What Makes Sammy Run?

by Budd Schulberg

  “Same here,” Sammy said. “She’s like the beautiful heiress in pictures whom the boy mistakes for a working girl. I didn’t know there really were any dames like that!”

  Laurette kept him waiting thirty-five minutes for lunch next day. Then she came in, apologizing carelessly, and they shook hands. Her suit was mannish, but to Sammy there was nothing masculine about her. The cut of her jacket implied a subtle sex appeal. He looked her over from head to foot as she came toward him, completely satisfied that his first impression of her was justified. Maybe it was better to come out of the Bronx because Class meant something to you when you finally hit the real thing.

  Laurette wasn’t very hungry. A salad would be sufficient. It seemed barbaric to eat anything more on these hot Hollywood afternoons. Sammy said he supposed she was right. He had just ordered frankfurters and sauerkraut.

  Sammy could feel her watching him intently while he ate. He felt himself trying nervously to eat as neatly as possible.

  “How do you like Hollywood?” Sammy asked between mouthfuls.

  “I can’t tell yet,” she said. “We have better restaurants in New York and more fun in Newport. I mean, I can’t tell until I get to know you people better.”

  “You don’t talk at all like I expected,” Sammy said.

  “That’s because I’m one of those new models,” Laurette said. “Custom-made. Not for the general public.”

  “They should be,” Sammy said.

  “Why?” she asked. “You’re not in the market for one, are you?”

  They walked back to the office without saying much.

  At the main entrance Sammy held her hand a moment too long. He wanted to see what she would do. Her only reaction was a smile. He felt like the little boy in Sunday School who has just brought the young teacher flowers.

  “Thanks,” she said. “You were really charming.”

  “When will I see you again?” he asked.

  “Now I know who puts that chestnut in all the movies,” she said.

  Sammy tightened up. He had thrown himself across every puddle instead of the cape, and it wasn’t paying off. He started up the stairs toward his office. “O.K.,” he said. “You win, lady.”

  The next evening, Sammy called her. She was alone in Hollywood, he said. She might want someone to show her the bright spots.

  “How thoughtful of you,” Laurette said. “Come right over.”

  When he arrived at her apartment, Sammy’s enthusiasm froze. She was having cocktails with a young man. The young man stood up. Sammy found himself staring into a broad expanse of stiff shirt. Laurette was in evening clothes, too.

  “George was on his way to the air meet at Albuquerque. I thought it might be fun if we all went out together.”

  George didn’t seem to mind Sammy at all.

  “I haven’t seen Laurie since Biarritz last summer,” he explained.

  They talked about Biarritz. Had Sammy ever been there?

  Sammy said, “Listen, Miss Harrington, don’t let me butt in. Why don’t you two kids run along without me?”

  “We wouldn’t think of it. Mr. Glick is so clever,” Laurette said. “He knows everything about making pictures. He’s going to tell us all about it at dinner. Aren’t you, Mr. Glick?”

  Sammy tried to turn the compliment aside, if it was a compliment. But he couldn’t do it deftly enough. Laurette kept laughing at him silently and politely, her superiority piercing Sammy’s pride like banderillas, stinging, hurting, forcing fiercer fighting.

  They found a table downstairs in the Florentine Room. Sammy felt better when he beat George to it by ordering the most expensive wine on the list. But when it was brought, Laurette said, “If you haven’t got the 1931, don’t bother. That’s the only good year.”

  The orchestra was playing a tango. George asked Sammy if he would be good enough to excuse them. “Go ahead,” Sammy said, “don’t let me stop you.” Sammy didn’t know how to tango. He wasn’t surprised to find that Laurette could dance it like a pro. He sat there like a stupe, burning, deciding that Laurette had only asked him up here to show him up. Perhaps the thing to do was to take a powder and deprive her of this satisfaction. But he couldn’t, his eyes took every step with her. When she danced she closed her eyes, that lithe, graceful body swaying, poised a tempting moment, swaying on again to the sensual rhythm.

  Then they returned to the table, and Sammy stood up, feeling challenged and sore, and popped down too quickly again.

