The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  "It's all right, but let me warn you. Do not be upset by her appearance. We had to cut off most of her hair to make the electroencephalogram."

  Ilene closed the door of her office and crossed to her desk. There were some preliminary sketches of the costumes for a new picture waiting for her approval. She flicked on the light and walked over to the built-in bar.

  She took down a bottle of Scotch and filled a glass with ice cubes. Covering the ice with the whisky, she went back to her desk, sat down and picked up the sketches. She sipped at the drink as she studied them.

  She pressed a button in the arm of her chair and an overhead spotlight set in the ceiling shone down onto the drawings. She turned her chair toward the pedestal on her left, trying to imagine the dress on the model.

  But her eyes kept misting over with tears. The sketches seemed to disappear and all she could see was Rina standing there on the pedestal, the white light shining down on her long blond hair – the white-blond hair that still hung in angry clinging tufts to the pillow under her shorn head.

  "Why did you have to do it, God?" she cried aloud angrily at the ceiling. "Why do you always have to destroy the beautiful things? Isn't there enough ugliness in the world?"

  The tears kept blurring in her eyes, but through them, she could still see Rina as she stood on the pedestal for the first time, the white silk shimmering down over her body.

  It wasn't long ago. Five years. And the white silk was for a wedding gown. It was just before Rina's marriage to Nevada Smith.

  15

  It started out as a quiet wedding but it turned into a circus, the biggest publicity stunt ever to come out of Hollywood. And all because David Woolf had finally made it into the bed of the redheaded extra who had a bit-role in The Renegade.

  Though he was a junior publicist, just one step above the lowest clerk in the department, and made only thirty-five a week, David was a very big man with the girls. This could be explained in one word. Nepotism. Bernie Norman was his uncle.

  Not that it did him much good. But the girls didn't know that. How could they know that Norman could scarcely stand the sight of his sister's son and had only given him the job to shut her up? Now, in order to keep his nephew from annoying him, he had given his three secretaries orders to bar David from his office, no matter what the emergency.

  This annoyed David, but right now it was far from his mind. He was twenty-three and there were more important considerations at hand. What a difference between the broads out here and those back home. He thought of the usherettes back at the Bijou Theater in New York, the frightened little Italian girls and the big brassy Irish, and the quickies that took place in the deserted second balcony or out on the empty stage in back of the big screen while the picture unfurled itself over their nervous heads. Even back there, Bernie Norman's name had been a help to him. Why else would they take an eighteen-year-old kid off a junk wagon and make him an assistant manager?

  The girl was talking. At first David didn't hear her. "What did you say?" he asked.

  "I’d like to go to the Nevada Smith wedding."

  Her position may have been oblique but her approach wasn't. He recognized it. "It's going to be a small affair," he said.

  Her voice was clearer now as she looked up at him. "There'll still be a lot of important people there who'd never see me any other way."

  "I’ll see what I can do," he said.

  It was a little while later, when he was making his third greedy attempt to grab the brass ring, that the idea came to him. "Yeow!" he yelled suddenly as the far-reaching implications unfurled in his mind.

  Startled, the girl looked up at him and saw a blindly rapt expression on his face. "Take it easy, honey. You'll wake the neighbors," she whispered softly, thinking he had reached his climax.

  And, in a manner of speaking, he had.

  Bernie Norman prided himself on being the first executive in the studio each day. Every morning at seven o'clock, his long black chauffeur-driven limousine would swirl through the massive steel gates of the executive entrance and draw to a stop in front of his office building. He liked to get in early, he always said, because it gave him a chance to go through his correspondence, which was at least twice as voluminous as that of anyone else in the studio, before his three secretaries came in. That way, the rest of his day could be left free for anyone who came to his door. His door was always open, he claimed.

