Ilene glanced down at the paper. The headline caught her eye. It was typical Varietese:
THE RENEGADE'S BIGGEST HAUL BOX OFFICE
In a year filled with cries from moaning exhibitors and anguished producers about the seemingly bottomless pit into which motion-picture grosses are falling, it's encouraging to note one ray of sunshine. It was reliably learned from informed sources that the domestic gross of The Renegade passed the five-million-dollar mark last week, a little less than one year after release. Based on these figures, the Rina Marlowe vehicle, with many subsequents still to be played in the U.S. and the rest of the world still to be heard from, can be expected to gross at ten million dollars. The Renegade, a Norman release, was produced and bankrolled by Jonas Cord, a rich young Westerner better known for his record-breaking flight from Paris to L.A. last year, and also features Nevada Smith.
Ilene looked up from the paper. "I saw it."
"Does that mean everyone got their money back?"
"I guess it does," Ilene said. "That is, if Bernie didn't steal them blind."
Rina smiled. She felt a surge of relief. At least, Nevada didn't have to worry now. She picked up a sandwich and began to eat ravenously. "Suddenly I'm hungry," she said between mouthfuls.
Silently Ilene refilled her coffee cup, then poured one for herself. Rina ate quickly and in a few minutes, she had finished. She took a cigarette from the small box on the table and lit it.
She leaned back and blew the smoke at the ceiling. A faint touch of color came back into her cheeks. "I feel better now. We can try on those costumes as soon as I finish this cigarette."
"No hurry," Ilene said. "I have time."
Rina got to her feet. "We might as well get started," she said, grinding her cigarette out in an ash tray. "I just remembered, I have a breakfast layout to do for Screen Stars magazine at six o'clock in the morning."
Ilene walked over to the closet and slid back the doors. Six pairs of circus-style chemise tights, each in a different color, hung there. Rina took one down and turned to Ilene, holding the brief costume in front of her. "They get smaller and smaller."
Ilene smiled. "Bernie himself gave the orders for those. After all, the name of the picture is The Girl on the Flying Trapeze."
She took the costume and held it while Rina began to undress. Rina turned her back as she slipped out of her dress and struggled into the tight-fitting costume. "Whew!" she gasped. "Maybe I shouldn't have eaten those sandwiches!"
Ilene stepped back and studied the costume. "Better step up on the pedestal," she said. "There are a few things I'll have to do."
Quickly she chalked out the alterations. "O.K.," she said. "Let's try the next one."
Rina reached behind her to unfasten the hooks. One of them stuck. "You'll have to help me, Ilene. I can't get out of this thing."
Rina stepped down from the pedestal and turned her back to Ilene. Deftly Ilene freed the hook. The cloth parted quickly and her fingers brushed against Rina's naked back. They tingled with the firm, warm touch of her flesh. Ilene felt the rush of blood to her temples. She stepped back quickly as if she had touched a hot iron. Too many times had she been tempted to let a thing like this get her into trouble. It had taken too many years to get this job.
Rina dropped the top of the costume to her waist and struggled to get the tights over her hips. She looked at Ilene. "I'm afraid you'll have to help me again."
Ilene kept her face a mask. "Step back on the pedestal," she said through stiff lips.
Rina got back on the pedestal and turned toward her. Ilene tugged at the garment, her fingers burning where they touched Rina. At last, the tights gave way and Ilene felt Rina shiver as her hand accidentally brushed the soft silken pubis.
"Are you cold?" Ilene asked, stepping back.
Rina stared at her for a moment, then averted her eyes. "No," she answered in a low voice, stepping out of the tights. She picked them up and held them toward Ilene.
Ilene reached for the costume, touched Rina's hand and suddenly couldn't let it go. She looked up at Rina steadily, her heart choking inside her.
Rina shivered again. "No," she whispered, her eyes still looking away. "Please, don't."
Ilene felt as if she were in a dream. Nothing seemed real. "Look at me," she said.
