JC1 The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  Amos came out while I was eating breakfast. He had a blanket wrapped around him like a toga. He shuffled over to the table and looked down at me. "Who stole my clothes?"

  In the daylight, he didn't look as bad as he had the night before. "I threw them out," I said. "Sit down and have some breakfast."

  He remained standing. He didn't speak. After a moment, he looked around the apartment. "Where's the girl?"

  "Sleeping," I said. "She was up all night, taking care of you."

  He thought about that. "I passed out?" It was more a statement than a question. I didn't answer.

  "I thought so," he said, nodding. Then he groaned. He raised his hand to his forehead, almost losing his blanket. "Somebody slipped me a Mickey," he said accusingly.

  "Try some food. It's supposed to have vitamins."

  "I need a drink," he said.

  "Help yourself. The bar's over there."

  He shuffled over to the bar and poured himself a shot. He drank it swiftly, throwing it down his throat. "Ah," he said. He took another quick one. Some color flooded back into his gray face.

  He shuffled back to the table, the bottle of whisky still in his hand, and slumped into the chair opposite me. "How'd you find me?"

  "It was easy. All we had to do was follow the trail of rubber checks."

  "Oh," he said. He poured another drink but left this one standing on the table in front of him. Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. "It wouldn't be so bad if it was anyone but you."

  I didn't answer, just kept on eating.

  "You don't know what it is to get old. You lose your touch."

  "You didn't lose it," I said. "You threw it away."

  He picked up the whisky glass.

  "If you're not interested in my proposition," I said, "just go ahead and drink that drink."

  He stared at me silently for a moment. Then he looked at the small, amber-filled glass in his hand. His hand trembled slightly and some of the whisky spilled on the tablecloth. "What makes you such a do-gooder all of a sudden?"

  "I'm not," I said. I reached for my coffee cup and smiled at him. "I haven't changed at all. I still think you're the world's champion prick. If it was up to me, I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole. But Forrester wants you to run our Canadian factory. The damn fool doesn't know you like I do. He still thinks you're the greatest."

  "Roger Forrester, huh?" he asked. Slowly the whisky glass came down to the table. "He tested the Liberty Five I designed right after the war. He said it was the greatest plane he ever flew."

  I stared at him silently. That was more than twenty years ago and there had been many great planes since then. But Amos remembered the Liberty Five. It was the plane that set him up in business.

  A hint of the Amos Winthrop I had known came into his face. "What's my end of the deal?" he asked shrewdly.

  I shrugged my shoulders. "That's between you and Roger," I said.

  "Good." A kind of dignity came over him as he got to his feet. "If I had to deal with you, I wouldn't be interested, at any price."

  He stalked back to his bedroom door. He turned and glared at me. "What do I do about clothes?"

  "There's a men's shop downstairs. Call them and have them send up what you want."

  The door closed behind him and I reached for a cigarette. I could hear the faint murmur of his voice on the telephone. Leaning back in the chair, I let the smoke drift idly out through my nose.

  When the clothing arrived, I had them leave it in his bedroom. Then the buzzer sounded again and I cursed to myself as I went to the door. I was beginning to feel like a bloody butler. I opened the door. "Hello, Mr. Cord."

  It was a child's voice. I looked down in surprise. Jo-Ann was standing next to Monica, clutching the doll I had given her in one hand and her mother's coat in the other.

  "McAllister sent me a telegram, on the train," Monica explained. "He said you'd probably be here. Did you find Amos?"

  I stared at her dumbly. Mac must be losing his marbles. He must have known there was a three-hour layover in Chicago and that Monica would show up here. What if I didn't want to see her?

  "Did you find Amos?" Monica repeated.

  "Yes, I found him."

  "Oh, goody," Jo-Ann suddenly exclaimed, spotting the breakfast table. "I'm hungry." She ran past me and climbing up on a chair, picked up a piece of toast. I stared after her in surprise.

  Monica looked up at me apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jonas," she said. "You know how children are."

  "You said we'd have breakfast with Mr. Cord, Mommy."

