by Robert Bloch
“Money?” She flipped her fur-piece. “I’m not interested. I have money.”
Nicky rose. “Look, Pop, let me talk to her. You don’t know it, but I got a couple friends in this town. Maybe she won’t be so snotty after I send them around to pay her a little visit—”
Sniff. “Are you by any chance trying to threaten me?” She faced him. “Let me tell you this, young man. I don’t like you and I don’t like your father. And after my story hits the papers on Sunday morning—including a full report of this incident here tonight—you might just as well close your doors before the Hays Office does it for you. I’m going to tell the American public the truth about Coronet Pictures!”
“One moment, please.” The window dummy came to life. “Miss Glint, before you leave, might I clarify a point?”
“Make it snappy.”
“Very well. Did I understand you to say that your interest lies in presenting news?”
“That’s right. I’m a reporter, and proud of it.”
“And an account of this—unfortunate affair—has a certain news value to your readers?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, a thought occurred to me while you were speaking. Miss Sloane here, Carla, is not a well-known personality. Am I correct?”
“So?”
“And Nicholas Morris—his only claim to fame is his connection with this Studio.”
“What are you driving at?”
“Simply this. I wondered if it might be possible to make a straight business deal with you. To exchange this story for a better one. A more newsworthy item, let us say.”
“Such as?”
“A story that really ties in with your crusade to expose the seamy side of Hollywood. Something involving a prominent motion picture personality known to all your readers. I am prepared to furnish documentary proof, affidavits if necessary, for your exclusive use. In return you must promise to forget this minor, unsubstantiated affair—which, in any case, I warn you, it would be our duty and obligation to deny completely.”
“Well, I’d have to know what the story is, first.”
“Precisely. But let me emphasize my last point. You realize it would be very easy for us to arrange for Miss Sloane to disappear. Her—condition—could be corrected without anyone being the wiser. And young Mr. Morris, I’m sure, would be happy to issue a complete denial. You might find yourself in a very unpleasant legal suit for defamation of character.”
“Quit trying to frighten me,” said Glenda Glint. “You know damned well what a lawsuit would do to your Studio, with all that publicity. Give me a better story and I’ll drop this item. But it has to be good.”
There was a moment of silence. Sol Morris peered at Salem with anxious curiosity. “What story you got?” he asked.
Salem made a steeple of his fingers. “You may remember that when I arrived at your home you were out, paying a call on a certain party. Your son told me who the party was and what his—difficulty—is. I admit it shocked me when I heard it. I think it will shock Miss Glint’s readers. But, in view of the circumstances—”
Morris snapped at Nicky. “You told him?”
“Why not? Like you said, Pop, he’s one of the family. He’d find out anyway; sooner or later everybody’s gonna find out. You can’t keep stuff like that a secret.” His voice became a defiant whine. “Mr. Salem knows what he’s talking about. Come on, let’s tell her, make a deal.”
Morris shook his head. “But it’ll ruin the poor schnook, you can’t do that to him when he’s down!”
“He’s washed up anyway,” Nicky answered. “And you know it.”
Lester Salem nodded. “It’s no longer a personal affair, I’m afraid,” he said. “This involves the welfare and prosperity of the Studio as a whole. It’s business, Mr. Morris. And the company I represent happens to be financially interested.”
Morris shook his head again. “Never mind, Glenda,” he said. “Go ahead, print the story, do whatever you like. I ain’t throwing an old friend to the vultures, after all the years he’s been with us—”
“Been with you.” Salem cocked his head at Miss Glint. “Please remember that. This party is no longer connected in any way with Coronet Pictures. His resignation, retroactive as of January first, was accepted immediately upon the discovery of his condition.”
“No, please—” Morris whispered.
But the window dummy went on talking, his voice as expressionless as his face. “It’s Dude Williams,” he said. “At the time, you may remember, Mr. Williams collapsed on the set and was sent to the Star of Hope Sanatorium, supposedly suffering from a heart ailment. Actually, to the horror and shame of his employers—who immediately asked for and accepted his resignation in the name of common decency and the welfare of the motion picture Industry—it was found that Dude Williams was, and had been for more than a year, an habitual narcotics addict. Heroin, wasn’t it, Mr. Morris?”
Nicky nodded eagerly. His father faced the wall in silence.
“Well, no matter. I’ll have the medical statement ready for you in the morning, together with a signed copy of the resignation. I’m going out to the sanatorium right now.”
“You got no right to—” Morris began.
“In my capacity as vice-president of this organization,” Salem added, calmly.
“I’ll go with you,” Glenda Glint declared. “Maybe he’ll give me an exclusive on an interview. He’s going to need every friend he’s got now.”
“Then it’s agreed?”
“Certainly. Do you think I’m crazy? I know a real story when I see one.” She paused at the door. “Well, goodnight, all.”
Nobody answered her. She and Salem left together.
I rose slowly. Morris turned around.
“Tommy, you’re not walking out on me?”
“No, I’m just tired. Besides, I thought you and Carla and Nicky might have—other things to settle now.”
He followed me into the hall, keeping his voice low.