Slowly Rina turned her head. Their eyes met and Ilene could sense her trembling. She saw Rina's nipples burst forth upon her breasts like awakening red flowers on a white field.
She moved toward her and buried her face in the pale soft flax between her hips. They were very still for a moment, then she felt Rina's hand lightly brushing across her hair. She stepped back and Rina came down into her arms.
Ilene felt the hot tears suddenly push their way into her eyes. "Why?" she cried wildly. "Why did you have to marry him?"
* * *
As usual, Nevada awoke at four thirty in the morning, pulled on a pair of worn Levi's and went down to the stables. As usual, on his way out, he closed the connecting door between their rooms to let Rina know he had gone out.
The wrangler was waiting with a steaming mug of bitter black range coffee. Their conversation followed the routine morning pattern as Nevada felt the hot coffee scald its way down to his stomach.
The mug empty, and Nevada in the lead, they walked through the stable, looking into each stall. At the end was Whitey's stall. Nevada came to a stop in front of it. "Mornin', boy," he whispered.
The palomino stuck its head over the gate and looked at Nevada with large, intelligent eyes. It nuzzled against Nevada's hand, searching for the lump of sugar it knew would appear there. It wasn't disappointed.
Nevada opened the gate and went into the stall. He ran his hands over the sleek, glistening sides of the animal. "We're gettin' a little fat, boy," he whispered. "That's because we haven't had much to do lately. I better take you out for a little exercise."
Without speaking, the wrangler handed him the big saddle that lay crosswise on the partition between the stalls. Nevada slung it over the horse's back and cinched it tight. He placed the bit in the mouth and led the animal out of the stable. In front of the white-painted wooden building, he mounted up.
He rode down the riding trail to the small exercise track he had built at the foot of the hill in back of the house. He could see the gray spires of the roof as he rode past. Mechanically he put the horse through its paces.
The item he had read in Variety came to his mind. His lip curved at the irony. Here he was with the biggest-grossing picture of the year and not once during that whole period had anyone approached him about beginning another. The day of the big Western movie was over. It was too expensive.
At least he wasn't the only one, he thought. Mix, Maynard, Gibson, Holt — they were all in the same boat. Maynard had tried to fight it. He made a series of quickies for Universal, which took about five days to complete. Nevada had seen one of them. Not for him. The picture was choppy and the sound worse. Half the time, you couldn't even understand what the actors were saying.
Tom Mix had tried something else. He'd taken a Wild-West show to Europe and, if the trade papers were right, he and his horse, Tony, had knocked them dead. Maybe that was worth thinking about. The troop he had on the road was still doing all right. If he went out with it, it would do even better. It was that or take up the guitar.
That was the new Western — a singing cowboy and a guitar. He felt a vague distaste even as he thought about it. That chubby little Gene Autry had made it big. The only problem, he'd heard from one of the wranglers, was to keep him from falling off his horse. Tex Ritter was doing all right at Columbia, too.
Nevada looked up again at the house. That was the biggest stupidity of all — a quarter-million-dollar trap. It took more than twenty servants to keep it running and ate up money like a pack of prairie wolves devouring a stray steer. He quickly reviewed his income.
The cattle ranch in Texas had just started to pay off when the depression hit and now he was lucky if it broke even. His royalties on the sale
of Nevada Smith toys and cowboy suits had dwindled as children shifted their fickle loyalties to other stars. All that was left was his share of the Wild-West show and the Nevada divorce ranch. That brought in at most two thousand a month. The house alone cost him six thousand a month just to keep going.
Rina had offered to share the expenses but he'd refused, feeling it was a man's responsibility to pay the bills. But now, even with the bank loans for The Renegade paid off, he knew it wouldn't be possible to keep the house going without dipping further into his capital. The sensible thing was to get rid of it.
He'd have to take a loss. Thalberg over at Metro had offered him a hundred and fifty thousand. That way, at least, he'd save the broker's fee.
He made up his mind. There was no use sitting around, waiting for the telephone to ring. He'd go out on the road with the show and sell the house. He began to feel better. He decided to tell Rina when she got back from the studio that night.
