JC1 The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  The woman picked them up. "I think you did well enough, Philippe." She laughed. "It was so funny. Making love with that little bulb in your hand so you could take the picture."

  Rina was still silent.

  Karl bent over her. "Our little Américaine is still sick," he said gently. He held out two aspirins to her. "Here, take these. You will feel better."

  Rina stared up at the three of them. "I’d like to get dressed, please," she said in a weak voice.

  The woman nodded. "But of course," she said. "Your clothes are in the closet." They turned and left the room.

  Rina got out of bed and washed her face quickly. She debated over taking a bath but decided against it. She was in too much of a hurry to leave. She dressed and walked out into the other room.

  The woman was still in her peignoir, but the men had changed to soft shirts and white flannels. She started to walk out without looking at them. The man named Karl called, "Mrs. Cord, you forgot your purse."

  Silently she turned to take it from him, her eyes avoiding his face.

  "I put in a set of the photographs as a memento of our party."

  She opened the bag. The pictures stared obscenely up at her. "I don't want them," she said, holding them out.

  He waved them aside. "Keep them. We can always make more copies from the negatives."

  Slowly she lifted her eyes to his face. He was smiling. "Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee while we talk business?" he asked politely.

  The negatives cost her ten thousand dollars and she burned them in an ash tray before she left the room. She sent the cable to Nevada from the hotel, as soon as she had checked in.

  I’M LONELY AND MORE FRIGHTENED THAN I EVER WAS BEFORE. ARE YOU STILL MY FRIEND?

  His reply reached her the next day, with a credit for five thousand dollars and confirmed reservations from Zurich through to California.

  She crinkled the cablegram in her fingers as she read it once more while the limousine climbed to the top of the hill. The cable was typical of the Nevada she remembered. But it didn't seem at all like the Nevada she was coming to see.

  I AM STILL YOUR FRIEND.

  It was signed "Nevada."

  17

  NEVADA LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND LOOKED around the large office. An aura of tension had crept into the room. Dan Pierce's face was bland and smiling. "It isn't the money this time, Bernie," he said. "It's just that we feel the time is right. Let's do a picture about the West as it really was and skip the hokum that we've been turning out for years."

  Norman looked down at his desk for a moment, his hand toying with the blue-covered script. He assumed an earnest expression. "It isn't the script, believe me, Dan," he said, turning to Von Elster for assurance. "We think it's great, don't we?"

  The lanky, bald director nodded. "It's one of the greatest I ever read."

  "Then why the balk?" the agent asked.

  Norman shook his head. "The time isn't right. The industry is too upset. Warner's has a talking picture coming out soon. The Lights of New York. Some people think that when it comes out, silent movies will be finished."

  Dan Pierce laughed. "Malarkey! Movies are movies. If you want to hear actors talk, go to the theater, that's where talk belongs."

  Norman turned to Nevada, his voice taking on a fatherly tone. "Look, Nevada, have we ever steered you wrong? From the day you first came here, we've treated you right. If it's a question of money, that's no problem. Just name the figure."

  Nevada smiled at him. "It isn't the money, Bernie. You know that. Ten thousand a week is enough for any man, even if income taxes have gone up to seven per cent. It's this script. It's the first real story I've ever read out here."

  Norman reached for a cigar. Nevada leaned back in his chair. He remembered when he had first heard of the script. It was last year, when he was making Gunfire at Sundown.

  One of the writers, a young man with glasses and a very pale skin, had come over to him. "Mr. Smith," he asked diffidently. "Can I trouble you for a minute?"

  Nevada turned from the make-up man. "Why, sure— " He hesitated.

  "Mark Weiss," the writer said quickly.

  Nevada smiled. "Sure, Mark, what can I do for you?"

  "I’ve got a script I'd like you to read," Weiss said quickly. "I spent two years researching it. It's about one of the last gun fighters in the Southwest. I think it's different from anything that's ever been made."

