There Should Have Been Castles

by Herman Raucher

  I worked continuously and was glad to do so, and Sam’s dumb script actually began to look as though it might just work. I called him and told him that I had begun the writing and that it was proceeding well. He said that he wished I hadn’t because no one should work on the come. He offered to pay me five grand up front, right away, in good faith, but I told him that money was not my problem and that I was having such a good time with the script that I thought I should be paying him. He thanked me for my attitude which he described as “admirably professional,” and said that he hoped to get to my script by the next night. Afraid that he might, I told him not to rush it, that there were things still wrong with it, etc., etc.

  It was a lonely life, and yet it was great. Nothing was in my way. It was a time of pure creativity, total and all-consuming. Eating, sleeping, writing, and that’s all. I even curtailed my drinking, which I knew was close to getting out of control. The script would never be of Academy Award calibre, but it could be the basis for a tidy, low-budget sleeper. And suddenly I began to see that, in his own obtrusive, elemental way, Sam Gaynor had authored a script that had more good things going for it than I had first believed. I wondered about screen credit. After all, it was Sam’s original script. Still, without what I was doing, it was no script. Would Sam try to screw me out of screen credit?

  Ten days had come and gone and I had yet to see a contract. It began to worry me. Maybe the sonofabitch had finessed me. Maybe the Sam Gaynor I remembered and despised had not changed at all, but was counting on my writing the whole thing because I was so hungry to be working. That way he’d get to see my work before having to commit to it. That suspicion, combined with my growing conviction that Sam hadn’t the mentality to know how good a job I’d done if his life depended on it, and you can understand why I was beginning to feel a little bit locked out.

  What I could do, to be sure, was not deliver the script until the contract had been signed and the proper moneys advanced. In any case, my old paranoia was coming out of the ground and looking for its shadow. I was having a tough time trying to coax it back into its hole.

  Sam called that night. Late. About ten o’clock. He was still in his office and asked if I could drive down to see him. I didn’t ask why because there was enough urgency in his voice for me to know that it was important. I decided not to bring my rewrite of “Hellbent for Leather.” Fuck him. If he wanted it he’d have to sign the contract first—after the Writers Guild’s approval of it. If he balked at that, then I would have been working all along for nothing. Still, he, too, would have nothing. Nothing begets nothing better than nothing.

  Sam and Randy Hampton were in Sam’s office and all I had to do was to step inside to know that things were not good. Randy, ever-smiling, but not at me, simply got up and walked out, never acknowledging my presence. Some kind of psychological warfare? I heard him go to the elevator and I heard the elevator go down. Still, I would have been more certain that he had gone down had I heard his footsteps on the stairs and not the elevator in the shaft.

  I was alone with Sam Gaynor, not an especially good position for any man to be in. Better to be in a cage with a crazed lion. At least you can reason with a crazed lion. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked, referring to the dear-departed Randy Hampton.

  “Sit down.”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll stay here, by the door. In case of fire.”

  “Sit down, fucker. Ah’m gonna bring you up to date.”

  “Okay.” I sat, but never fully, always keeping enough weight on the balls of my feet so that I could spring up quickly if I had to—if it came to that.

  He went around behind me, shutting the door and locking it. Then he locked the door that led to Randy’s office. I had all the leeway of a rabbit on a spit. “How you comin’ with mah script, fucker?” There was no lightness to his voice, no humor or gaiety. There was a killer in the room and it wasn’t me.

  “I’ll tell you when I see my contract.” That was not smart of me. So what else was new?

  “Don’t piss on my buckskin shoes, boy. Ah asked you a question.”

  “Ah gave you an answer.” How brave are those who know that cowardice will get them nothing. I looked around for a weapon, anything. I saw the brass radio microphone on Sam’s desk. Properly wielded, Skip Gaynor’s ten pound artifact could put a neat crimp into his son’s strut. I calculated the distance between me and it. In a pinch—I could grab it.

  “Your contract? Hey, boy—forget it. Ain’t no contract, okay?”

  “Okay.” I decided to lay back and let him make his point. No sense in getting myself chopped up without first knowing why. Even in the worst films, the killer always tells the victim why. It was obligatory. It was my right.

