The Dream Merchants

by Harold Robbins

  It wasn’t that she really wanted to see the picture. She knew it would be bad. The word had already seeped through town. But she did want to see how bad it was. She couldn’t let this last moment of triumph escape her. Then when she came home she would get rid of him. This time for good.

  She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late, Mark,” she said. “We’d better be leaving.”

  He looked at her owlishly. “There’th lots of time,” he replied.

  She smiled at him. “Come now,” she murmured. “You wouldn’t want to be late to a preview of your own picture, would you?”

  He looked at her seriously. “That’s right,” he nodded sagely. “It wouldn’t look good, would it?”

  ***

  Hollywood sneak previews were conducted with all the privacy of a circus. The original idea was to slip the picture, unannounced, into some small local theater in order to get the reaction of a typical audience to it. Postcards were then distributed to the audience on the back of which they were invited to write their opinion of the picture they had just seen. These cards were addressed to the studio that made the picture, and in that manner the producer was supposed to learn whether his picture was good or not.

  In time, however, the element of surprising the audience with the picture had been lost. Almost mysteriously when a sneak was planned the word would get around that such and such a picture was going to be shown at the Blank Theater that night and a crowd would form a line outside it. The attraction was twofold. One was to be able to say snidely to your neighbor: “Oh, that picture? We saw it at a preview before it came out. It’s not so much.” The other attraction was that very often the preview would be attended by the important members of the cast, and the crowd would gather to look at the celebrities.

  The lobby of the theater was crowded when Peter got there with Esther and Doris. The studio publicity man standing at the door near the ticket-taker recognized him. “Hello, Mr. Kessler,” he said deferentially. “This picture’s just going on now. I’ll find you some seats.”

  They followed him into the theater and down the aisle. The theater was dark and their eyes could make out the shapes of people sitting expectantly in their seats only vaguely. In the center of the theater several aisles had been roped off for the studio representatives. Quietly they moved into the last row of the section.

  Peter sat down and looked around him. His eyes were rapidly getting used to the dark and he recognized several people there. An atmosphere of tension hung over this section that was evident nowhere else in the theater. These were the people who would rise or fall by the picture on the screen. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead. It wasn’t that the theater was warm, he always felt like that at a preview.

  His hand reached out for Esther. When he found her hand, his own was already moist. She smiled to him in the dark. “Nervous?” she whispered.

  He nodded to her. “More than for my own pictures,” he whispered back.

  She shook her head understandingly. She knew how he felt, how important it was to him. Besides, it was their son who had made it. In some ways they were more anxious for him than they were for themselves.

  Peter looked around for Mark. He heard his voice directly in front of him. Mark was talking to a girl in the seat next to him. There was a vaguely familiar look about her profile as she turned to answer Mark, but in the dark Peter couldn’t recognize her. He was just leaning forward to tap Mark on the shoulder and let him know he was there when the sound of the Magnum theme music hit his ears. He leaned back in his seat and smiled to himself. He would surprise Mark after the picture was over. He looked up at the screen expectantly.

  There was a dark blue light on the screen. In the lower right-hand corner there was a glowing green bottle with a small gold label on it. Swiftly the bottle moved toward the center of the screen, looming larger and larger, until the red-lettered words on the label could be read: “A Magnum Picture.”

  Suddenly there was a sharp popping sound and the cork flew from the bottle. The golden sparkling liquid came gushing from its neck. A man’s hand reached from out of nowhere and picked the bottle up. A woman’s hand holding a crystal-clear goblet moved toward it. Slowly the bottle tilted and the liquid poured into the goblet, overflowing the rim. The bottle and the glass began to recede to the back of the screen, and words began to appear, superimposed over the scene in majestic gothic lettering.

  Mark G. Kessler, Vice-president in Charge of Production

  Presents

  UNITED WE STAND

  Peter turned to Esther excitedly. “What’s this Mark G. business?” he whispered. “What does this ‘G.’ mean?”

  She looked at him bewildered for a moment. Then a light of comprehension came into her eyes. “It must be for Greenberg,” she guessed, “my maiden name.”

  A hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around. A voice from the seat behind him whispered fiercely: “Just because you people got in for free, you don’t have to make so much noise!”

  “Pardon me,” he apologized, and turned his face back to the screen. The man was right. He had no business antagonizing the paying customers.

  Something inside Peter turned sick as the picture wore on. Within a few minutes he knew it was a stinker. He didn’t have to look at the screen to know that. He could tell from the comments in the audience behind him, from the sounds of restless shifting and the coughs that rang out desultorily, from the laughter in the wrong places. A misery seemed to sweep over him and he shrank back into his seat, growling smaller and smaller.

  For the first time it all became clear to him. The whole thing. You had to see someone else make the same mistakes you so confidently made all along, thinking you were right, before you could tell how wrong you had been. That was the way it was with Peter. When he saw Mark’s picture on the screen he first began to see his own mistakes. It was then perhaps that a sense of failure came over him. It was then that he realized that the business had outgrown him, that he never had really understood the use of sound in his pictures.