  Actually, he got there early because he was a born snoop. Though no one ever spoke about it, everyone in the studio knew what he did the moment the front door closed behind him. He would prowl through the silent offices, executive and secretary alike, looking at the papers lying on desks, peeking into whatever desk drawers happened to be unlocked and examining the contents of every letter and memo. It got so that whenever an executive wanted to be sure that something got to Norman's attention, he would leave a rough draft of his message lying innocently on his desk when he went home.

  Norman justified this to himself easily. He was merely keeping his finger on the pulse of things. How could one man control so complicated an organization, otherwise?

  He arrived at the door to his own private office that morning about eight o'clock, his inspection having taken a little longer than usual. He sighed heavily and opened his door. Problems, always problems.

  He started for his desk, then froze with horror. His nephew David was asleep on his couch, sheaves of papers strewn over the floor around him. Bernie could feel the anger bubbling up inside him.

  He crossed the room and pulled David from the couch. "What the hell are you doing sleeping in my office, you bum bastard!" he shouted.

  David sat up, startled. He rubbed his eyes. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was looking at some papers and I must have dozed off."

  "Papers!" Norman yelled. "What papers?" Quickly he picked one up. He turned horror-stricken eyes back to his nephew. "The production contract for The Renegade!" he accused. "My own confidential file!"

  "I can explain," David said quickly, awake now.

  "No explanations!" Norman said dramatically. He pointed to the door. "Out! If you're not out of the studio in five minutes, I'll call the guards and have you thrown out. You're through. Fired! Fartig! One thing we don't tolerate in this studio – sneaks and spies. My own sister's son! Go."

  "Aw, come off it, Uncle Bernie," David said, getting to his feet.

  "Come off it, he tells me!" Norman roared. "Half the night his mama keeps me up with telephone calls." His voice unconsciously mimicked his sister's nasal whine. " 'My Duvidele didn't come home yet, all night he didn't come home. Maybe he vass in a accident.' Accident, hah! I should tell her her little Duvidele was fucking all night the redheaded shiksa extra from the studio, hah! Get out!"

  David stared at his uncle. "How did you know?"

  "Know?" his uncle roared. "I know everything that goes on in this studio. You think I built a business like this fucking in furnished rooms all night? No! I worked, I tell you, I worked like a dirty dog. Day and night!"

  He walked over to the chair behind his desk and sank into it. He clasped his hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture. "Aggravation like this, from my own flesh and blood first thing in the morning, I need like another luch im kopf!" He unlocked his desk and took out a bottle of pills. Quickly he swallowed two and leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed.

  David looked at his uncle. "You all right, Uncle Bernie?"

  Slowly Norman opened his eyes. "You still here?" he asked in the voice of a man making a supreme effort to control himself. "Go!" His eyes fell on the papers still on the floor. "First pick up the papers," he added quickly. "Then go!"

  "You don't even know why I came here this morning," David said tentatively. "Something very important came up."

  His uncle opened his eyes and looked at him. "If it's something important, come to see me like everybody else. You know my door is always open."

  "Open?" David laughed sarcastically. "If Christ himself came into this
studio, those three harpies wouldn't let him in to see you!"

  "Don't bring religion into it!" Norman held up a warning hand. "You know my policy. Everybody's the same as everybody else. Somebody wants to see me, they talk to my number-three girl, she talks to my number-two girl, my number-two girl talks to my number-one girl. My number-one girl thinks it important enough, she talks to me and the next thing you know, you're in my office!" He snapped his fingers. "Like that! But don't come sneaking around in the night, looking at confidential papers! Now go!"

  "O.K." David started for the door. He should have known better than to try to do anything for the old bastard. "I’m going," he said bitterly. "But when I walk out this door, you look good – real good, because you're throwing out a million dollars along with me!"

  "Wait a minute!" his uncle called after him. "I like to be fair. You said you had something important to tell me? So tell it. I’m listening."

  David closed the door. "Next month, before the picture opens, Nevada Smith and Rina Marlowe are getting married," he said.

  "You're telling me something?" His uncle glowered. "Who cares? They didn't even invite me to the wedding. Besides, Nevada's finished."