  "I'd be glad to read it." That was one of the hazards of being a star. Everyone had a script they wanted you to read and each was the greatest ever written. "What's it called?"

  "The Renegade." He held out a blue-covered script.

  The script felt heavy in his hand. He opened it to the last page and looked at the writer doubtfully. The script was three times standard length. "Pretty long, isn't it?"

  Weiss nodded. "It is long but there was no way I could see to cut it. Everything in there is true. I spent the last two years checking old newspaper files through the entire Southwest."

  Nevada turned back to the make-up man, the script still in his hand. "What happened to him?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "Nobody seems to know. One day he just disappeared and nothing was ever heard about him again. There was a posse after him, and they think he died there in the mountains."

  "A new story's always good," Nevada said. "People are getting tired of the same old heroes. What do you call this guy?"

  The writer's voice seemed to hang in the air. "Sand," he said. "Max Sand."

  The script slipped from Nevada's fingers. He felt the blood rush from his face. "What did you say?" he asked hollowly.

  Weiss stared at him. "Max Sand. We can change it but that was his real name."

  Nevada shook his head and looked down at the script. It lay there in the dust. Weiss knelt swiftly and picked it up. "Are you all right, Mr. Smith?" he asked in a concerned voice.

  Nevada took a deep breath. He felt his self-control returning. He took the script from the outstretched hand and forced a smile.

  A look of relief came into Weiss's face. "Thanks, Mr. Smith," he said gratefully. "I really appreciate this. Thanks very much."

  For a week, Nevada couldn't bring himself to read it. In some strange way, he felt that if he did, he'd be exposing himself. Then one evening, he came into the library after dinner, where Von Elster was waiting, and found him deeply engrossed in this script.

  "How long have you been sitting on this?" the director asked.

  Nevada shrugged. "About a week. You know how it is. These writers are always coming up with scripts. Is it any good?"

  Von Elster put it down slowly. "It's more than good. It's great. I want to be the director if you do it."

  Late that night, the lamp still burning near his bed, Nevada realized what the director meant. Weiss had given depth and purpose to his portrait of a man who lived alone and developed a philosophy born of pain and sadness. There was no glamour in his crimes, only the desperate struggle for survival.

  Nevada knew as he read it that the picture would be made. The script was too good to be passed up. For his own self-protection, he had to make the picture. If it escaped into someone else's hands, there was no telling how much further they'd delve into the life of Max Sand.

  He bought the script from Weiss the next morning for one thousand dollars.

  * * *

  Nevada returned to the present suddenly. "Let's hold it for a year," Bernie Norman was saying. "By then, we'll know which way to jump."

  Dan Pierce looked across at him. Nevada knew the look. It meant that Pierce felt he'd gone as far as he could.

  "Chaplin and Pickford had the right idea in forming United Artists," Nevada said. "I guess that's the only way a star can be sure of making the pictures he wants."

  Norman's eyes changed subtly. "They haven't had a good year since," he said. "They've dropped a bundle."

  "Mebbe," Nevada said. "Only time will tell. It's still a new company."

  Norman look
ed at Pierce for a moment, then back to Nevada. "O.K.," he said. "I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll put up a half million toward the picture, you guarantee all the negative cost over that."

  "That's a million and a half more!" Pierce answered. "Where's Nevada going to get that kind of money?"

  Norman smiled. "The same place we do. At the bank. He won't have any trouble. I'll arrange it. You'll own the picture one hundred per cent. All we'll get is distribution fees and our money back. That's a better deal than United Artists can give. That shows you how much we want to go along with you, Nevada. Fair enough?"

  Nevada had no illusions. If the picture didn't make it, his name would be on the notes at the bank, not Norman's. He'd lose everything he had and more. He looked down at the blue-covered script. A resolution began to harden inside him.

  Jonas' father had said to him once that it wasn't any satisfaction to win or lose if it wasn't your own money, and you'd never make it big playing for table stakes. This picture just couldn't miss. He knew it. He could feel it inside him.

  He looked up at Norman again. "O.K., Bernie," he said. "It’s a deal."

  When they came out into the fading sunlight in front of Norman's bungalow office, Nevada looked at the agent. Pierce's face was glum. "Maybe you better come down to my office," he muttered. "We got a lot of talking to do."

  "It can keep till tomorrow," Nevada said. "I got company from the East waitin’ for me at home."

  "You just bit off a big nut," the agent said.

  They started toward their cars. "I reckon it's about time," Nevada said confidently. "The only way to make real money is to gamble big money."

  "You can also lose big that way," Pierce said dourly.

  Nevada paused beside his white Stutz Bearcat. He put his hand affectionately on the door, much in the same manner he did with his horses. "We won't lose."

  The agent squinted at him. "I hope you know what you're doing. I just don't like it when Norman comes in so fast and promises us all the profits. There's a monkey somewhere."

  Nevada smiled. "The trouble with you, Dan, is you're an agent. All agents are suspicious. Bernie came in because he had to. He didn't want to take any chances on losin' me." He opened the door and got into the car. "I’ll be down at your office at ten tomorrow morning."

  "O.K.," the agent said. He started toward his own car, then stopped and came back. "This talking-picture business bothers me. A couple of other companies have announced they're going to make talkies."

  "Let 'em," Nevada said. "It's their headache." He turned the key, pressed the starter and the big motor sprang into life with a roar. "It's a novelty," he shouted to the agent over the noise. "By the time our picture comes out people will have forgotten all about talkies."

  * * *

  The telephone on the small table near the bed rang softly. Rina walked over and picked it up. It was one of those new French telephones, the first she'd seen since she'd returned from Europe. The now familiar insignia was in the center of the dial, where the number usually was printed. "Hello."

  Nevada's familiar voice was in her ear. "Howdy, friend. You all settled in?"

  "Nevada!" she exclaimed.

  "You got other friends?"

  She laughed. "I'm unpacked," she said. "And amazed."

  "At what?"

  "Everything. This place. It's fabulous. I never saw anything like it."

  His voice was a quiet whisper in her ear. "It's not very much. Paltry little spread, but I call it home."

  "Oh, Nevada," she laughed, "I still can't believe it. Why did you ever build such a fantastic house? It's not like you at all."

  "It's part of the act, Rina," he said. "Like the big white hat, the fancy shirts and the colored boots. You're not really a star unless you have the trappings."

  "With N Bar S on everything?" she asked.

  "With N Bar S on everything," he repeated. "But don't let it throw you. There are crazier things in Hollywood."

  "I've got so much to tell you," she said. "What time will you be home?"

  "Home?" He laughed. "I am home. I’m down in the bar, waiting for you."

  "I’ll be down in a minute," she said, then hesitated. "But, Nevada, how will I find the bar? This place is so immense."

  "We got Indian guides just for occasions like this," he said. "I’ll send one up after you."

  She put down the telephone and went over to the mirror. By the time she had finished applying lipstick to her mouth, there was a soft knock at the door.

  She crossed the room and opened it.

  Nevada stood there, smiling. "Beg pardon, ma'am," he said with mock formality. "I jes’ checked the entire joint an' you won't believe it, but I was the only Indian around!"

  "Oh, Nevada!" she said softly.

  Then suddenly she was in his arms, her face buried against the hard muscles of his chest, her tears staining the soft white front of his fancy shirt.

  JONAS 1930

  Book Three

  1

  THE LIGHTS OF LOS ANGELES CAME UP UNDER the right wing. I looked over at Buzz, sitting next to me in the cockpit. "We're almost home."

  His pug-nosed face crinkled in a smile. He looked at his watch. "I think we got us a new record, too."

  "The hell with the record," I said. "All I want is that mail contract."

  He nodded. "We’ll get it now for sure." He reached over and patted the dashboard. "This baby insured that for us."