  “A beautiful dance,” Laurette said. “You feel wild and free.”

  She knew Sammy had never felt wild and free.

  The music was back to jazz. Sammy was going to show her. He nodded toward the dance floor, and they rose together. He held her tight against him, frankly and crudely, enjoying the double satisfaction, the feel of her so close to him, and the chance that this would hit the columns.

  Sammy was a stiff, crude dancer but he was a strong leader. She knew from the moment he pressed his hand stubbornly on her back, forcing her to follow all his mistakes. She saw how insistent he was, how unapologizing, uncompromising when she tried to press him out of the simple box step he refused to vary. It was a struggle, both of them felt it, and Sammy was enjoying it at last.

  “You dance divinely,” she said.

  “Listen,” he said. “You don’t have to hand me that. I know how I dance.” He was beginning to find himself.

  “Have it your way,” she said. “You’ll never be Fred Astaire.”

  “Wanna quit?” Sammy said. “No,” she said, “I’m enjoying it.”

  She was. He was terrifying when he held her like that, not trying to be polite any more.

  At twelve o’clock George said he had to go.

  “Nice fellow,” Sammy said. “Old friend?”

  “The world is full of nice fellows.”

  They talked until three o’clock.

  Sammy told her what he expected to do in the world.

  She told him it must be marvelous to want to do anything.

  “You don’t have to try,” Sammy said. “You’ve got everything. I want everything, too.”

  Sammy was pleased, knowing he was getting to her. She must have realized it, too, for suddenly she said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I really don’t like you very much.”

  “And me just sitting here with you all night to make a hit with your old man!” Sammy said. “How do you like that?”

  Sammy drove home seventy miles an hour. I’m going to get her, he thought. She’s Class and I’m going to get her. Me. Sammy Glick.

  Mr. Harrington invited Sammy to lunch with him at Victor Hugo’s next day. “My daughter’s told me a lot about you,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve made quite an impression.”

  “What a marvelous girl,” Sammy said. “You must be very proud.”

  They talked about business. Harrington didn’t waste words. “Only three pictures really made any money this year,” he said. “Your three. How do you account for it?”

  “I don’t know,” Sammy fenced. “Boyce did the best he could.”

  “The reason we’re out here,” Harrington continued, “is to find out if his best is good enough.”

  “It isn’t entirely his fault if production costs are too high.”

  “Then you think costs are too high?” Harrington pounced.

  Sammy hesitated just long enough. “You put me in a difficult position, Mr. Harrington. I don’t like to talk against my boss.”

  “Naturally, my boy,” Harrington agreed. “But this is serious. Think it over and we’ll get together later in the week.”

  That evening Boyce called Sammy in. “You lunched with Harrington today. You’re not double-crossing me, are you, Sammy?”

  “Hell, no,” Sammy said. “Christ, I fought for you.”

  “How does it look?” Boyce said. “I’m depending on you. You know how it is in the studio. You’re the last friend I have.”

  “All I need is more time, Geoffrey,”
Sammy said.

  Every time Laurette came home from an evening with Sammy she was too bored ever to want to see him any more. Every time he called again, she accepted. He called every night. He never let up. He was always the same.

  For Sammy Glick these were unforgettable days. In his most ambitious flights of ambition, he had never looped so many loops so high.

  Then came the evening when Sammy invited Laurette to his home for dinner. Just the two of them. She wore a strapless, crimson evening dress that clung to her bare powdered shoulders. There was more splendor to her than Sammy had ever known in the world.

  Sammy’s butler served martinis. They drank together, feeling important, mellow and alone. Tension between them was evaporating.

  “This reminds me of a night I spent in Venice,” Laurette said.

  “Why?” Sammy said. “It sure doesn’t remind me of the Bronx. Forget about Venice. Everything I ever heard about Venice sounded like a lot of crap.”

  “Mr. Glick, how romantic,” she said.

  “How about thinking about us?” Sammy said.

  She only smiled at him, and he trembled, determined to get her. She was so beautiful. It was romance. She was gorgeous, she was refined and irresistible, and—he kept cheering himself on—Sammy Glick was going to get her.

