The Dream Merchants (57 page)

He had made one good sound picture. That was back in ’31. The war picture. It was the only one and it was good because Peter had put tremendous effort into it. He had salved his conscience toward his homeland with it, compensated for the picture he had to make about German atrocities during the war, but after that he seemed to lose his touch.

Johnny thought that Peter had gone wrong about the time he had become obsessed with the idea that the industry was in the throes of a religious war, that the Jewish people in it were under attack. Johnny couldn’t be sure about it, but it was a possibility. Making pictures was a highly specialized and creative art and no artist could do his best while torn by seething tensions.

He lit a cigarette and walked to the window. That was part of it. You could go farther back than that—back to when the business was starting and no one had ever dreamed how big it would become. The picture business was a relatively simple thing then. You made pictures and you sold them. It was different now. Very different.

Today a picture man had to be a financier, an economist, a politician, and an artist all rolled up into one. He had to read balance sheets as well as scripts, market analyses as well as stories. He had to be able to forecast public tastes and preferences six months to a year in advance because that was how long it would take for the picture he was working on to reach the public.

Johnny turned around and picked up the small bust of Peter that stood on his desk and looked at it. Maybe that was what was wrong with Peter. Peter was trying to be too many things. He had never learned really to delegate duties and responsibilities. He tried to do everything himself, not trusting anyone else to do it for him, and his methods were the same as they had been when he first started in the business years ago.

That was it, Johnny thought. A man had to be flexible in order to survive in the complex world of motion pictures today. Peter wasn’t flexible, he was too used to running the whole show, and the habits of years were difficult to break.

Johnny put the little statue back on the desk. Many things had happened that convinced him he was right. Like Peter’s refusal to do business with the Borden Company after Borden had committed suicide. He wouldn’t trade with those anti-Semiten, he had insisted. They had murdered his friend.

That had hurt too. Not only did they lose the Borden theaters as showplaces for their pictures, but they also lost the advantages of trading with the Borden studio for stars, directors, other talent which they had enjoyed up to that time.

Business had grown steadily worse, but if Peter regretted his hasty actions in connection with the Borden Company he never allowed it to show. And this last thing he had just done, leaving Mark in charge of the studio while he went to Europe to dig up some business, was as bad as any of them as far as Johnny was concerned.

Mark had come back to the studio from Europe in ’32. He was supposed to take a load of details off Peter’s shoulders. The only detail he lifted from Peter’s already overburdened shoulders was, in Johnny’s estimation, the duty to keep the night clubs in Hollywood prosperous.

Mark was the columnists’ darling. He was always good for an item; all they had to do was stop at his table and listen to him talk. He would gladly tell them what was wrong with the picture business in Hollywood. That always made good copy. Johnny didn’t object to that if only Mark would back it up with some work, but work was something that Mark successfully avoided, until Peter had decided to stump the country for business and then go to Europe.

Until then everybody, Johnny included, had thought that if Peter left the studio for any length of time, Bob Gordon would remain in charge. He was the logical man for the job. He knew the business, had come up the hard way, and Johnny privately thought that the company would be better off if Peter had left all production in his charge.

Peter’s announcement had fallen like a bombshell upon him. He had called Peter demanding to know why Gordon had not been given the job. Angrily Peter told him that he didn’t trust Gordon. Bob was entirely too friendly with those anti-Semiten at Borden. Mark was his son. He could depend on him where he couldn’t on anyone else. Besides, Mark was a smart boy. Didn’t all the papers say so? Didn’t they always quote him on what was wrong with the business? All he needed was the chance to prove himself. He was going to see that Mark had that chance.

Johnny was tired. His leg ached and he massaged it reflectively. Where was it all going to lead to? He didn’t know. He was worried. The business had changed a great deal since they had entered it. It was changing more every day. They had to be ready to change with it. What was needed was a rare combination of experience and adaptability. He knew of no one in the company that had it. Peter had experience, but lacked flexibility. Mark was flexible, entirely too flexible, but lacked experience. That left only himself.

And there was nothing he could do. Peter was running the show. But even if he had the chance, he wondered if he could do the job that had to be done. It would be a dirty job. When it was over, a man wouldn’t have many friends left. The whole company had to be put through the wringer, from the top down.

Unconsciously he shrugged his shoulders. Why was he thinking about it? It was Peter’s headache, not his. Peter had told him the exact extent of his responsibilities. Peter had made it plain that he would stand for no interference. It had been almost four years, ever since they had got into trouble, since Peter had asked him for his opinion.

A sigh escaped his lips. Yet he knew that Peter liked him, still thought highly of him. Then what had gone wrong between them? Was it that Peter had suddenly grown conscious of his power and decided to show it? Or was it that Peter had decided he was growing old and was afraid that Johnny would cheat Mark of his inheritance?

Johnny didn’t know, but his heart hung heavy in him. The old days when they had struggled toward a common goal were warm in his memory. Things were better then; all they had to worry about was the business. They weren’t afraid to trust each other.

Johnny shook his head and picked up the phone. Jane answered it. “You better send that letter out tomorrow, Janey,” he said into it, and hung up the phone.

Peter had said to get the pay-cut announcement out right away. Friday was still three days off. Peter wouldn’t like his holding it up until then.

2

Mark emptied the champagne bottle into their glasses. The softly lit room had already taken on a rose-colored hue for him. He looked over at her wonderingly. God, she was even more beautiful than he had remembered, than any woman he had ever known. No wonder Johnny couldn’t hold on to her, he wasn’t man enough for a woman like this. It was funny the way he had met her again.

He had been at his table at the Trocambo with a few friends. He had just started to get out of his seat to go and talk to a friend he had seen at the bar. As he stood up and turned around, his shoulder had bumped into a woman who was passing behind him. He had grabbed her arm to steady her. “So sorry. Such little room between these damn tables,” he had apologized when he recognized her.