  He looked up at the screen. Johnny was right all along about Gordon. He should have listened to him. He looked at Esther; her eyes were miserable. He looked back at the screen. He felt an anger sweep through him. Even if he had been right about Gordon, Johnny should never have insisted on pushing this picture through.

  In front of him Mark’s head bent toward the girl. He could see him whispering something to her. He could hear her quiet laugh. There was such a familiar ring about it. Suddenly he wanted to hear what Mark was saying. He leaned forward in his seat, hunching himself behind them.

  He could hear Mark’s voice whispering to the girl. Suddenly he seemed to freeze to his seat. What was it that Mark was saying? He was joking about how he had put it over on everybody. The old man was even blaming Johnny for it. Was he smart, baby, or was he smart? The girl laughed with him and slipped her arm through his; she seemed to be pleased at what he was saying.

  Peter shrank back into his seat. He was trembling. He couldn’t tell what the rest of the picture was about. He didn’t see it. His eyes had filled with burning, blinding tears. Time lost all its meaning for him. His own son. His own flesh and blood. If they could do this to him, who in the world was there that a man could trust?

  The picture was over. He sat there in his seat, his eyes closed tightly together, as the house lights came on. Slowly he opened them.

  Mark was getting out of his seat. He was helping the girl on with her wrap. Dully Peter watched him move toward the aisle, where he was surrounded immediately by people. He saw the girl’s face turn to him and his eyes widened in shocked surprise.

  Dulcie Warren! What was Mark doing with her? He knew what his father thought of her. While he was watching them he saw her kiss Mark’s cheek lightly; then the people were all around them and he couldn’t see what they were doing.

  “It’s too good a picture for the masses, they won’t appreciate it, Mark,” someone was saying consolingly as Peter a
ngrily pushed his way through the crowd around them. Dulcie was leaning on Mark’s arm, looking up at him with an amused smile on her face.

  “I had been afraid of that,” Mark admitted. “The average movie-goer isn’t too bright, you know,” he added snidely. Then his gaze suddenly fell upon his father.

  Peter was standing in front of him, his face almost choleric with rage.

  “Peter!” Mark tried to smile. He didn’t quite succeed. His face looked almost sickly. “What are you doing here?” He could feel Dulcie’s arm slip quietly from his. “I didn’t know you were here!”

  For a moment Peter couldn’t talk, he was almost speechless. Then his voice burst from him in a shrill scream. “You didn’t know I would be here!” he mimicked. His voice grew even louder. “Well, I was. I sat behind you through the whole rotten picture and heard everything you said to that—to that—” He looked at Dulcie, standing next to Mark. His mind searched frantically for a word to describe her. “To that cheap courveh! Every word you said I heard!”

  Mark looked around him anxiously. There was a look of eager expectancy on the faces about him. Already other people were being attracted by the commotion. They were beginning to look at them with a morbid relish. “Papa!” he said through white lips, his hands indicating the people.

  But Peter was too angry to pay any attention to his imploring glances. “What’s the metter, Marcus?” he asked, slipping unconsciously into his accent. “You ashamed the pipple should know what you done? You made a picture too good for the masses?” He drew himself up as high as he could and shook an excited finger under his son’s nose. “Vel, let me tell you somet’ing! The only time a picture is too good for the masses is ven it’s a stinker like the vun you just made!”

  A titter of appreciative laughter went up from the people around them. Mark could feel his face turn a brick-red. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him. He turned to look helplessly at Dulcie, but she was already gone. She was walking swiftly up the aisle away from him. He turned back to his father miserably. “But, Papa—” he said, his voice perilously close to tears.

  “Vot are you looking for, Marcus?” his father asked him, still shouting. “Your hooer? Maybe you vant to go vit her?”

  Mark looked down at the floor. He didn’t answer.

  “Vel, vot are you vaiting for?” Peter roared. “Go after her! Go!” His arm pointed after her dramatically. “You already done all the damage you could do here! The business already you cost me! In the same gutter vit her you belong!” His voice broke suddenly as Esther came up to him through the crowd.

  Mark looked up at his parents. His mother’s eyes were filled with tears, she was turning Peter away from him. He took a step toward her. She shook her head gently over Peter’s shoulders and nodded toward the exit. Mark started up the aisle.

  His father turned and shouted after him: “And don’t come back neither, you—you bloodsucker, you!”

  Mark stumbled blindly toward the exit. He heard someone laugh and say maliciously: “That was a better show than the picture. It was worth the price of admission alone. I’m telling you all the picture people are like that. They’re no good, none of them!”

  An anger began to rise in him. His throat was dry and parched. Tomorrow all Hollywood would be talking about him and laughing at him. He yanked open the door of his car viciously. He climbed into it and put his head on his arms across the steering wheel. He began to cry.

  Peter and Esther sat in the back of the car. Doris sat in the front seat driving. Her father’s head lay wearily against the back of the seat and he was talking in a low voice. She couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  His face turned slowly to Esther. His voice was close against her ear. It was dull and empty of feeling. All his strength seemed to have left him. “The only chance we got now,” he was saying weakly, “is the stock. If Johnny votes with me, maybe things will be all right.”