  "Maybe," David said. ''But the girl isn't. You saw the picture?"

  "Of course I saw the picture!" Norman snapped. "We're sneaking it tonight."

  "Well, after the sneak, she's going to be the hottest thing in the business."

  His uncle looked up at him, a respect dawning in his eyes. "So?"

  "From the papers, I see nobody's got her under contract," David said. "You sign her this morning. Then- "

  His uncle was already nodding his head.

  "Then you tell them you want to give them the wedding. As a present from the studio. We'll make it the biggest thing ever to hit Hollywood. It'll add five million to the gross."

  "So what good does that do us?" Norman asked. "We don't own any of the picture, we don't share in the profits."

  "We get a distribution fee, don't we?" David asked, his confidence growing as he saw the intent look on his uncle's face. "Twenty-five per cent of five million is one and a quarter million dollars. Enough to carry half the cost of our whole distribution setup for a whole year. And the beautiful thing about it is we can charge all our expenses for the wedding to publicity and slap the charge right back against the picture. That way, it doesn't cost us one penny. Cord pays everything out of his share of the profit."

  Norman got to his feet. There were tears in his eyes. "I knew it! Blood will tell!" he cried dramatically. "From now on you're working for me. You're my assistant! I’ll tell the girls to have the office next door made ready for you. More than this I couldn't ask from my own son – if I had a son!"

  "There's one more thing."

  "There is?" Norman sat down again. "What?"

  "I think we should try to make a deal with Cord to do a picture a year for us."

  Norman shook his head. "Oh, no! We got enough crazy ones around here without him."

  "He's got a feeling for pictures. You can see it in The Renegade."

  "It was a lucky accident."

  "No it wasn't," David insisted. "I was on the set through the whole thing. There wasn't anything in the picture that he didn't have something to do with. If it wasn't for him, Marlowe would never be the star she's going to be. He has the greatest eye for cunt I ever saw in my life."

  "He's a goy," Norman said deprecatingly. "What do they know about cunt?"

  "The goyim knew about cunt before Adam led Eve out of the Garden of Eden."

  "No," Norman said.

  "Why not?"

  "That kind of man I don't want around," Norman said. "He won't be satisfied just to make a picture. Pretty soon, he'll want to run the whole thing. He's a balabuss, he's not the kind who would work with partners."

  He got up and walked around the desk toward his nephew. "No," he said. "Him I won't do business with. But your other ideas I like. This morning we'll go out and get the girl's signature on the contract. Then we'll tell them about the wedding. Nevada won't like it but he'll do it. After all, he's got his own money in the picture and he won't be taking any chances!"

  David saw to it that a special print of the newsreel of the wedding was sent on to Cord, who was in Europe at the time. When Jonas walked into the small screening room in London, where he had arranged for it to be run off, the lights immediately went down and a blast of music filled the room. On the screen, lettering was coming out of a turning camera until there was nothing else to be seen.

  NORMAN NEWSREEL

  THE FIRST WITH

  THE FINEST IN

  PICTURES!

  The dramatically somber voice of the narrator came on under a long shot of a church, around which crowds of people swirled.

  All Hollywood, all the world, is agog with excitement over the fairy-tale wedding in Hollywood today of Nevada Smith and Rina Marlowe, stars of the forthcoming Bernard B. Norman release The Renegade.

  There was a shot of Nevada riding up to the church resplendently dressed in a dark, tailored cowboy suit, astride a snow-white horse.

  Here is the groom, the world-famous cowboy Nevada Smith, arriving at the church with his equally famous horse, Whitey.

  Nevada walked up the steps and into the church, with the police holding back mobs of screaming people. Then a black limousine drew up. Bernie Norman got out and turned to assist Rina. She stood for a moment, smiling at the crowd, then taking Norman's proffered arm, began to walk into the church, as the camera moved in for a close-up.