  Monica blushed. "Jo-Ann!"

  "It's all right," I said. "Won't you come in?"

  She came into the room and I closed the door. "I’ll order some breakfast for you," I said, going to the telephone.

  Monica smiled. "Just coffee for me," she said, taking off her coat.

  "Is the doctor here yet, Jonas?"

  Monica stared.

  I stared.

  Jennie stood in the open doorway, her long blond hair spilling down over the dark mink coat, which she held wrapped around her like a robe. Her bare neck and legs made it obvious she wore nothing beneath it.

  The smile had gone from Monica's face. Her eyes were cold as she turned to me. "I beg your pardon, Jonas," she said stiffly. "I should have known from experience to call before I came up."

  She crossed the room and took the child's hand. "Come on, Jo-Ann."

  They were almost to the door before I found my voice. "Wait a minute, Monica," I said harshly.

  Amos' voice cut me off. "Ah, just in time, child," he said calmly. "We can leave together."

  I turned to look at him. The sick, dirty old man we had found in the bar last night had disappeared. It was the Amos of old who stood there, dressed neatly in a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit, with a dark chesterfield thrown casually over his arm. He was every inch the senior executive, the man in charge.

  There was a faintly malicious smile on his lips as he crossed the room and turned, his hand on the door. "My children and I do not wish to impose— " He paused and bowed slightly in the direction of Jennie. Angrily I started toward the door. I opened it and heard the elevator doors open and close, then there was silence in the hall.

  "I’m sorry, Jonas," Jennie said. "I didn't mean to louse things up for you."

  I looked at her. Her eyes were large with sympathy. "You didn't do anything," I said. "Things were loused up a long time ago."

  I went to the bar and poured myself a drink. All the good feeling had gone. This was the last time I'd ever play the good Samaritan. I swallowed the drink and turned back to Jennie. "Did you ever get laid in a mink coat?" I asked angrily.

  There was sadness and understanding on her face. "No."

  I poured myself another drink and swallowed it. We stood there, looking at each other silently across the room for a moment. Finally, I spoke. "Well?"

  Her eyes still on mine, she nodded slowly. Then she raised her arms and held them out toward me, the coat falling open, away from her naked body. When she spoke, there was a note in her voice as if she'd always known that this was the way it was going to be. "Come to mother, baby," she whispered gently.

  The Story of

  JENNIE DENTON

  Book Eight

  1

  Jennie walked through the curtained doorway into the camera and the director shouted, "Cut! Wrap it up!" And it was over.

  She stood there for a moment, dazed, blinking her eyes for a moment as the powerful kliegs dimmed. Then the oppressive August heat came down on her and she felt faint. She reached out a hand to steady herself. As if from a distance, she heard the giant sound stage turn into bedlam. It seemed that everybody was laughing and talking at once.

  Someone pressed a glass of water into her hands. She drank it quickly, gratefully. Suddenly, she began to shiver, feeling a chill, and the dresser quickly threw a robe over her shoulders, covering the diaphanous costume. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "You're welc
ome, Miss Denton," the dresser said. He looked at her peculiarly for a moment. "You feeling all right?"

  "I'm fine," Jennie said. She felt cold perspiration breaking out on her forehead. The dresser gestured and the make-up man hurried up. He swabbed at her face quickly with a moist sponge. The faint aroma of witch hazel came up in her nostrils and she began to feel better.

  "Miss Denton," the make-up man said, "you'd better lie down for a while. You're exhausted."

  Docilely she let him lead her back to the small portable dressing room. She looked back over her shoulder as she went in. The bottles were out and the whisky flowing. Everyone was gathered around the director, shouting congratulations, supplying him with the adoration they felt necessary to insure their employment on his next picture. Already, they seemed to have forgotten her.

  She closed the door behind her and stretched out on the cot. She closed her eyes wearily. The three months the picture was supposed to take had stretched out into five. Five months of day-and-night shooting, of exhaustion, of getting up at five o'clock in the morning and falling into bed like a stone at midnight, and sometimes later. Five months, until all the meaning that had been in the script was lost in a maze of retakes, rewrites and plain confusion.