  It was even better after dinner.

  “Look at that garden,” Sammy said. “I’ve got a swell garden.”

  They walked down the steps. His arm went around her waist. She drew away and he moved with her. She smiled at him and the arm remained, holding her tightly at the hip.

  “How do you like those big red flowers?” Sammy asked.

  “Hibiscus,” she said. “Lovely—‘Rose red, princess hibiscus, rolling her pointed Chinese petals!’ ”

  “Christ!” Sammy said. “What’s that?”

  “A poem I like about hibiscus,” she said.

  “Princess hibiscus,” Sammy said. “That’s swell. Just like you.” He suddenly kissed her lips. He felt like a million bucks. Her million bucks.

  They had reached the teahouse at the end of the lawn. “Let’s go in here,” Sammy said. “It’s getting cold.”

  “No,” she said. “There’s still a warm breeze. No, Sammy.”

  But he was kissing her again and she was only saying no and don’t. That meant she couldn’t stop him. They went into the teahouse. It was an old rule of Sammy’s: When they go soft on you—that’s the time to sock it home!

  Chalk up another victory for Sammy Glick. She had been terrified, she had clung to him, he was stronger and he had won, as he had always won.

  It was getting colder. “We’d better go inside, baby,” Sammy said afterwards. He felt dizzy with his achievement.

  “I must go home,” she said. “Call me a taxi.”

  “I love you,” Sammy said. “I know it sounds screwy to say it. You’re the first thing I ever loved.”

  Then she was gone.

  He stood there in awe of himself. Sammy Glick in love. He felt important, released. His whole life had been a dare. This had been the most outrageous of all. Who could stop him now? Sammy Glick and Laurette Harrington—Laurette Harrington and Sammy Glick, Sammy Glick …

  Next day Sammy had lunch with Harrington again.

  “I have something important to tell you—to ask you. I’ll give it to you straight. Only way I know how to deal. I want to marry Laurette.”

  “You love her?” Harrington asked. “You’re sure?”

  “A thousand percent,” Sammy said. “I’m the kind of a guy who doesn’t fall in love easy—but I was sold on Laurette right off the bat. I was afraid I wasn’t good enough for her. But then I got to thinking nobody gets anywhere by blushing and tossing in the towel. So here I am, banging on the old door.”

  Harrington was thinking it over. There were crazier ideas. He knew that times were changing. He was still on the board of directors, but he had a feeling things were not really safe. Not even Laurette knew how worried he had been. And any fool could see this Sammy kid was on his way. Sammy might be a sound investment.

  “Of course, it’s not up to me,” Harrington said. “Laurette’s always done everything she wants.”

  “I’m asking her tonight,” Sammy said positively.

  “Fine,” Harrington said. “I see no objection. Have you thought any more about the studio set-up? Paine and I have more or less decided Boyce isn’t right for it any more.”

  “You couldn’t find anyone better than Boyce,” Sammy said. “Among the older producers.”

  “But maybe the studio needs young blood,” Harrington said. He wondered what Laurette would say to Sammy. Things had moved quickly. A son-in-law in power in Hollywood might not hurt him on the board.

  That night Sammy proposed to Laurette.

  “But I haven’t even told you I loved you,” Laurette said.

  “But you couldn’t have done what you did if you hadn’t loved me,” Sammy argued. “I would never have tried if I wasn’t sure you did.”

  “You’re always sure, aren’t you?” she asked. Her father had already told her he thought the marriage was a good thing. But she knew it was more than that. She would never have known how to turn him down. He was so set on it she had the feeling a tidal wave would sweep up across Hollywood if she said no.

  “This is the greatest day of my life,” Sammy said. “Baby, you and me are going to have everything we want in the world.”

  The next afternoon Boyce called Sammy in. He had aged. Sammy was startled to see how old he looked.

  “Well, Sammy,” he said, “I want to thank you.”

  “Thank me!” Sammy said. “What for?”

  “I just got through talking with Harrington,” Boyce said. “He told me you did everything you could for me—but the board back east had already decided. They want you.”