  He did not disappoint. “Those two scripts ah gave you—they ain’t any good. They’re lousy.”

  “You oughta know. You wrote ’em.”

  “No, ah didn’t.”

  “Your name’s on ’em.”

  “Ah didn’t write ’em. They’ve made the rounds. Turned down by everyone. They’re dead scripts. Ah gave ’em to you ’cause ah figured you needed the exercise.”

  “‘Hellbent’ can work.”

  “You can make it work, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You can’t make anythin’ work, you shithead! You can’t write a rat’s fart worth!”

  “Who made you a judge?”

  He laughed, partly in admiration. “Sheeeet. Ah got you locked in here with me—you want me to believe you ain’t scared?”

  “I don’t care an elephant’s burp what you believe.”

  He laughed. “Sheeet. Feisty little cocksucker.”

  “If you’ve got nothing else to tell me, I’m leaving.”

  “Want me to get to the point, is that it?”

  “If you don’t mind.” I had the paperweight in my hand. And I let him see that I was holding it, hefting it.

  “Oh, please, Daddy, don’t hit me.”

  “Sam, you’ve got maybe ten seconds to unlock that door or I’m going to sing out the news right up your rectum.”

  “Well, ah am not gonna open that door—not yet. Not till you see this.” He brought over a pile of scripts from a table and he plunked them down onto his desk in front of me. And he leaned on them as he spoke, cold venom in his voice. He was a hair’s breadth away from blind rage. “See these scripts? ‘Let There Be Love’—by Sam Gaynor. Ah mean, ah figured that, because you wrote it, ah figured it had to be good. Ah mean, you have a reputation—clever New York City writer, right? Ah mean, ah didn’t even bother to read it. Still haven’t. Just got myself a Form D and slapped a US copyright on it. Registered in the Library of Congress. ‘Let There Be Love,’ by Samuel J. Gaynor. Only costs four bucks, fucker. You oughta try it.”

  “I sent in a prior copyright.”

  “Oh, the hell you did.”

  “I did.” I didn’t.

  “Yeah, ah know. Those other scripts? The ones ah gave you? They’re copyrighted in mah name, too. Both of ’em were originally written by some cowboy who didn’t know his nose from the back end of a horse. Randy stuck a thou on him and the fucker went home like he discovered oil in his crapper.”

  “That won’t work with me.”

  “Yeah? How you gonna prove you wrote it. And don’t give me that copyright shit. Prior copyright, man ass.”

  “People have read it.”

  “Who?”

  “People at the Morris office.”

  “Oh, shit. Please don’t fuck with me, Benny-Boy. Ah know all about frightened writers. Ah eat ’em up. Anyway, it don’t matter. It don’t matter and here’s why.” He flipped the scripts at me one at a time, as if flicking playing cards. “Warner Mothers—20th Century-Fucks—United Assholes—Universal Pussy—Columbia the gem of the shithouse—Metro-Goldwyn-Muffdive—Hey, Shakespeare, they all turned it down! Don’t matter what name you put on it, it is dead! And you’re dead! Wanna see letters of rejection?” He began floating the letters at me,
his voice floating with them. “Here—‘pedestrian,’ ‘banal,’ ‘hack,’ ‘saccharine’—man, they got you pegged every way to Sunday!”

  I was slowly coming to a boil. “You submitted my script with your name on it?”

  “Yeah! An’ ah wish ah didn’t! Now ah got a reputation as a lousy writer. Things are tough enough without gettin’ hung with your fuckin’ lousy failures!”