The telephone on the pole against the far rail began to ring loudly. He walked his horse over to it. "Yes?"
"Mr. Smith?"
It was the voice of the butler. "Yes, James," he said.
"Mrs. Smith would like you to join her for breakfast in the Sun Room."
Nevada hesitated. Strange how quickly the servants recognized who was important in the family. James now used the same distant formal manner of speaking to him that he had once used in speaking to Rina.
He heard the butler clear his throat. "Shall I tell Mrs. Smith you will be up, sir?" he asked. "I think she's expecting some photographers from Screen Stars magazine."
So that was it. Nevada felt a stirring of resentment inside him. This was the first time in months that Rina had called him for breakfast and it took a publicity layout to do it. Almost immediately, he regretted the way he felt. After all, it wasn't her fault. She'd been working day and night for months.
"Tell her I'll be up as soon as I stable the horse," he said.
* * *
"Just one more shot of you pouring coffee for Nevada," the photographer said, "and we're finished."
Nevada picked up his cup and extended it across the table to Rina. She lifted the silver coffeepot and poised it over the cup. Professionally and automatically, the smiles came to their lips.
They'd gone through the whole routine. The picture of Rina frying bacon and eggs while he looked over her shoulder at the stove, the burned-toast bit, the popping of food into each other's mouth. Everything the readers of fan magazines had come to expect from movie stars. This was supposed to give them the homey touch.
There was an awkward silence for a moment after the photographers picked up their gear and left. Nevada spoke first. "I'm glad that's over."
"So am I," Rina said. She hesitated, then looked up at the wall clock. "I'd better get started. I'm due in make-up at seven thirty."
She started to get up but the telephone near her began to ring. She sat down again and picked it up. "Hello."
Nevada could hear a voice crackle through the receiver. Rina shot him a funny look, then spoke into the telephone again.
"Good morning, Louella," she said in a sweet voice. "No, you didn't wake me up. Nevada and I were just having breakfast. ... Yes, that's right — The Girl on the Flying Trapeze. It's a wonderful part. ... No, Norman decided against borrowing Gable from Metro. He says there's only one man who could do the part justice. ... Of course. Nevada, it's a natural for him. Wait a minute, I'll put him on and let him tell you himself."
She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "It's Parsons," she whispered quickly. "Bernie decided yesterday he wanted you to play the part of the stunt-rider. Louella's checking on the story."
"What's the matter?" Nevada asked dryly. ''Wouldn't MGM lend him Gable?"
"Don't be silly! Get on the phone."
"Hello, Louella."
The familiar, sticky-sweet voice chewed at his ear. "Congratulations, Nevada! I think it's just wonderful that you're to play opposite your lovely wife again!"
"Wait a minute, Louella." He laughed. "Not so fast. I’m not making the picture."
"You're not?" Another Parsons scoop was in the making. "Why?"
"I've already agreed to go out on the road with my Wild-West show," he said, "And that will keep me tied up for at least six months. While I'm away, Rina will look for another house for us. I think we'll both be more comfortable in a smaller place."
Her voice was businesslike now. "You're selling Hilltop?"
"Yes."
"To Thalberg?" she questioned. "I heard he was interested."
"I don't know," he said. "Several people have expressed interest."
"You'll let me know the moment you decide?"
"Of course."
"There's no trouble between you two?" she asked shrewdly.
"Louella!" He laughed. "You know better than that."
"I’m glad! You're both such nice people," she said. She hesitated a moment. "Keep in touch if there's any news."
"I will, Louella."
"Good luck to both of you!"
Nevada put down the telephone and looked across the table. He hadn't meant for it to come out this way, but there was nothing that could be done about it now.
Rina's face was white with anger. "You could have told me about it before you told the whole world!"
"Who had the chance?" he retorted, angry despite himself. "This is the first time we've talked in months. Besides, you might have told me about the picture."
"Bernie tried to get you all day yesterday but you never came to the phone."