  She began to shiver again and pulled the light wool blanket up over her and lay there trembling. She closed her eyes. She turned on her side, drawing her knees up and hugging herself. Slowly the heat from her body condensed around her and she began to feel better.

  When she opened her eyes, Ilene Gaillard was seated on a chair opposite. She hadn't even heard her come into the small room. "Hello," Jennie said, sitting up. "Was I asleep long?"

  Ilene smiled. "About an hour. You needed it."

  "I feel so silly," Jennie said. "I usually don't go off like that. But I felt so weak."

  "You've been under a terrible strain. But you have nothing to worry about. When this picture comes out, you're going to be a big star — one of the biggest."

  "I hope so," Jennie said humbly. She looked at Ilene. "When I think of all those people, how hard they worked and how much they put into the picture. I couldn't bear it if I turned out to be a disappointment to them."

  "You won't. From what I saw of the rushes, you were great." Ilene got to her feet and looked down at Jennie. "I think you could use a hot drink."

  Jennie smiled when she saw Ilene take down the can of cocoa. "Chocolate?"

  "Why not?" Ilene said. "It will give you more energy than tea. Besides, you don't have to worry about your diet any more. The picture is finished."

  "Thank God for that," Jennie said, standing up. "One more lunch of cottage cheese and I was ready to throw up." She crossed the tiny room to the closet. "I might as well get out of this."

  Ilene nodded. She watched as Jennie slipped out of the costume — the sheer, flowing silk harem pantaloons, the diaphanous gauze blouse and gold-beaded blue velvet jacket that had been her costume in the last scene. She scanned the girl's figure appreciatively, her designer's eyes pleased with what she saw.

  She was glad now that Jonas had sent for her. She had not felt that way at first. She hadn't wanted to come back to Hollywood, back to the gossip, the jockeying for importance, the petty jealousies. But most of all, she hadn't wanted to come back to the memories.

  But as she'd studied the photograph, something about the girl had drawn her back. She could understand what Jonas had seen in her. There was something of Rina about her but she also had a quality that was peculiarly her own.

  It wasn't until she'd studied the photograph a long while that she realized what it was. It was the strangely ascetic translucence that shone from the photograph despite its purely sensuous appeal. The eyes in the picture looked out at you with the clear innocence of a child, behind their worldly knowledge. It was the face of a girl who had kept her soul untouched, no matter what she had experienced.

  Jennie fastened her brassière and pulled the thick black sweater down until it met the top of her baggy slacks. She sat down and took the cup of steaming chocolate from Ilene. "Suddenly, I'm empty," she said, sipping at it. "I'm all used up."

  Ilene smiled and tasted her own cup of chocolate. "Everyone feels like that when a picture is finished."

  "I feel that I could never make another movie," Jennie continued thoughtfully. "That another part wouldn't make any sense to me at all. Somehow, it's like all of me went into this picture and I've nothing left at all."

  Ilene smiled again. "That will disappear the moment they put the next script into your hands."

  "Do you think so?" Jennie asked. "Is that what happens?"

  Ilene nodded. "Every time."

  A blast of noise came through the thin walls. Jennie smiled. "They're having themselves a ball out there."

  "Cord ordered a table of food sent down from the commissary. He's got two men tending bar." Ilene finished her chocolate and put the cup down. She got to her feet and looked down at the girl. "I really came in to say good-by."

  Jennie looked up at her questioningly. "You're leaving?"

  Ilene nodded. "I'm going back East on the train tonight."

  "Oh," Jennie said. She put down her cup and stood up. She held her hand out to Ilene. "Thank you for everything you've done. I've learned a great deal from you."

  Ilene took her hand. "I didn't want to come back but I'm glad now that I did."

  They shook hands formally. "I hope we'll work together again," Jennie said.

  Ilene started for the door. She looked back at Jennie. "I'm sure that we will," she said. "If you want me, write. I'd be glad to come."

