The last time I had heard it, it was young and firm, but now it sounded old and shaken. As if suddenly she had found herself in a room filled with strange people and wasn’t at all sure of her reception.

“Johnny?” It was more a question than anything else.

My voice softened. “Yes,” I answered.

For a moment she was still, I could hear her breathing; then in the same strangely hesitant voice: “I’m glad you came. It means a lot to me, it will mean more to him when he learns it.”

Something was wrong inside me. I wanted to cry out: “This is me, Johnny! We’ve got thirty years together behind us. I’m not a stranger, you don’t have to be afraid to talk to me!” But I couldn’t say that, I could hardly manage to say what I did. “I had to come,” I answered simply. “You two mean an awful lot to me.” I hesitated a little. “I’m terribly sorry about Mark.”

It was her old voice that answered me now as if suddenly across the wire she recognized the someone she knew. And yet, deep within her, a feeling of pain and resignation and acceptance came and somehow spilled into her voice. It had the sound of a people that had long known the sorrows of living. “It’s God’s will, Johnny, there’s nothing we can do now. We can only hope that Peter—” She didn’t finish her sentence, her voice broke. Across the wire came the silent sound of her crying for her son.

“Esther,” I said sharply, trying to bring her back.

I could almost see her fighting for control of herself—fighting to hold back the tears that were so ready to flow, the tears to which she was entitled. At last she answered: “Yes, Johnny.”

“You have no time for tears,” I said, feeling like a fool. Who was I to tell her when to cry? It was her son. “You’ve got to get Peter well first.”

“Yes,” she said heavily, “I must get him well again so he can say the
Kaddish
for his son. So we can sit
shiveh
together.”

Shiveh
was the Hebrew ritual of mourning. You covered all the mirrors and pictures in the house and sat on the floor or on boxes for a week after the death of a loved one.

“No, Esther, no,” I said gently. “Not so that you can sit
shiveh
, but that you may live together.”

Her voice was docile and meek when she answered. “Yes, Johnny.” It was almost as if she were talking to herself. “We must continue to live.”

“That’s better,” I said. “That’s more like the girl I used to know.”

“Is it, Johnny?” she asked quietly. “Until this happened, I might have been the girl you knew, but I’m an old woman now. Nothing ever really changed me before, but this did and I’m afraid.”

“It will pass,” I said, “and then things will seem the same in time.”

“Things will never be the same,” she said with a quiet sort of finality.

We spoke a few more words and then hung up. I sat back in my chair and lit another cigarette. My first cigarette had burned itself out, forgotten, in the ashtray.

I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at the phone. I remembered Mark when he was a kid. It’s funny how the things you don’t like about a person are forgotten when they’re gone. I had never liked Mark the man, so I thought about him when he was a kid. He used to like me to swing him in the air and give him rides on my shoulders. I could still hear his little voice yelling in glee as I tossed him up. I could almost feel his fingers digging into my hair and pulling it as he rode upon my shoulders.

My leg began to ache. My leg. I always thought of it as my leg, but it was only a stump. The rest of it had been in France somewhere for the last twenty years. I could feel the pain shooting down my thigh. The stump was sore. I hadn’t had the prosthetic off except for a few minutes in the past three days.

I loosened my trousers. Then I leaned back, drew in my belly and reached in and unfastened the strap around my waist that held the artificial leg in place. Through the trouser leg I loosened the other strap that tied around my thigh, and the leg came loose. It thumped on the floor.

I began to massage the stump with the even circular motion I had learned so many years ago. I could feel the blood begin to circulate in it and the ache ease away. I continued the massage.

The door opened and Ronsen came in. He saw me sitting at the desk and walked over to me. His step was springy, his frame big and strong. His eyes were bright and piercing behind his glasses. He stopped in front of my desk and looked down at me.

“Johnny,” he said in that strangely sure voice, “about that Farber matter. Couldn’t we…”

I stared up at him. For some reason I couldn’t focus my mind on what he was saying. My hands, still massaging my stump automatically, began to tremble.

Damn him! Why couldn’t he wait until I called him?

I began to agree with him almost before the words were out of his mouth, before I knew what he was saying. Anything, anything to get him out of the office. Not to have to look at him standing there, so calm, so strong, so easy. Not to feel that insatiable, ruthless surge of power that flowed out of him.

His eyes first narrowed with surprise at my quick agreement. He turned and left the office as if he were in a hurry before I could change my mind.

I stared after his straight back as the door shut behind it. With trembling fingers I tried clumsily to tighten the strap around my thigh. I couldn’t get it to set right. I began to curse silently as I wrestled with it.

I felt so damn helpless without my leg on.

THIRTY YEARS

1917

1

Johnny came out of the projection room, his eyes blinking at the strong light in the corridor. He stopped and lighted a cigarette.

A man came up to him. “Okay to print it, Johnny?”

Johnny threw his match into a sandbox. “Sure, Irving. Go ahead.”

The man smiled. He was pleased. “We got some good shots of Wilson as he took the oath, didn’t we?”