  “You were doing it all along. Your two scripts—”

  “Just a smokescreen, boy. Just to fake you out. Only, ah gotta tell you, ah just loved the idea that you were bustin’ your balls on a cadaver. And one day—maybe when snow freezes in pussy-pie—if somebody ever wants to buy this piece of shit, ah’ll still own the copyright. ‘Let There Be Love,’ by Samuel J. Gaynor.” He paused, softened, and grinned. “Now then, let us turn our attention to a certain fucking television show in which a character name of Ron Garner caused me considerable embarrassment—”

  That was my cue. As a dramatist, I knew a cue when it flew past me. I leaped up at him and slammed the bronze mike smack across his leering face. I heard his nose crack and watched him topple backwards. He sagged to the floor, his huge hands groping where his nose used to be. The blood flew as though someone had put an explosive charge inside a tomato. I stood over him and delivered the best dialogue I could find that might cover the moment. “I’m going to find out who that cowboy is, Sammy-boy. I’m going to find him and drag his ass back here and together, me and him, we’re going to bend your cock around so that it goes up your ass and grows there. Then we’re going to set fire to your one ball, and, while it’s still glowing, we’re going to stuff it into your mouth, rivet your mouth shut, and see if you can’t whistle the Pepsi-Cola jingle. Your nose is broken, turd. It can be fixed—if you can find it.”

  I knew who I was when I left his office. I was Sam Spade, and I loved it. I was careful about making certain that Randy Hampton wasn’t lurking around in some closet, then I beat it down the stairs, disdaining the elevator again. Elevators could get stuck—not feet. When I hit the street I saw Randy Hampton, sitting at the wheel of his snazzy car. He wasn’t smiling. As a matter of fact, he looked pretty damned surprised at seeing me in one piece. I walked over to him and gave him a Bogart lisp. “Your partner’s in his office. He just got hit by a truck and he don’t look so good. As for you—you’ve got one hour to get out of town before the Fat Man comes around and finds that you’ve blown the caper. Using the name Joel Cairo just didn’t work. As to the whereabouts of the bird.” I slammed the hood of his car with the palm of my hand, as you’d hit a horse you wanted to send galloping off. “Shove off, matey. School’s out.”

  Randy Hampton’s eyes kind of jumped out of his oversized head, and he drove off and was never seen again. Then I got into my own car, lit a cigarette, and headed north for the Hills.

  I tried to put it all together in my head as the windshield wiper smacked away at the sudden rain. It didn’t take much doing. Sam Gaynor wouldn’t lie around on his carpet all night. Also, he knew where I lived. The smart thing to have done would have been to call the cops, turn myself in, explain everything, and hire the best mouthpiece that Mary Astor’s money could buy. But I wasn’t very smart.

  I found Jack Rush’s address in my little book. Beverly Hills, naturally, and not too far. I gunned my Porsche and it responded. Inside of five minutes I was in front of Jack Rush’s house. It was ten past midnight. He’d be asleep. Sorry about that.

  I rang the bell and a dog barked. It was perfect Pavlov. An Oriental peered out a window at me. I sneered at him, “Open up, Moto—tell your boss it’s important. Chop-chop.”

  The slant disappeared, displaced by Jack Rush in a paisley robe and ruby slippers. He opened the door and let me in. I walked passed him, flicking my cigarette into his rose bushes. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important, so let’s not stand around in the rain.”

  He looked amazed, possibly because it was so late—also because it wasn’t raining. I followed him into his study. Agents lived well, posh. I filled him in on everything that had happened. At first he was shocked. Then just surprised. Then—almost bored. “Everyone knows about Sam Gaynor,” he said. “How the hell could you let yourself get sucked in like that?”

  “Nobody loved me.”

  “What?”

  “I took a chance.”

  “He’s the local fraud. Put a red nose on him and he’s a clown.”

  “I did put a red nose on him.”

  “Ben, it’s difficult for me to follow you.”

  “Just tell me this—did he have a couple deals going at Columbia?”

  “If you mean Colombia, South America, that’s possible. Maybe he’s got a banana plantation. But Columbia Pictures? Did he tell you that?”

  “Yep. Looked me right in the eye and said it.”

  “Do you know what they say about him out here? They say that what Sam Gaynor lacks in talent, he more than makes up for with a lack of integrity. He wants to direct, too. He couldn’t direct a Loony Tune.”

  “I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

  “And as for him copyrighting your script—you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. The reader at Paramount, Gail Rosen—do you know her?”

  “Long hair, peek-a-boo bangs, about twenty-five, twenty-six?”

  “No.”

  “I know her.”