  In a moment, the door opened again and Al Petrocelli, the publicity manager, stuck his head in. A blast of music came from behind him. "Come on," he said. "The party's going great guns. Cord sent over an orchestra."

  She put down her cigarette. "Just a minute," she said, turning to the mirror and straightening her hair.

  He stared at her. "You're not coming like that?" he asked incredulously.

  "Why not? The picture's finished."

  He came into the room and closed the door behind him. "But, Jennie baby, try to understand. Life magazine is covering the party. How would it look to their readers if the star of the biggest picture we've made in ten years was wearing a loose black sweater and pants? We've got to give 'em more to look at than that."

  "I’m not getting into that costume again," Jennie said stubbornly.

  "Please, baby. I promised them some cheesecake."

  "If that's what they want, give them the photo file."

  "Now is no time to make with the temperament," Al said. "Look, you've been a good girl up to now. Just this once, please."

  "It's O.K., Al." Bonner's voice came from behind him. "If Jennie doesn't want to change, she doesn't have to." He smiled his pleasantly ugly smile as he came into the tiny dressing room. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I think it might be a welcome change for Life's readers."

  Al looked at him. "O.K. if you say so, Mr. Bonner," he said.

  Bonner turned to her, smiling. "Well, you did it."

  She didn't answer, just looked at him.

  "I’ve been thinking about you," he said, his eyes on her face. "You're going to be a big star."

  She didn't say anything.

  "The Sinner is going to be a tough picture to follow."

  "I hadn't thought about it," she said.

  "Of course. You haven't and neither has Jonas." Bonner laughed. "But why should you? That's not your job. It's mine. All Jonas does is what he feels like doing. If he wants to make a picture, he makes a picture. But it might be another eight years before he feels like it again."

  "So?" she said, meeting his eyes levelly.

  He shrugged his shoulders. "It's up to me to keep you working. If you go that long between pictures, they’ll forget all about you." He reached into his jacket for a package of cigarettes. "Is that Mexican woman still working for you?"

  "Yes."

  "Still living in the same place?"


  "Of course."

  "I thought I might drop by one evening next week," he said. "I’ve got some scripts we might go over."

  She was silent.

  "Jonas is going away," he said. "To Canada, on a business trip." He smiled. "You know, I think it's fortunate he hasn't heard any of the stories about you, don't you?"

  She let her breath out slowly. "Yes."

  "I thought maybe Wednesday night."

  "You'd better call first," she said through stiff lips.

  "Of course, I forgot. Nothing has changed, has it?"

  She looked up at him. "No," she said dully. Then she walked past him to the door. A great weariness came into her. Nothing had changed. Things turned out the way they always did for her. Nothing ever changed but the currency.

  2

  She awoke to the sight of white linen floating in the wind on the clothesline outside the window. The rich aroma of corned beef and cabbage, wafting into her room on the heavy summer breeze from the kitchen next door, told her it was Sunday. It was always like that on Sundays, only when you were a little girl it had been more fun.

  On Sundays, when she'd returned from church with her mother, her father would be awake and smiling, his mustache neatly trimmed and waxed, his face smooth and smelling of bay rum. He tossed her into the air and caught her as she came down, hugging her close to him and growling, "How is my little Jennie Bear this morning? Is she sweet and filled with God's holiness fresh from the fount in the back of the church?"

  He laughed and she laughed and sometimes even her mother laughed, saying, "Now, Thomas Denton, is that the proper way for a father to talk to his own daughter, sowing in her the seeds of his own disobedience to God's will?"

  Her father and mother were both young and filled with laughter and happiness and God's own good sunshine that shone down on San Francisco Bay. And after the big dinner, he dressed himself carefully in his good blue suit and took her by the hand and they went out of the house to seek adventure.

  They first met adventure on the cable car that ran past their door. Holding her in his arms, her father leaped aboard the moving car, and waving his blue-and-white conductor's pass, which entitled him to ride free on any of the company's cars, pushed forward to the front of the car, next to the motorman. There he held her face up to the rushing wind until the breath caught in her throat and she thought she'd burst with the joy of the fresh, sweet wind in her lungs.