  “I’m sorry, Geoffrey. If there’s anything I can do …”

  “Thanks,” Boyce said. “Nobody can really help anybody else these days. You’ve got your own worries.”

  “Sure,” Sammy said. “We all have.” He knew he didn’t have any worries. The world was his kite. All he had to do was let out more string. Up, up, up!

  Then Harrington and Paine announced that Mr. Samuel Glick was the new chief executive of World-Wide. The first thing Sammy did was remodel Boyce’s office. He wanted something much bigger, and much more modern.

  One week later Harrington had the honor to announce the engagement of his daughter Laurette to Mr. Samuel Glick.

  The day of the announcement Sammy wrote the first letter he hadn’t dictated in two years. It was to his mother in the Bronx.

  Dear Mama—

  I can hardly believe it is your little Sammy writing you, so many wonderful things have happened to me. Now I’m the whole boss of the studio. But that isn’t what I wanted to write you about. Mama, don’t be worried, I am going to marry the finest girl in the world. Oh sure, she may be rich and ritzy but I just want you to know that I never forget what you told me about getting married when I left home—that a good, simple wife meant more than anything I might ever do. But Mama, no matter how perfect this all is for me, it wouldn’t be right if you weren’t here to meet the bride and be at the wedding. So I am enclosing a thousand bucks. Buy some nice clothes and start out here on the Super Chief. I want you to be as happy as I am. Your loving son,

  Sammy

  The next morning Sammy’s secretary called in and said Tony Kreuger was on the phone.

  “Hello, Tony,” he said. “What’s new, kid?”

  “Same old merry-go-round,” Tony said. “You seem to have a corner on the news these days.”

  “I know it,” Sammy said. “I guess I’m a lucky guy.”

  “All kidding aside,” Tony said with a sudden note of sincerity, “I think it’s swell, pal, I’m tickled to death for you, and the beauty of the thing is you deserved it.”

  “That’s damned nice of you, Tony—anything else on your mind?”

  “I was wonde
ring if I could throw a stag for you Saturday night,” Tony said. “Get some of the old gang in.”

  On the morning of the stag party, Laurette called Sammy for lunch. “I’ve just bought a new sport dress, darling,” she said, “so I thought we might go Vendoming.”

  Sammy was sorry—he was working so hard now he only had a sandwich and a milkshake sent in. But he’d drop in for cocktails.

  “All right for you,” Laurette chided. “Throw me into the arms of other men.”

  “They know me well enough to throw you right back,” Sammy said.

  That afternoon, as she smiled across the table at Gordie Melville, the Australian who ran a local fencing school and doubled for swashbucklers like Errol Flynn, she wondered if Sammy was right. She wondered at the way his insolence had first amused her, then overwhelmed her—and now? She studied Gordie carefully. He would smile when she smiled, and if she leaned forward he would meet her at the middle of the table. She liked to do it. It brought back that necessary sense of superiority. She would not let Sammy crush it. Maybe, if she laughed with Gordie, she could rediscover her kind of pride again.

  Late that day Sammy dropped in for cocktails at Laurette’s. She met him in a green satin lounging robe. They kissed. “Couldn’t you possibly stay tonight?” she asked.

  “No chance, honey,” Sammy said. “Can’t let the boys down.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said.

  “There’ll be thousands of nights from now on, huh, honey?” He patted her affectionately. He still couldn’t picture himself doing that, but there it was.

  The stag turned out to be an elegant affair at the Ambassador. It was the final victory dinner, with two hundred of Hollywood’s more prominent males doing him homage. And Sammy was king of them all. As he came in, they all stood up, raised champagne glasses and droned, “Poor Sammy, poor Sammy,” but Sammy could laugh because he had met the enemy and they were his.

  Sammy took the seat of honor, with Tony at his right hand. It was the beginning of a dizzy, exultant, triumphant evening. Over and over again, Sammy told Tony and every other willing listener how he rose from newsboy on the east side. Sammy was feeling great. He got up and made a speech. Then the lights went blue and purple and a gorgeous stripper took off the last bead. Sammy drank more champagne in the dark, smiling to himself. This was what he wasn’t going to marry and he felt cocky inside and out.