She had looked up at him, an amused smile on her face. “That’s all right,” she had said. “No harm done.”

He smiled down at her. Her blond hair shimmered in the blue lights of the night club. She didn’t know how wrong she was when she said that. The harm had been done, but not to her. “’Straordinary was to meet again, Miss Warren,” he said.

“Hollywood is really a small town, Mark,” she had replied still smiling.

A pleased look came onto his face that she knew his name. He forgot about the friend at the bar he had wanted to see. Instead he persuaded her to join his table for a drink.

That had been about six weeks ago, just after his father had gone to New York to see if he could stimulate the sales department into greater efforts.

With a smile he remembered how Johnny had argued with his father over his appointment as production boss. Johnny thought he did not have the necessary experience and that Gordon should have the job, but the old man had put his foot down. He did not trust Gordon, he had told Johnny flatly, Gordon had quit in a huff when he heard the news, and Johnny was left without an argument.

Last week his father had left for Europe, having done all he could in New York. With his domestic market in the condition it was, he thought he might be able to get more results over there. Magnum’s foreign offices were always among the best in the industry.

Since he had first met her in the night club, Mark had called Dulcie several times and had gone out with her once. And each time he saw her, he became more enchanted with her.

In Paris many years ago he had learned that there were only two basic types of women: those who appealed to the flesh and those who appealed to the spirit. He had long ago made up his mind that those who appealed to the spirit were not for him. He preferred the tangible to the intangible. Dulcie Warren was a very tangible woman.

This was the first time he had ever been to her home. He had been very happily surprised when he had called her that afternoon and she had said she was much too tired to go out that evening and suggested that he drop in for a few drinks afterward.

The few drinks had added up to two bottles of champagne up to the present moment. She had greeted him at the door in a black velvet hostess gown tied with a red silk sash. Her blond hair framed her tanned golden heart-shaped face, and her white teeth shone at him as she smiled.

He thought the smile was for him, but he was wrong. It was a smile of amusement that he should be here. She took a peculiar delight in the fact that he was Peter’s son—the son of the man who had so righteously fired her, using the morals clause as an excuse. She didn’t dare fight the contract at the time because it would have meant bringing the whole business out into the open, but she had promised herself that one day she would even the score.

She looked at Mark. His eyes were slightly glazed, he was a little bit drunk, she thought. Maybe she would get even through him, she didn’t know. She had listened to him talk about the company. It hadn’t been easy for them the past few years. And now Peter had gone off on a begging trip to try to raise some money and had left Mark in charge of the studio.

Mark had tried to persuade his father to let him make some of the ideas he had into pictures, but Peter had firmly refused. They were too impractical at the moment, he had said, they would cost too much. Peter had told him to proceed with the pictures that had been already scheduled. Those were his orders, and Mark grumblingly obeyed them.

As the liquor took hold, he began to tell her about his plans and how his father had refused him permission to make the pictures. He knew that his ideas were new and would be far superior to what they were making, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He told her of one of the pictures he had in mind.

She listened to the story. Something inside her made her refrain from laughing at the idea. It was not only too expensive and impractical; it was downright stupid. She knew almost immediately that Mark had no more conception of what made a picture than he had of flying to the moon. She looked at him speculatively. Maybe this was the opportunity she had been waiting for.

She smiled slowly at him. Her eyes widened slightly. “Why, Mark,” she said in an impressed tone of voice, “what a wonderful idea! How foolish of your father not to see it!” She shrugged her shoulders prettily and tilted her head to one side. “But then, it’s not unusual out here,” she added. “They haven’t the appreciation for subtlety and finesse that you have. What is it they say about a prophet being without honor in his own country?”

Mark had difficulty in framing his words. “That’s jutht it,” he answered, lisping lightly. “They resent ideas. They’re alwayth afraid of something new.” He stared down at his glass dejectedly.

She leaned toward him, her gown parting a little. She turned his face toward her. “Maybe there’s some way you could manage to make the picture anyhow,” she said encouragingly.

His eyes were on the cleft of her bosom, revealed by the parting garment. “How?” he asked. “There’s only enough money to make the pictures he wants.”

Her hand stroked his cheek lightly. “There are some ways you might be able to manage it. I heard of a case over at another studio where the production manager wanted to make a certain picture and they didn’t want to let him do it, so he made it anyway and hid it on the production reports of a picture they wanted him to make. When it was all over, the picture was a tremendous hit and everybody thought he was a genius.”

“Do you think I could do it?” he looked questioningly at her.

“I don’t know,” she said carefully. “I’m only mentioning it as an idea. After all, you’re in charge of the studio while your father is away.”

He straightened up, a thoughtful look on his face. His hand reached out for another bottle of champagne and he unsteadily filled his glass again and drank it. He looked at her. “Maybe I can do it,” he said unsteadily.

“Of course you can, Mark,” she said softly, leaning back against the couch. “You’re smart enough to find a way.”

He bent toward her. She let him kiss her, let his hands roam over her. Suddenly she caught them, held them.

“How are you going to do it, Mark?” she asked.

He looked at her stupidly. “Do what?” he asked her.

She tossed her blond head impatiently. “Make the picture without them knowing about it,” she said sharply, restraining an impulse to ridicule him.

He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t say I was going to do it,” he said, a look of cunning coming into his face, “I only said I would think about doing it.”

She watched him take another drink. “I thought you were going to do it,” she pouted. “I didn’t think you were afraid.”

He got to his feet dizzily. The fumes of the alcohol were running around in his brain. He drew himself up proudly. “Who’s afraid?” he asked drunkenly. “I’m not afraid of nobody.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Then you are going to show them?”