  Esther shushed him. “Rest,” she said gently, pulling his head down to her shoulder. “Don’t worry. On Johnny you can depend.” But all the time her heart kept crying out to her son: “Mark, Mark, you were such a sweet little baby. How could you do this to your father?”

  14

  “Aren’t you going to take me home?” Dulcie’s voice came calmly from the back seat. When she had left the theater she couldn’t find a cab; so she had climbed into Mark’s car to get out of the sight of the gaping crowds.

  He raised his head from his arms slowly. He turned around and looked at her. Her cigarette glowed brightly in the darkness as she drew on it. Its light revealed her eyes; they were dark and imperturbable.

  The drove home in silence. Occasionally he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. There was no expression on her face at all. To look at her you would think nothing had happened to upset her. Yet he knew she was upset. He could tell from the way in which she lit one cigarette from another.

  ***

  She put her key in the lock and turned it. The door opened a little and she turned back to him and looked up at him. “Good night, Mark.” she said calmly.

  He looked down into her eyes. Anger came over his face. “Is that all you have to say after what happened tonight? ‘Good night, Mark?’” His voice was hoarse.

  She shrugged her shoulders quietly. “What else is there to say?” she asked in that same calm, infuriating manner. She stepped inside the door. “It’s over and done with.” She began to close the door.

  His foot stopped it. He glared at her angrily.

  She looked up at him, still calm, still sure of herself. “I’m tired, Mark. Let me go to sleep.”

  He didn’t answer. For a moment he stood there quietly, then he put an arm on her shoulder and pushed her into the room ahead of him and closed the door.

  Her eyes were wide and unafraid. “What are you doing, Mark?” she asked quickly. “Why don’t you go home? It’s been a pretty rough day for all of us.”

  He went to a cabinet and took a bottle of whisky from it. He opened it and drank right from the bottle. He could feel the hot liquor burning its way down his throat. He turned back to her. “You heard what my father said?” he asked hoarsely.

  “He’ll get over it by morning,” she answered quietly. She came toward him. “Now will you go home?”

  His hands reached out and seized her roughly. He pulled her to him and kissed her, his mouth bruising hers.

  She twisted in his grasp, trying to get loose. “Mark”—her voice was beginning to show signs of fright—“you don’t know what you’re doing!”

  “Don’t I?” he asked mockingly, his arms holding her tight. “I should have done this a long time ago!”

  She was really frightened now. There was a look at madness on his face that she had never seen before. Her hands flew up and scratched at him, she tried to push him away from her. Suddenly she broke free of him. “Get out!” she screamed at him.

  He smiled at her slowly. “You look real pretty when you’re angry, Dulcie,” he said walking toward her. “But you know that, don’t you? Many men must have told you that!” His hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder.

  She wrenched herself free of his grip, but he held on to her dress. The flimsy material tore in his hands. He caught her again. Her hands tore at his face, scratched at his eyes. “Let me go! Let me go, you maniac!” she screamed at him.

  Suddenly his hand swept across her face. Her head reeled with the shock. He struck her again and she fell to the floor, leaving the rest of her dress in his hands. He bent over her and again his hand struck her.

  Her hands flew up to cover her face. “Not my face,” she screamed in abject terror. “Not my face!”

  His face was very close to hers. He grinned slowly. “What’s the matter, Dulcie? Afraid for your looks?”

  She felt his hands tearing the rest of her clothing from her. Suddenly she didn’t feel them on her any more. She took her hand from her face slowly and looked up at him. There was a trickle of blood running from the corner o
f her mouth. She could taste its salty flavor against her tongue.

  He was taking off his jacket. Dully, almost stupidly, she saw the rest of his clothes come off. Suddenly she was cold. A chill ran through her body. She looked down at herself. There were dark-blue bruises on her white flesh. She began to tremble in her fright.

  He knelt over her, grinning crazily. She looked up at him, shivering convulsively, her eyes dilated with fear. He stared into her eyes. His hand went out and hit her face again. Her mind was reeling. She could hardly hear what he was saying.

  “Too bad there isn’t a gutter handy,” he said in a conversational tone of voice. “But the floor will have to do!”

  And then he fell on her.

  15

  The meeting room in the Waldorf was already filled with smoke as Johnny looked around the room. Ronsen sat opposite him. There were small beads of sweat standing out on his forehead as he spoke in whispers to Floyd and Randolph.

  Johnny looked at his watch. Peter should be here any minute now. His plane had been due at the airport almost an hour ago. He looked across the room at the men.

  Ronsen shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. They had not spoken to each other since a brief greeting when Johnny had entered the room a half hour ago. They were waiting for Peter to arrive. Suddenly the room was silent and a subtle tension seemed to creep into the air.

  There was the sound of voices outside the door. It opened and their eyes turned to it automatically as Peter came into the room. Esther and Doris were with him.

  Johnny looked up in surprise. He had not known that Doris was coming with her father.