Johnny smiled back at him. “Damn good shots, Irving.” He started to walk down the hall, the man walking with him. “Now get it into the theaters and we’ll beat every newsreel in the business.”

Wilson had taken the oath of office for the second term of his Presidency just that morning, less than three hours ago, and Johnny had hired an airplane to bring the negative to New York instead of waiting for a train. The way he figured it, he was at least six hours ahead of any of the other companies. Those six hours meant he would be in the Broadway theaters tonight instead of tomorrow. It was a scoop in the full sense of the word.

Irving Bannon was the editor of the newsreel. He was a short, stocky man with thick black hair who had been a cameraman before Johnny recommended him for this job. What Johnny had liked about him was that he got the picture, he did not ask for elaborate setups and preparation. All he needed was enough light to see by; that was enough for him to get the picture. He was a bustling little man, full of drive, and just the type needed for the job. Johnny was pleased with him.

He scurried along with Johnny, his short little legs taking almost two steps for every one of Johnny’s. “I got those war clips from England, Johnny,” he said, panting a little from the effort of keeping step with Johnny’s long strides. “D’ya want to look at ’em today?”

Johnny stopped in front of his office. “Not today, Irving, I’m jammed up. Make it tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, Johnny.” The little man scurried off down the hall.

Johnny looked after him and smiled. The little man had it. No sooner was one reel out of the way than he was already working on the next. You had to hand it to him. It was to his credit that Magnum Newsreel was considered the best in the business. He went into the office.

Jane greeted him with a smile. “How was the reel, Johnny?”

He grinned at her. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Irving did a hell of a job.” He walked over to his desk and sat down. “Have you got that call in for Peter?”

She nodded and got up from her desk. She took several papers from it and put them in front of Johnny. “You’ll have to look over these,” she said, separating them into two neat stacks in front of him. “And these you’ll have to sign.”

He looked up at her, his eyes smiling. “Anything else, boss?”

She went back to her desk and looked at her memorandum pad. “Yes,” she answered seriously, “George Pappas is coming in at twelve and you’re taking Doris to lunch at one o’clock.”

He looked at his watch. “Golly,” he exclaimed, “it’s almost twelve now. I better get this stuff out of the way before George comes.” He looked over at her. “You’re a slave-driver, Janey.”

She made a move at him. “Someone around here has to be,” she said with a shake of her head. “Otherwise you’d never get anything done.”

Johnny looked down at the papers on his desk. They were the usual contracts with the states’ rights distributors, a part of the work that he detested. They were routine and annoying. Janey was right. If it were left to him, he would never look at them. With a sigh he took his pen and began to sign them.

The last five years had filled out his frame. He was still thin, but the lean, hungry look had gone from his face. Magnum had done well. They had a studio in California. Peter stayed out there and took charge of production. Joe was with Peter. Peter determined the policy and Joe executed it. They worked well together. Magnum’s pictures showed the results of that teamwork; they were among the best in the industry.

Johnny was in charge of the New York office. He had been right in predicting that the major portion of production would shift to the coast. He had been right too in his surmise that the distribution center would remain in New York and that the production of shorts would for the most part be carried on there. The unexpected victory of William Fox’s suit against the combine, forcing them to give film to the independents back in 1912, had given impetus to the change. Since that time several other victories had been won. Now the fate of the combine was in the hands of the United States federal courts, and all indications were that the court would order the dissolution of the combine.

When they had learned of the initial Fox victory, Johnny persuaded Peter to let him go back to New York and reopen the studios there. Jane had been working as a script girl with Joe and he asked her if she would like to come back to New York with him. She had accepted. Sam Sharpe had joined them as casting director. He had remained in that job until the fall of last year, then he went back into business as an agent.

“There’s a lot of talent out here,” he said, explaining his motives to Peter, “and nobody to represent ’em. Besides, I liked the business and I haven’t been happy since I left it.”

Peter could understand his viewpoint. “All right Sam,” he said. “What you want to do is okay with me. And for a start I’ll speak to all my people here and see that you represent them.”

Sam Sharpe smiled. “I already do,” he said, “I got ’em all signed up already.”

“That’s wonderful,” Peter said, congratulating him.

When they had finished shaking hands, Sam sat down in the easy chair in Peter’s office.

“When do you plan to go to work?” Peter asked him.

“Right now,” Sam answered. “About that Cooper contract. I think the gal ought to get more money. After all, her last picture grossed a young fortune.”

Peter’s mouth hung open. “Thieves have been feasting at my table,” he said, beginning to smile.

Early in 1912
The Bandit
opened on Broadway. It was the first of the big premieres in the business. Admissions were set at one dollar a ticket. They expected to do good business, but even Johnny couldn’t foresee what would happen.

By noon of that day, two hours before the theater was to open, a line of people had formed in front of the boxoffice that went clear down the block. Traffic on the sidewalk was blocked and people in order to pass had to walk in the gutters. Gradually the street became more crowded and confused. Someone looking out of an office window had called the police and told them there was a riot taking place. Out came the police in full force, ready to let fly with nightsticks.