The Carpetbaggers

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The Carpetbaggers Page 20

by Robbins, Harold


  Dalton's face turned red with anger. "Come off it, Jonas. Get down to business. For the past month and a half, all you been doin' is spending time at that goddam studio. While you're jerkin' off with that lousy picture, we got to find ourselves a plane to build. If we don't, the whole industry will get ahead of us."

  I stared at him, unsmiling. "As far as I'm concerned," I said, "we have one."

  "You're not- " he said incredulously, "you don't mean you're goin' to take a chance with this?"

  I nodded, then turned to Morrissey. "You can start building the plane right away."

  "Wait a minute," Dalton snapped. "If you think ICA is going to foot the bill, you're crazy. Don't forget I own half of the stock."

  "And Cord Explosives owns the other half," I said. "Cord Explosives also holds over half a million dollars of mortgages on ICA planes, most of which are past due right now. If I foreclosed on them, I'd wind up owning all of Inter-Continental Airlines."

  He stared at me angrily for a moment, then his face relaxed into a grin. "I shoulda known better, Jonas. I shoulda learned my lesson when I lost that Waco to you in the poker game."

  I smiled back. "You're a great flier, Buzz. You stick to flying and leave the business end to me. I’ll make a rich man out of you yet."

  He reached for a cigarette. "O.K.," he said easily. "But I still think you're nuts to build this plane. We could lose our shirt on it."

  I didn't answer as we walked out to my car. There was no use explaining to Buzz the simple rules of credit. ICA would order twenty of these planes from Cord Aircraft. The two companies would then give chattel mortgages on them to Cord Explosives. And Cord Explosives would discount those mortgages at the banks, even before the planes were built. The worst that could happen, if the plane was no good, was that Cord Explosives would end up with a whopping tax deduction.

  I got into the car. "Good luck with the picture!" Buzz yelled after me as I pulled away.

  I turned into the main gate at the Norman studios. The guard looked out and waved me on. "Good morning, Mr. Cord," he called. "Good luck, sir."

  I smiled and drove toward the parking lot. There was a small marker with my name on it. mr. cord. They didn't miss a trick when it came to sucking ass. There was a reserved table with my name on it in the executive dining room. I also had a private bungalow with a suite of offices and two secretaries, a liquor cabinet stocked to the brim, an electric refrigerator, a private can and shower, a dressing room, a conference room and two secretarial offices in addition to my own.

  I went through the back door of my bungalow and directly into my office. I wasn't at the desk more than a moment when one of the secretaries came in. She stood in front of the desk, looking very efficient with her notebook and pencil. "Good morning, Mr. Cord," she said brightly. "Any dictation?"

  I shook my head. You'd think by this time she'd know better. For the past five weeks, this had been going on every morning. I never write anything – messages, memos, instructions. If I want anything written, I call McAllister. That's what lawyers are for.

  The telephone on my desk buzzed. She picked it up. "Mr. Cord's office." She listened a moment, then turned to me. "They've completed rehearsal on Stage Nine. And they're ready for their first take. They want to know if you'd like to come down."

  I got up. "Tell them I’m on my way."

  Stage Nine was at the far end of the lot. We built the New Orleans set there because we figured it was quieter and there wouldn't be any interfering sounds coming across from the other stages. I began to hurry along the brick paths, cursing the distance, until I saw a messenger's bicycle leaning against one of the executive bungalows. A moment later, I was pedaling like mad down the path. I heard the messenger start yelling behind me.

  I pulled around to front of Stage Nine and almost clashed into a man opening the door. He stood there and looked at me in shocked surprise. It was Bernie Norman. "Why, Mr. Cord," he said. "You didn't have to do that. You could have called for a car to bring you down here."

  I leaned the bike against the wall. "I didn't have time, Mr. Norman," I said. "They said they were ready to start. It's my money and my time they're spending in there."

  They were ready to play the first scene, the one where Max, as a young man, is having his first interview with the madam of the fancy house. That wasn't the opening of the picture, but that's the way they shoot them. They make all the interior scenes first, then the exteriors. When it's all finished, an editor splices it together in its proper sequence.

  The actress playing the madam was Cynthia Randall, Norman's biggest female star. She was supposed to be the sexiest thing in the movies. Personally, she didn't do a thing for me. I like my women with tits. Two make-up men and a hairdresser were hovering over her as she sat in front of the dressing table that was part of the set.

  Nevada was standing over in the other corner, his back to me, talking to Rina. He turned around as I came up and a chill ran through me as memory dragged up a picture of him from my childhood. He looked even younger than he did when I first saw him. I don't know how he did it; even his eyes were the eyes of a young man.

  He smiled slowly. "Well, Junior. Here we go."

  I nodded, still staring at him. "Yeah," I said. "Here we go."

  Somebody yelled, "Places, everybody!"

  "I guess that means me," Nevada said.

  Rina's face was turned toward the set, a rapt expression in her eyes. A man pushed past carrying a cable. I turned away from him and almost bumped into another man. I decided to get out of the way before I did any damage.

  I wound up near the sound booth. From there I could see and hear everything. Now I knew why pictures cost so much money. We were on our eleventh take of that same scene when I noticed the sound man in the booth. He was bent over the control board, his earphones tight to his head, twisting the dials crazily. Every other moment, I could see his lips move in silent curses, then he would spin the dials again.

  "Something wrong with the machine?" I asked.

  He looked up at me. I could tell from his look he didn't know who I was. "There's nothing wrong with the machine," he said.

  "Something's bothering you?"

  "Look, buddy," he said. "We both need our jobs, right?"

  I nodded.

  "When the boss tells yuh to make somebody look good, yuh do what he says – yuh don't ask no questions. Right?"

  "Right," I said.

  "Well, I'm doin' my best. But I ain't God. I can't change the sound of voices."

  I stared at him, a kind of dismay creeping over me. I had only Rina's word that Nevada's voice test had been O.K. "You mean Nevada Smith?"

  He shook his head. "Naah," he said contemptuously. "He's O.K. It's the dame. She comes over so nasal it sounds like her voice is coming out of her eyeballs."

  The sound man turned back to his machine. I reached over and snatched the earphones off his head. He turned angrily. "What the hell's the idea?"

  But I had them on by then and there was nothing he could do but stand there. Nevada was speaking. His voice came through fine – there was a good sound to it. Then Cynthia Randall began to speak and I didn't know whether to believe my eyes or my ears.

  Her voice had all the irritating qualities of a cat wailing on the back fence, with none of the sexual implications. It shivered its way down my spine. A voice like that could put an end to sex, even in the fanciest house in New Orleans. I ripped the earphones from my head and thrust them into the sound man's astonished hands. I started out on the set. A man grabbed at me but I angrily pushed him aside.

  A voice yelled, "Cut!" and a sudden silence fell over the set. Everyone was staring at me with strangely startled expressions.

  I was seething. All I knew was that someone had played me for a patsy and I didn't like it. I think the girl knew why I was there. A look of caution appeared in her eyes, even as she tried to bring a smile to her lips.

  Bernie Norman hurried onto the set. A flicker of relief showed in her face and
I knew the whole story. She reached for Bernie's arm as he turned toward me. "Mr. Cord," he asked, "is anything wrong?"

  "Yeah," I said grimly. "Her. Get her off the set. She's fired!"

  "You just can't do that, Mr. Cord!" he exclaimed. "She has a contract for this picture!"

  "Maybe she has," I admitted, "but not with me. It wasn't my pen she squeezed the last drop of ink out of."

  Bernie stared at me, the pale coming up underneath his tan. He knew what I was talking about. "This is highly irregular," he protested. "Miss Randall is a very important star."

  "I don't care if she's the Mother of God," I interrupted. I held out my wrist and looked down at the watch and then back up at him. "You've got exactly five minutes to get her off this set or I’ll close down this picture and hit you with the biggest lawsuit you ever had!"

  I sat down on the canvas chair with my name on it and looked around the now deserted set. Only a few people hovered about, moving like disembodied ghosts at a banquet. I looked over at the sound man hunched over his control board, his earphones still glued to his head. I closed my eyes wearily. It was after ten o'clock at night.

  I heard footsteps approaching and opened my eyes. It was Dan Pierce. He'd been on the phone trying to borrow a star from one of the other studios. "Well?" I asked.

  He shook his head negatively. "No dice. MGM wouldn't lend us Garbo. They're planning a talking picture for her themselves."

  "What about Marion Davies?"

  "I just hung up on her. She loves the part but it isn't the kind of thing she feels she can do. Maybe we should've stuck with Cynthia Randall. It's costing you thirty grand a day to sit around like this."

  I lit the cigarette and stared up at him. "I’d rather drop it now than be laughed out of the theater and lose it all later."

  "Maybe we could bring an actress in from New York?"

  "We haven't the time," I said. "Ten days, three hundred grand."

  Just then, Rina came up with some sandwiches. "I thought you'd be hungry," she said, "so I sent out for these."

  I took one and bit into it somberly. She turned and gave one to the second man. "Thanks, Miss Marlowe."

  "You're welcome," she said and walked back to where she'd been sitting with Nevada.

  "Too bad you can't find one that sounds like her," the sound man mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich.

  I looked at him. "What do you mean?"

  "She's got somethin' in her voice that gets yuh," he said. "If it came through on the sound track like that, you'd have them falling out of the balconies."

  I stared at him now. "You mean Rina?"

  He nodded and swallowed his mouthful. "Yeah." A slow, meaningful grin came to his lips. "An' if I ain't crazy, she'd photograph like a roll in the hay, too. She's all woman."

  I turned to Dan. "What do you think?"

  "It's possible," he admitted cautiously.

  "Then, let's go," I said, getting to my feet. "Thirty grand a day is a lot of money."

  Rina took it as a big joke when I asked her to speak a few of the lines into the microphone. She still didn't think I meant it when I called the crew back for a full-scale screen test. I don't think she took me seriously at all until we sat in the screening room at two that morning and watched her and Nevada play one scene.

  I’d never seen anything like her on the screen before. Whatever it was she had, it was twice as strong up there on the screen. She just plain made your mouth water.

  I turned to her. "Go home and go to bed. I want you in wardrobe at six o'clock tomorrow morning. We start shooting at nine."

  She shook her head. "Uh-uh, Jonas. The joke's gone far enough. I won’t have any part of it."

  "You be on that set ready to shoot at nine!" I said grimly. "You're the one who called, not me, remember?"

  I looked at Nevada. There was a puzzled expression on his face. And something about the clear innocence in his eyes hit me wrong. "And you better see to it that she shows up!" I said angrily.

  I turned and stormed out of the projection room, leaving them staring after me with shocked faces.

  8

  I OPENED ONE EYE SLOWLY AND PEERED AT my wrist watch. Two o'clock! I sat up quickly and the pain almost split my skull. I groaned out loud and the door opened.

  It was Dan, already dressed in cream-colored slacks and a loud sports shirt. He held a glass of what looked like tomato juice. "Here," he said. "Drink it down, pal. It'll wash the fuzz away."

  I lifted the glass to my lips. It tasted awful going down but he was right. A moment later, my head began to clear. I looked around the bedroom. It was a shambles. "Where are the girls?" I asked.

  "I paid them off an' sent them home."

  "Good." I got to my feet woozily. "I gotta get down to the studio. They were going to start shooting at nine."

  Dan smiled. "I called and told them you were tied up but would get down there this afternoon. I figured it was better if you got some sleep. That was a hectic night."

  I grinned at him. It sure was.

  Dan and I had really tied one on the night before. I'd met him coming off the set and offered to give him a lift downtown. But on the way we'd decided to stop and eat. I was wound up tighter than a dollar watch and he'd offered to help me unwind. Steaks at a spot he knew, which ought to have been closed but wasn't, along with bourbon and later the works. The works came out of his little black book, which all agents seem to carry. I'd unwound all right but now I wondered if they'd ever be able to wind me up again.

  His Jap houseboy had shirred eggs and sausages ready when I came out of the shower. I was starved. I ate six eggs and about a dozen of the little bangers. When I put down my fourth cup of coffee Dan smiled and asked, "How are yuh feeling now?"

  I grinned back at him. "I never felt better in my life." It was true. For once I felt relaxed and loose. There wasn't the usual tightening in my gut as I thought about the day. "You said something about getting down to business?"

  We'd talked the night before, more than I usually did with a stranger. But Dan Pierce was different. He was a type I hadn't encountered before and he fascinated me. He was tough, shrewd and knew what he wanted. I was in over my head and I knew it. I wouldn't be for long, but until I got the hang of it I could use someone like Dan Pierce.

  "I sold my agency this morning to MCA."

  "What for?"

  "Because I'm coming in with you."

  "Aren't you jumping the gun a little?" I asked. "I'm only in for this one picture. What’ll you do after that?"

  Dan smiled. "That's what you say. It even might be what you really believe, right now. But I know different. You got a feel for this business – a natural feel for it that not many people have. And there's a challenge that you can't resist. You just found another gambling game. You'll stick."

  I sipped at the coffee. It was strong and black, just the way I liked it. "And just how do you figure you can help?" I asked.

  "Because I know all the angles in this business, all the dirty tricks it would take you a long time to find out about. You're a busy man and time's the most valuable thing you've got. I wouldn't be worth half as much if motion pictures were your only business. But it's not. And it never will be. It's just another game of craps."

  I stared at him. "Give me a free sample."

  "For one thing," he said quickly, "I wouldn't have started the picture until I'd had a sound test on everyone."

  "That's something I already learned. I want a sample of what I don't know."

  He reached around behind him for a blue-covered script. "If Rina comes off on the screen like that test indicates, we can make a few changes in this and save ourselves four hundred thousand dollars."

  "How?"

  "By building up her story and confining more of the picture to the New Orleans episode. It'll save five weeks of exteriors and nobody knows yet how good those microphones work outside."

  I reached for a cigarette. "If we did that," I said slowly, "what happens to Nevada? His part would
be cut way down."

  Dan's eyes met mine steadily. "Nevada's not my problem any more, he's MGA's. I'm workin' for you now an' I figure you already used up all the sentiment you're entitled to on this picture. This is just like any other kind of business. The big thing is to make money."

  I dragged on the butt and sipped at the coffee. For the first time since Rina called, I was back to normal. For a while, she'd had me spinning like a top. I didn't know whether I was coming or going. I felt different now. "What kind of deal do you have in mind?"

  "No salary. Just a ten-per-cent piece of the action and an expense account."

  I laughed. "I thought you said you sold your agency."

  "That's the only way I can figure my compensation without adding to your overhead."

  "Don't kid me," I said. "You'd be living off the expense account."

  "Sure I will. But even with a salary, I would. How do you expect me to do a job for you if I can't spend money? Money is the only thing in this town nobody talks back to."

  "I’ll give you a ten-per-cent participation in profits. But no stock interest."

  He studied me for a moment. "What about the expense account?"

  "That's O.K."

  He stuck out his hand. "It's a deal."

  It was after three o'clock when we walked onto Stage Nine. The place was jumping, a mumble of buzzing, efficient noise, as they got ready for the next take. Nevada was standing on the edge of the set; Rina wasn't anywhere in sight. I stopped near the sound man. "How's it coming?"

  He looked up at me and grinned. "Sounds great," he said, tapping his earphones.

  I smiled and walked over to Nevada. He was talking to the director and they both turned as I came up. "How's she doing?"

  The new director shrugged. "She was a little nervous at first but she's settling down. She'll be O.K."

  "She’ll be great," Nevada said warmly. "I never figured all the times she cued me on the script that it would come in handy for her too."

 

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