  I swung wide over the city, heading for Burbank. If we got the airmail contract, Chicago to Los Angeles, it wouldn't be long before Inter-Continental would span the country. From Chicago east to New York would be the next step.

  "I see in the papers that Ford has a tri-motor job on the boards that will carry thirty-two passengers," Buzz said.

  "When will it be ready?"

  "Two, maybe three years," he answered. "That's the next step."

  "Yeah," I said. "But we can't afford to wait for Ford. It could take five years before something practical came from them. We gotta be ready in two years."

  Buzz stared at me. "Two years? How are we gonna do it? It's impossible."

  I glanced at him. "How many mail planes are we flying now?"

  "About thirty-four," he said.

  "And if we get the new mail contract?"

  "Double, maybe triple that many," he said. He looked at me shrewdly. "What're you gettin' at?"

  "The manufacturers of those planes are making more out of our mail contracts than we are," I said.

  "If you're talkin' about buildin' our own planes, you're nuts!" Buzz said. "It would take us two years just to set up a factory."

  "Not if we bought one that was already in business," I answered.

  He thought for a moment. "Lockheed, Martin, Curtiss-Wright, they're all too busy. They wouldn't sell. The only one who might is Winthrop. They're layin' off since they lost that Army contract."

  I smiled at him. "You're thinkin' good, Buzz."

  He stared at me in the dim light. "Oh, no. I worked for old man Winthrop. He swore he'd never— "

  We were over Burbank airport now. I swung wide to the south end of the field where the Winthrop plant stood. I banked the plane so Buzz could see from his side. "Look down there."

  Up through the darkness, illuminated by two searchlights, rose the giant white letters painted on the black tarred roof.

  CORD AIRCRAFT, INC.

  The reporters clustered around us as soon as we hit the ground. Their flash bulbs kept hitting my eyes and I blinked. "You tired, Mr. Cord?" one of them yelled.

  I rubbed my unshaven cheeks and grinned. "Fresh as a daisy," I said. A stone on the field cut into my foot. I turned back to the plane and yelled up to Buzz. "Hey, throw me my shoes, will you?"

  He laughed and threw them down and the reporters made a great fuss about taking my picture while I was putting them on.

  Buzz climbed down beside me. They took some more pictures and we started to walk toward the hangar. "How does it feel to be home?" anothe
r reporter yelled.

  "Good."

  "Real good," Buzz added.

  We meant it. Five days ago, we took off from Le Bourget in Paris. Newfoundland, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles five days.

  A reporter came running up, waving a sheet of paper. "You just broke the Chicago-to-L-A. record!" he said. "That makes five records you broke on this flight!"

  "One for each day." I grinned. "That's nothin' to complain about."

  "Does that mean you'll get the mail contract?" a reporter asked.

  Behind them, at the entrance to the hangar, I could see McAllister waving frantically. "That's the business end," I said. "I leave that to my partner, Buzz. He'll fill you gentlemen in on it."

  I cut away from them quickly, leaving them to surround Buzz while I walked over to McAllister. His face wore a harassed expression. "I thought you'd never get here on time."

  "I said I'd be in by nine o'clock."

  He took my arm. "I’ve got a car waiting," he said. "We'll go right to the bank from here. I told them I'd bring you down."

  "Wait a minute," I said, shaking my arm free. "Told who?"

  "The syndication group that agreed to meet your price for the sublicensing of the high-speed injection mold. Even Du Pont's coming in with them now." He took my arm again and began to hurry me to the car.

  I pulled free again. "Wait a minute," I said. "I haven't been near a bed for five days and I'm beat. I'll see them tomorrow."

  'Tomorrow?" he yelled. "They're waiting down there now!"

  "I don't give a damn," I said. "Let 'em wait."

  "But they're giving you ten million dollars!"

  "They're giving me nothing," I said. "They had the same chance to buy that patent we did. They were all in Europe that year but they were too tight. Now they need it, they can wait until tomorrow."