  “Anyway, she’s a friend of mine. She read your script before sending it back to you because she liked the title.”

  “Good old Gail. I knew if I left a clue—Go on.”

  “She figured that ‘Jackson Dowe’ was a pseudonym because she’d never heard it before and the script was too professional to have been written by an amateur.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “She sent it back to you with the usual letter about not being able to read it because it wasn’t submitted through—”

  “Can we forget that and move on?”

  “Yes. She noted that Jackson Dowe’s return address was Ben Webber’s address. She checked it out with the phone company.”

  “Smart phone company.”

  “Then she called me because she thought I was still your agent and she was curious as to why you were going around me. Ben? You all right? Want some coffee? You look funny. Why don’t I have Wong make us some coffee?”

  “Wong?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Anyway, Gail Rosen is your witness. I guess I am, too, because she told me the story of the script over the phone—all of that before Sam Gaynor could possibly have put a copyright on it. I’ll swear to that.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yes and no. I liked it because it was bright and rebellious. I didn’t like it because it was a fantasy and fantasies just don’t sell. Not anymore. That script will never sell, Ben, and it has nothing to do with the quality of the writing. No matter what they tell you, they can’t tell you it’s good because they’re afraid to think that it’s good.”

  “So you don’t think I ought to worry about who has possession of the copyright?”

  “Quite the opposite. You’ll be doing the industry a favor by nailing Sam Gaynor.”

  “Oh. I certainly want to do the industry a favor.”

  “Get him on whatever the charge is. Piracy, plagiarism, bad breath—I’m no lawyer but I know you can get him. As for those secretaries of his you mentioned—he keeps them around to con people into thinking he’s got a flourishing little operation. Six nights a week they work the bars along Santa Monica.”

  “What about his partner, Smiling Smedley?”

  “Hampton? He’s right out of the slime. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s served time. The rumor is that he has, under a couple other names.”

  “A nest of vipers.”

  “The worst. How long ago did you leave them?”

  “Half hour.”

  “They’re probably on their way to your place rig
ht now.”

  “Not Hampton. Unless I miss my guess, he’s halfway to Frisco by now.”

  “I’m talking about Gaynor.”

  “I took him once, I’ll take him again.”

  “For God’s sake, Ben, you’re talking like a lunatic.”

  “In this business, it’s required.”

  “Stay here tonight. Call the police from here. Tell them what happened. Let them worry about it.”

  “No. No police.”

  “Ben? Did he hit you?”

  “I never gave him the chance. I hit him across the bridge of his nose with his father.”

  “Let me have Wong fix up the guest room for you.”

  “No. No Japs.”

  “He’s Chinese.”

  “No guest rooms.”

  “Ben, maybe I ought to call a doctor.”

  “You don’t feel good?”

  “Ben, honestly. Where you going?”

  “To my place.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do. I left the phonograph running. It’s my only Dooley Wilson record.”

  “Sam Gaynor is a potential killer. Your house is the first place he’ll go.

  “Everybody dies.”

  “I’ll call the police, fill ’em in.”

  “You do what you like, Jack. It’s every man for himself. Is there another way out of here?”

  I drove home, my head still ringing from the blow on the head that Sam Gaynor almost gave me. It was maybe twelve thirty, twelve forty-five. The lights were on in my house, but I had left them on. If Sam Gaynor was waiting for me his nose would still be bleeding. Somehow I felt that he’d have the old schnozzola fixed up before dropping by for cocoa. That would give me the time I needed to prepare a little reception for him.

  I pulled up to my garage and cut my engine. It was quiet. But that didn’t mean that no one was there. He could have parked somewhere else and walked right in because I always left the house remarkably open.

  I went around the back way, through the garage entrance, and slipped into the utility room, where the fuse box was. I opened the box and killed every light in the house. After about five minutes, I removed my shoes and socked into the bedroom, ever so mouselike. My eyes were used to the dark but I was still cautious, I listened intently, Indianlike. Every little sound had a meaning all its own—only there were no sounds. None at all. Nothing. No current running any appliances. No whir from the fridge. No hum from the old Victrola. No piano from Dooley Wilson.