"That's a lot of crap," he said. "I was home all day and he never called. Besides, I wouldn't have his handouts — or yours either, for that matter."
"Maybe if you took your nose out of that damn stable once in a while, you'd find out what was going on."
"I know what's going on," he said angrily. "You don't have to start acting like a movie star."
"Oh, what's the use?" she said bitterly. "What did you ever marry me for?"
"Or you me?" he asked, with equal bitterness.
As they stared at each other, the truth suddenly came to both of them. They had married because they both knew they had lost each other and wanted desperately to hold onto what was already gone. With the knowledge, the anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. "I'm sorry," he said.
She looked down at the coffeepot. "I am, too. I told you I was a spoiler, that I wouldn't be any good for you."
"Don't be silly," he said. "It wasn't your fault. It would have happened, anyway. The business is changing."
"I’m not talking about the business," Rina answered. "I'm talking about you and me. You should have married someone who could have given you a family. I've given you nothing."
"You can't take all the blame. We both tried in our own way but neither of us had what the other really needed. We just made a mistake, that's all."
"I won't be able to file for a divorce until after I finish this next picture," she said in a low voice. "It's all right with me if you want to file before then."
"No, I can wait," he said calmly.
She glanced up at the wall clock. "My God! I’m late!" she exclaimed. "I'll have to hurry."
At the door, she stopped and looked back at him. "Are you still my friend?"
He nodded his head slowly and returned her smile, but his voice was serious. "I’ll always be your friend."
She stood there for a moment and he could see the sudden rush of tears to her eyes, then she turned and ran from the room.
He walked over to the window, and lifting the curtain, looked out onto the front drive. He saw her come running from the house, saw the chauffeur close the door. The car disappeared down the hill on its way to the studio. He let the curtain fall back into place.
Rina never came back to the house. She stayed that night at Ilene's apartment. The next day, she moved into a hotel and three months later filed for divorce in Reno. The grounds were incompatibility.
And that, except for t
he legalities, was the way it ended.
17
David heard the violent slam of the door in his uncle's office. He got to his feet quickly and walked to the connecting door. He opened it and found his uncle Bernie seated in his chair, red faced and angry, gasping for breath. He was trying to shake some pills out of the inverted bottle in his hand.
David quickly filled a glass with water from the carafe on the desk and handed it to Norman. "What happened?"
Norman swallowed the two pills and put down the glass. He looked up at David. "Why didn't I go into the cloak-and-suit business with my brother, your uncle Louie?"
David knew no answer was expected, so he waited patiently until Norman continued. "Fifty, a hundred suits they make a day. Everything is calm, everything is quiet. At night, he goes home. He eats. He sleeps. No worries. No ulcers. No aggravations. That's the way a man should live. Easy. Not like a dog. Not like me."
David asked again, "What happened?"
"As if I haven't got enough troubles," Norman complained, "our stockholders say we're losing too much money. I run to New York to explain. The union threatens to strike the theaters. I sit down and work out a deal that at least they don't close the theaters. Then I get word from Europe that Hitler took over all our German properties, offices, theaters, everything! More than two million dollars the anti-semiten stole. Then I get a complaint from the underwriters and bankers, the pictures ain't got no prestige. So I buy the biggest, most artistic hit on Broadway. Sunspots the name of it is. It's so artistic, even I don't understand what it's all about.
"Now I'm stuck with an artistic bomb. I talk to all the directors in Hollywood about it. I'm not so dumb altogether that it don't take me long to find out they don't understand it neither, so I hire the director who did the play on the stage, Claude Dunbar, a faigele if I ever saw one. But fifty thousand he gets.
"A hundred and fifty I’m in already and no box office. So I call up Louie and say lend me Garbo. He laughs in my face. You ain't got enough money, he says. Besides, we got her in prestige of our own. Anna Christie by Eugene O'Neill she's making. Good-by, I says and call up Jack Warner. How about Bette Davis? Wait a minute, he says. I sit on the phone ten minutes.
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