The Inheritors (27 page)

“Okay.”

“Here are comparative box-office figures for
The Steel Rooster
. First seventeen engagements. It’s running seventy to one hundred and twenty percent ahead of
The Sisters
.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll look at them.”

She consulted her notes. “Mr. Cohen called, from New York. He would like to speak to you, five o’clock his time.”

He nodded.

“Mr. Luongo called from Rome. The new Barzini picture is now seven days behind schedule.”

“That’s par for the course,” he said. “We’ve only been shooting for three weeks. Better call him back. I want to talk to him.”

“Mr. Schindler and Mr. Ferrer of the production department would like a meeting with you at your convenience. They have the production estimates and budgets ready on
The Prizewinner
and would like to go over them with you.”

“I’ll see them before lunch,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Craddock called. He would like to have lunch with you in his private dining room at twelve fifteen.”

He looked at her. “I wonder what he wants?” Craddock was head of production and executive vice-president of Trans-World.

“Did you read the trades this morning?” she asked in an almost hushed voice.

“No,” he answered.

She placed the
Hollywood Reporter
and
Variety
in front of him. “Look at the lead story in both papers.”

They had almost the same headlines. BENJAMIN NEW PRESIDENT TRANS-WORLD? The stories were almost the same too. Both made a big point of the fact that practically all the pictures Trans-World had in production or planning were his. They reviewed the success of the current release,
The Steel Rooster
, and gave highlights of his past successes,
The Sisters
and
The Naked Fugitives
.

He looked up at her. “First time I heard anything like this. Nobody spoke to me.”

“It’s been the big rumor around the lot the last few weeks,” she said.

“I still don’t know nothin’ about it.” But inside him he was flattered. “I have enough of my own headaches,” he added. “Who needs any of theirs?”

“What shall I tell Mr. Craddock?” she asked.

He looked at her. “Twelve fifteen will be okay.”

She left the office and a moment later had Charley on the telephone for him. He yelled into the transatlantic phone. “What do you mean seven days behind? What the hell’s goin’ on over there?”

***

Rory Craddock was nothing like his name, which suggested a big bluff Irishman. Instead when you walked into his office, you find a slim, intense man who ate Gelusils all day long to calm his constantly nervous stomach. For the past eight years he had been head of production for Trans-World. His secret for success was a simple one. He never approved a project until all his superiors urged him to do so; once he had that, if anything went wrong it could not be said that he was to blame.

He sat at his desk staring at the trade papers. Nervously he popped another Gelusil into his mouth and studied the story. When he had first read it that morning, he had almost called New York to find out who had planted it and if there was any truth in it. But then he had thought twice about the call and didn’t make it.

He had been around long enough to recognize the tactic. The story had been a feeler, an exploratory gesture on the part of the management to see how it would be accepted. He checked with the stockbroker. Apparently it had gone down well on the market. There was a great deal more activity than usual in Trans-World stock and the common had gone up almost two points.

He wondered what effect it would have on him. The Gelusil was almost completely dissolved by now, leaving a clayey taste in his mouth. He took a sip of water from the glass always on his desk.

That Benjamin might become president of the company was not important to him. But the fact that he might take charge of production was another story. Up to now there had been no threat to his area of responsibility. Impulsively he had called and asked Benjamin to lunch. Now he wondered whether that had been a wise move. One of his strong points was never to show concern. The next thing he had to do was legitimize the lunch.

He reached for another Gelusil, then stopped. The implication that it was his fault production at TW had come to a standstill had not been entirely true. There were several projects he had been ready to okay, but he had not been able to muster the support that he required. Two of them in particular he thought had a great chance.

One was the
Fatty Arbuckle Story
. He had a great screenplay based on a novelization of the scandal that had caused the industry to form its own censorship board. He had spoken to Jackie Gleason about playing in it.

The other was a remake on a grand scale of the old Zane Grey novel
Riders of the Purple Sage
, which had been one of Tom Mix’s greatest successes. Gary Cooper had said he would do it if the script was right.

The Gelusil was still in his hand. He put it in his mouth and sucked on it. Suddenly he had the idea. It was so good and so simple he was surprised that he had not thought of it before. It would serve all his purposes. Answer the critics about his lack of production and show Benjamin that he was in his camp just in case there was any truth in the rumor.

CHAPTER TWO

“Go right in, Mr. Benjamin,” the secretary said, opening the door to the inner office. “Mr. Craddock is expecting you.”

“
Thank you.
”
Sam went into Craddock’s office. The door closed softly behind him. He stood there a moment.

Craddock rose from behind his desk, hand outstretched. “Good morning, Sam,” he said. “So glad you could come over.”

Sam took his hand. The way Craddock had spoken, you would think Sam had come a thousand miles to see him instead of just across the studio street. “Morning, Rory.”

Craddock came out from behind the desk. He took off his glasses and put them on top of a pile of scripts, making sure that Sam noticed them. Sam picked up the cue. “You read all those?”

Craddock gestured modestly. “Part of the job. You can’t imagine how much crap I have to go through each week just to find something worthwhile. Sometimes I think I need another pair of eyes.”

Sam was properly impressed. “I never could do it. Haven’t the patience.”

“That’s my job,” Craddock said. He pressed down the button on the intercom.

“Yes, Mr. Craddock?”

“We’re going upstairs now,” Craddock said. “Hold all calls.”

“Yes, Mr. Craddock. Enjoy your lunch.”

Craddock released the key on the intercom and turned to Sam. “Hungry?” He led the way to the staircase to the private dining room.

“I’m always hungry,” Sam said. “But I’m on a diet.” He climbed the steps ahead of Craddock. They came out on the small terrace that had been enclosed in glass to make the dining room. It commanded a view of the entire studio.

“Everybody’s on a diet,” Craddock smiled. “That’s why we have two menus. The diet lunch or the regular.”

“What’s the difference?” Sam asked.

“The regular is a thick New York steak, French fries, and salad with Roquefort dressing. The diet is a hamburger patty very lean with cottage cheese and sliced tomatoes.”

“Aah, fuck it,” Sam said. “I’ll have the regular.”

The colored butler bowed. “Mr. Craddock, Mr. Benjamin, sirs. May I have your requirements for a libation?”

“My usual. Dry sherry,” Craddock said.

Sam looked at the butler. “Scotch on the rocks.” He turned back to Craddock. “There goes the diet. The hell with it.”

Craddock smiled.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Sam continued. “But I figured out that I lost over fifteen hundred pounds dieting the last ten years. So why am I still two hundred ten?”

The butler came back with the drinks on the tray. Sam took his. “Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers,” Craddock said.

They drank.

“Might I be so bold as to ask the way you would like your steak done, Mr. Benjamin, sir?” the butler bowed.

“Rare,” Sam said.

“Thank you most exceedingly, sir.” The butler bowed and disappeared into the pantry.

Sam turned to Craddock. “Where did he learn to talk like that?”

Craddock laughed. “Remember the Arthur Treacher pictures? I think Joe saw them all.” He led the way to the table. “I hear the
Washington Arch
rushes look just great.”

Sam nodded. “They’re coming along.”

“You’re getting everything you want at the studio? Services, cooperation?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Sam said.

The butler placed the salad in front of them. Sam began to eat voraciously, Craddock toyed with his. He never ate salad anyway, it was too much for his delicate stomach.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called this morning?” Craddock asked.

Sam nodded, without speaking. His mouth was full.

“We’re very happy to have you here at Trans-World,” Craddock said. “And we’ve been cudgeling our brains trying to find a way to implement our association.”

Sam looked at him. He still did not speak.

“You know you are one of the three producers in the business now whose name the public recognizes?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

“There are only two others I can name,” Craddock said. “Hal Wallis and Joe Levine. All the others are just known to the trade.”

“I never thought of that,” Sam said.

“It’s true,” Craddock said. “And you did it with only a few pictures in a few years. They spent all their lives at it.”

Sam didn’t speak.

“We’re very interested in any other properties you might have in mind,” Craddock said.

“I’m looking at some things,” Sam said. “But beyond
The Prizewinner
I have nothing definite.”

“Too bad.” He seemed to be sincere. “We would like to do more.”

The butler laid their steaks down. Sam looked at his. Hot, charcoal-blackened, with a patty of parsley butter melting right on the middle of it. The juices flooded into his mouth. He cut into it. Everything was right. Blood-rare and tender.

“Did you ever think of producing some pictures for someone else?” Craddock asked. “Other than your own company?”

Sam shook his head.

“It would be a way to fill in your time,” Craddock said. “While you were preparing your own properties.”

“I’m not really a producer,” Sam said.

Craddock laughed. “If you’re not a producer, I wish we had ten more like you.”

Sam was silent. He still didn’t know what was up Craddock’s sleeve. But the steak was good and what the hell, it beat eating a diet lunch. “What have you got in mind?” he asked finally.

“I may be talking out of turn,” Craddock said. “But I think I can get the boys back East to go along with me. I think we ought to make a ten-picture deal.”

“Ten pictures?” Sam was surprised.

Craddock nodded. “You do five pictures for us, we finance five pictures for you. On our pictures we pay you double the producer’s fee you charge your own pictures and give you fifty percent of the profits. Your pictures we do the same way as we do now, only we reduce our share of the profits to twenty-five percent of the foreign instead of the present fifty percent.”

Sam finished his steak. “It’s an interesting idea.”

“I think it’s a practical one,” Craddock said. “And good for both of us.”

Sam nodded. There was something in what Craddock said. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars producer’s fee was a lot of money per picture. And there was no sweat in it. He didn’t have to chase the property, the script. All he would have to do was to ride herd on it. It all depended on the properties, however. He couldn’t allow them to saddle him with their dogs. “Would I have approvals?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Craddock said. “We wouldn’t dream of asking you to do something you wouldn’t want to. You would have all approvals. Script, director, cast. That goes without saying.”

“Do you have anything in mind?” Sam asked.

Craddock nodded. “I have two great ones ready right now. The only thing I need is the right kind of producer. One is a Western that could be for Gary Cooper, the other for an actor like Jackie Gleason. In the right hands they’re both big winners.”

Sam looked at him. With actors like those, the pictures could be
shlock
. The actors themselves were too good and too expensive.

“Look,” Craddock said. “Let me send the two scripts over to you. You read them and then we’ll talk some more.”

“Good idea,” Sam said.

The butler appeared beside the table. He bowed. “And now, gentlemen, sirs, for dessert we have hot Washington State delicious apple pie with vanilla and chocolate ice cream á la mode.”

Sam was completely destroyed. “I’ll take it all,” he said.

It wasn’t until after lunch, as he walked back across the studio street, that he realized not once had Craddock mentioned the story in that morning’s trade papers.

CHAPTER THREE

“Steve.”

He rolled over on his back in the warm sand. He put up an arm to shield his eyes from the sun, already beginning its plunge into the Pacific. “What is it, Golden Girl?”

She crawled across the sand to him and placed an arm on either side of his chest and looked down at him, blocking the sun.

He dropped his arm to her thigh. Her flesh was as warm as the sand under him. He waited quietly.

“You were far away,” she said.

“Not really,” he answered.

“What were you thinking?”

Strange how alike they were. All of them. After a while they wanted to crawl inside your head. “Nothing,” he said. “Maybe just that I wish there were a thousand days like this. No telephones, no people, no problems.”

“You wouldn’t be happy,” she said.

He thought for a moment. “I guess not.”

“Are you up to a party tonight?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“I know it’s not what I promised,” she said. “But it’s Sunday night and tomorrow you’re going back East anyway and I have to start looking for work sometime.” He still didn’t speak.

“Ardis called me this morning while you were sleeping. The Gavins are giving a party at their new house in the Colony. It’s for Sam Benjamin, the producer. Bobby Gavin just got the second lead in the Western he’s doing with Gary Cooper and says there’s a great part in it for a girl and that I’m just right for it.”