“Tommy, this you got to believe. I’m ashamed for myself. Ashamed because of Nicky, ashamed because I let Salem tell. But what could I do, what could I do, I ask you? Nicky’s still my son. A man’s son, he’s got to protect him.”
“I understand,” I said.
“You heard Salem threaten,” Morris continued. “He wasn’t fooling—he could wreck the Studio just by calling the loan right now, I’m in that deep.”
“Sure,” I nodded.
“And he was telling the truth about Williams. I been going out there every week. The poor guy isn’t getting better—the doctor says he’s all shot, he’d never be able to work again, anyway. I’m gonna make it up to him, Tommy. I’m gonna give him a pension, see that Nina and the kids get everything they need. You know that, Tommy.”
“Of course I do.” I smiled at him. “You did what had to be done.”
“I’m glad you see it. Because it hurts me like you’ll never know. A man’s son—” His voice died away, then returned. “You did me a favor tonight, Tommy. Like you did years ago. I don’t forget.”
His hand came out. “Have a cigar?”
I hesitated. Then, “No, thanks,” I said. “I smoke cigarettes.”
SEVENTEEN
I DIDN’T have to tell Dawn what happened when she came in on Sunday evening. She had read about it in the papers. Everybody read it in the papers, watched Dude Williams make his exit via the front page while Carla Sloane slipped out the back door. I’d learned she was going to Mexico, but she hadn’t come around to tell me goodbye.
“The poor kid,” Dawn said. “It must have been awful for her.”
“That’s right,” I said, and nothing more. Dawn knew about me and Carla, of course, but that isn’t why I steered clear of the subject now.
I wanted to think. I’d been thinking for the past two days, trying to figure out why all my big plans for the future suddenly seemed remote and unreal again.
I kept trying to find the source. Was it when I’d refused Sol
Morris’ cigar? Or was it something he’d said? “A man’s son, he’s got to protect him.”
Maybe that was it. Envy. Nobody had ever protected me. Even a guy like Nicky has a father. But me—
I felt rejected, so I’d rejected Morris. And what did that mean?
Dawn raced around the apartment, unpacking, taking off her shoes and stockings, chattering away about Kate LaBuddie and the brat. It seemed he had a break after all, he was going into one of those imitations of the Our Gang series that was always springing up. Dawn explained it all gaily, then paused.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look sick.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t explain gaily that I’d just discovered the persistence of an old, old pattern I’d thought was long outgrown. But it was coming clear to me now.
How could I tell Dawn? How could I tell her that I was still a goddam kid after all, would probably always be one? Running around looking for surrogate fathers, trying to invest my faith in any authority that came along? Even Harker, I thought. Yes, even Harker. If he’d only been different. Something happened to me when the magic wand broke.
Who would be there to wave the magic wand in the future, over all the big, brave plans I’d made for Dawn and myself? Maybe they weren’t plans—just dreams. That’s why I needed a father with a magic wand.
Dawn sat down next to me. “Tell me,” she said. “Is it because of Carla? Do you still feel that way about her? I—I won’t be angry, darling, I can understand.”
I turned blindly to the quivering O, turned away from the whole morbid, maudlin mess I’d made of myself. “No,” I said. “It’s not Carla. She doesn’t mean anything. I was just—alone. I’m always alone, when you’re not here. Dawn, stay with me, promise you’ll stay with me.”
She promised. She promised with her mouth, her eyes, her hands, her eager flesh. And this was real, I could cling to it, it was better than the father-dream.
First the room became the world, then the bed, then our bodies, and after that there was nothing but sensation blending imperceptibly into satiation. It was always the same.
And it would always be the same.
“Always,” I told her. “Always like this.”
“Always.”
Now I could talk. Now I could go on again. “I’ve got plans for us, darling. You’ll see. You’re going to be a real star.”
“I don’t care about that—”
“I’ll make you the biggest star this town has ever seen, bigger than any of them—”
Her eyelids fell. “Please. Go to sleep, darling.”
So I went to sleep, and I dreamed it; and I knew it could come true, even without a father. The answer was there, in the dream. If I couldn’t find a father, couldn’t make one, the answer was still there. I could be my own father.
That was it. The real answer, the only real answer.
The next morning I went down to the Studio, to see Lozoff.
“I’m thinking of the same team,” I told him. “You, Dawn and Emerson Craig again, in an original story. With you directing.”
“Excellent.” Lozoff smiled. “Have you anything definite to show me?”
“It’s not down on paper yet,” I answered. “I’ve got an idea about Carmen.”
“But that’s been done so often—”
“Not the way I see it. I’m thinking the story in terms of motivation, with the Daydreams technique. We’ll see what impels our soldier, our toreador. We’ll look into the mind of our little gypsy factory-worker—what a part for Dawn!”
Lozoff looked up. “But Carmen calls for the exotic type, the brunette. Maybe we could get somebody like Maybelle Manners—”
“That old bat?” I shook my head.
“Well, we have Lucille Hilton under contract. Or perhaps we could work out a deal with Estelle Taylor; she has the looks for the role.”
I shook my head again. “Don’t you see, the whole point of the idea is to bring the same cast together again?” I paused. “What’s the matter, are you trying to tell me Dawn isn’t strong enough for the role?”
“No, not exactly. It’s just—”
I slammed my fist on the desk. “You know what you can do for her! After the performance you got out of her on Daydreams how can you possibly doubt it? Let’s not worry about her looks. The Penny brothers have plenty of wigs over in Makeup. This can be a big thing, believe me! I’ve got some ideas for a quality picture, but I’m not forgetting the box office, either. And I know Dawn, I can write for her. Wait until you see the treatment.”
“All right.” Lozoff stood up. “I have faith in you. I’m going to notify Morris of our tentative plans. How soon can you show me something?”
“Ten days,” I said.
“Good enough.”
And it was good enough, or bad enough, depending on how you looked at it.
I didn’t have time to look at it. During the next ten days I scarcely had time to look at Dawn.
She was there, of course, and she must have realized that I was working on the next production. But she also realized the wisdom of not asking questions, not bothering me as I curled up in the creative coma, retreated into the womb I wrought for myself with words.
That’s the way it was all day, every day: I ignored her physical presence and concentrated on the artificial Dawn, the one I was fashioning afresh. Dawn-Carmen, or Dawn-Carmen-Post.
But at night, when I’d finish, she’d come to me and the reality would begin again. She dragged me out of the apartment, insisting that I needed a change after a hard day’s work.
So every night there was a change, and yet it was always the same. Always the same when our bodies, hands, lips, or even our eyes met—funny, just looking at her across the room could bring the same sensation. Let them argue all they please about the Fourth Dimension. I know what it is, it’s love. Being in love, and the giving and the taking and the sharing.
Sharing the sunsets and the sunrise and the songs and the syncopation and the symphonies. That’s part of it, and so is learning about yourself. Feeling a sudden surge of anger when you see her talking and smiling up at another man and saying, “Why, that’s jealousy—I never knew I was jealous before.” And looking at her while she sleeps and wondering if you ought to wake her up the way you want to wake her—then letting her sleep because it’s enough just to watch her breathe, watch the rhythmic rise and fall of the blossoming breasts.
And above all, there are certain moments. Moments when a voice whispers, “I’ll always love you, never forget that.” And the eyes assenting, and the body offering confirmation. “Always—never forget.”
No matter what happens, you keep that. They can’t tear it out of your brain with knives, they can’t etch it away in the slowly dripping acid of the passing years.
Nothing can take it away from you, that moment which is more than a memory. Not even she can destroy it.
I found that out.
EIGHTEEN
“DARLING, I’ve been reading this over and I just don’t know.”
“You mean you don’t like it?”
“Oh, of course not. It’s wonderful.”
I grinned at Dawn. “Glad to hear you say that. You’re in good company. Lozoff and Craig are crazy about it, and Morris says we can go all out on the budget. This is going to be the big production for our fall schedule.”
“But you’ve given me so many scenes—”
“Of course I have. Aren’t you the star? And haven’t you learned the ropes out here in Hollywood, being nice to the writer and everything?” I squeezed her.
“Don’t muss me,” she said. I mussed her and then she looked up. “I’m serious, darling. I don’t think I’m good enough for the part.”
“Good enough? Why, you’ll be perfect! You can dance, can’t you? That café number will knock ’em dead.”
“I’m not worried about the dancing. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.” I took her hands. “Look, there�
�s going to be plenty of time to learn. Lozoff himself suggested that we do the crowd stuff and the bits first. We’ll shoot around you and give you a chance to rehearse, get everything down pat. He’ll coach you, darling. And I’m going to help. You’ll see.”
“Tommy, I wish you’d get somebody else for this.”
“Somebody else? But it’s your picture, Dawn.” I paused. “More than that, it’s our picture. The one I wrote for us. The one that’s going to make you big.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” she said.
“I’ve got enough for both of us. I’ve given this story everything. Even Lozoff can’t find any flaws. And you know what a stickler he is.”
“Yes.” Dawn sighed. “I know. I can’t fool him.”
“Quit talking about trying to fool anyone! You’ll be fine.” I glanced at her. “What are you doing?”
“Changing my blouse. Don’t you remember, we’re going over to Jackie Keeley’s tonight?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Forget to tell you. I called it off.”
“Why?”
“I thought it might be just as well to cut out parties and that sort of thing until this picture is over. If you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind.”
“I remember what a strain you were under when you did Daydreams. This time we won’t let you get upset about anything.” I smiled at her. “Come on, let’s you and I just run through this script again, shall we? I want to point out a few things about some of your scenes with Don Jose.”
So it began.
I’d told Dawn the truth. Lozoff and the others were excited when they saw what I turned in. And Morris was enthusiastic. Their confidence was contagious, and oddly enough I found that I really didn’t need it any more. I had my own, and it kept growing.
Somehow, the decision had been made. No more conscious or unconscious leaning on others. From now on I’d be the father, the strong man.
Dawn could lean on me if she liked. I’d support her—I was determined to give her all the help she could possibly need on this picture.
And even though Lozoff was directing, I had the feeling that his position was purely nominal. Actually it was my creation, mine to control.