  And here is the bride, the lovely Rina Marlowe, star of The Renegade, on the arm of Bernard B. Norman, noted Hollywood producer, who will give the bride away. Miss Marlowe's wedding gown is ivory Alencon lace, designed especially for her by Ilene Gaillard, famous couturiere, who also designed the exciting costumes that you will see Miss Marlowe wear in the Bernard B. Norman picture The Renegade.

  The camera then cut to the exterior of Nevada's Beverly Hills home, where there was a tremendous tent with throngs of people milling about it.

  Here on the lawn of the palatial home of Nevada Smith is the tent erected by the Bernard B. Norman studio workmen as their tribute to the famous couple. It is large enough to shelter and feed a thousand guests and is the largest of its kind ever set up anywhere in the world. And now let us say hello to some of the famous guests.

  The camera rolled down the lawn as the announcer introduced many famous stars and newspaper columnists, who paused in the midst of their obviously carefully posed groups to smile and bow in the direction of the camera. The camera moved on up the steps to the entrance of the house as Nevada and Rina appeared in the doorway. A moment later, Norman stood between them. Rina held a large bouquet of roses and orchids in her arms.

  Here again is the happy bride and groom, together with their friend, the famous producer Bernard B. Norman. The bride is about to throw her bouquet to the eagerly waiting crowd.

  There was a shot of Rina throwing her bouquet and a scramble of pretty young girls. The flowers were finally caught by a red-haired, sloe-eyed girl and the camera moved in for a quick close-up of her.

  The bouquet was caught by Miss Anne Barry, a close friend of the bride's. Miss Barry, a beautiful redhead, also has an important role in The Renegade and has just been placed under contract by Norman Pictures for her fine portrayal in that part.

  The camera then moved in for a final close-up. Rina, Norman and Nevada smiled into the theater. Norman was standing between them, one arm placed in fatherly fashion around Nevada's shoulder, the other hidden from view behind the bride. They all laughed happily as the scene faded.

  Lights in the screening room came up as Jonas got to his feet and, unsmiling, walked out of the room. There was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. If that was the way Rina wanted it, she could have it.

  But what Jonas didn't see, and neither could anyone else who had been looking at the screen, was Bernie Norman's left hand, hidden behind Rina's back.

&n
bsp; It was comfortably and casually exploring the rounded contours of her buttocks.

  16

  It had been after eight o'clock when Ilene heard the door to her outer office open. She put down the small palette and wiped the smudges of paint from her hands on her loose gray smock. She turned toward the door just as Rina came in.

  "I’m sorry to hold you up, Ilene," Rina apologized. "We went overtime on the set tonight."

  Ilene smiled. "It's O.K. I had some work to finish up, anyway." She looked at Rina. "You look tired. Why don't you sit down and rest a few minutes? I heard from the production office that you'd be late so I ordered coffee and sandwiches."

  Rina flashed a grateful smile. "Thanks," she said, dropping onto the big couch and kicking off her shoes. "I am tired."

  Ilene pushed a coffee table over to the couch. She opened a small refrigerator and took out a tray of sandwiches, which she set down in front of Rina. Opening a large Thermos of black coffee, quickly she poured a cup for Rina.

  Rina held the steaming cup to her lips. "This is good," she said over the rim. She sipped again, then leaned her head against the back of the couch. "I'm really so pooped I'm not even hungry."

  "You have a right to be," Ilene answered. "You haven't had a week off in the year since you finished The Renegade. Three pictures, one right after the other, and next week you're starting another. It's a wonder you haven't collapsed."

  Rina looked at her. "I like to work."

  "So do I," Ilene replied quickly. "But there's a point where you have to draw the line."

  Rina didn't answer. She sipped at her coffee and picked up a copy of Variety. Idly she turned the page. She stopped at a headline, read for a moment, then held the paper out to Ilene. "Have you seen this?"

  Ilene glanced down at the paper. The headline caught her eye. It was typical Varietese: