Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  “Cook will get your dinner right away, sir,” the maid mumbled as she scurried off to fetch his drink.

  An hour later Sol pushed his chair back from the table. After consuming three-quarters of a roast chicken, a small mountain of mashed potatoes, a bowl of peas, and two sliced tomatoes, he was finally ready to come up for air. With a loud, offensive belch, he left the dining room, cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.

  He shuffled his way into the living room, calling over and over for his son, Eli. God only knew why, probably just to hear the sound of his own voice. Now he had three things on his mind: Tarz, Mickey, and Eli. Jesus Christ, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

  The open French doors beckoned him. Since he was paying a fortune to his gardeners, he should take a look at his gardens even if it was by moonlight. He walked two steps down and up three to a pastel flagstone terrace surrounded by fragrant greenery and potted plants. At the terrace balcony he halted, staring into the dim shadows of the garden. For the first time in years he realized he was a lonely man. As his had been a “marriage of convenience,” he’d never really been romantically in love with his wife, but they’d been friends of a sort. These days he missed her; he even missed her big, whining mouth. There were few things in life worse than coming home to an empty house. His eyes misted when he thought of Bebe. God, how he missed his little girl. She was the only person in his life that he loved with his heart. His baby—all grown-up now, a person in her own right. She didn’t need him anymore. A feeling of grief rushed through him.

  Sol walked back into the house, unaware of the clear evening or the tantalizing scent of flowers in the garden. The huge four-story structure was ablaze with lights, at his insistence. He hated coming home to an empty house but would accept one that was lighted from top to bottom. Thus he’d instructed every servant the day they were hired to turn on every light in the house at the first sign of dusk. Not that lighting was going to make him feel better tonight.

  The corridor leading to what he called his home office was on the main floor with ornate sconces positioned three feet apart on both walls. The office wasn’t actually an office but two closets placed back to back. The wall separating the two closets had been knocked out, the clothes poles removed along with the shelves. Several years ago he had brought home a battered roll-top desk from the prop room and two straight-back chairs. A dusty lamp with a low-wattage bulb completed the furnishings.

  Sol sat at the desk until midnight going over his books. His meaty shoulders slumped, the flab on his upper arms jiggling with his nervousness. Belching loudly, he reached for a plump raisin-filled cookie on a tray, stuffed the whole of it into his mouth and swallowed it, then wished he’d left it on the tray. It was the story of his life; he always regretted what he did after the fact. He sighed wearily. What should he do about Reuben Tarz? Hire him, of course, he had no other choice. Give him the title of assistant to…himself. Stash Tarz’s friend in the production room. Yes, he’d cable Mickey and tell her that, too. If he paid them both well enough, neither one would squawk. But how much was enough? He’d always liked the sound of the word negotiate. Even though you eventually came to terms, someone won and someone lost. Winners and losers, givers and takers. Bullshit!

  Sol was halfway up the mahogany staircase when the front door opened. Eli Rosen staggered into the black-and-white marble-tiled foyer and proceeded to throw up all over his shiny patent-leather shoes. Smearing his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, he giggled, a nasty, whining sound. As he lurched to the stairs, he saw his father for the first time. “Pop, you’re up kind of late, aren’t you?” He waved his arm backward toward the foyer and almost lost his balance. “Must have been something I ate.”

  “You’re drunk,” Sol said. He turned to his son, hating what he saw. Over the years he had tried to find some redeeming qualities in Eli, but when the boy reached his tenth year and none were forthcoming, he’d simply given up and allowed Eli to do whatever he pleased. The young man sitting on the stairs now was the result of his neglect. At twenty-two he was tall and thin, almost emaciated. His skin was sallow and his eyes a dull gray, mean and hard. He had hardly any eyebrows to speak of, and his hair was thick with pomade, standing straight up now in greasy clumps. His face was full of ripe blemishes that he picked at constantly. If he hadn’t been born at home, Sol would have questioned his legitimacy.

  As if he could feel his father’s disgust, Eli raised his head, a miserable look on his face. Tears burned his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Pop, I—”

  “Get out of my sight…and that mess on the floor better not be there when I come down these steps in the morning. You’re nothing but garbage, Eli, and one of these days I’m booting your tail out of here. Bebe isn’t here anymore to plead for you and to coddle you. Go to bed. You make me sick.”

  When his father left him, Eli sat for a long time on the stairs, trying to summon enough energy to stand up. After awhile he fell back against the stairs and was sound asleep in seconds. When Sol came down in the morning, Eli was still there. His father’s loose-fitting shoe lashed out, striking him in the ribs. Groaning in pain, he woke, disoriented.

  “Jesus, Pop!”

  Sol’s foot lashed out a second time. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. You’re scum, a punk, a hood. I have a goddamn gangster for a son!” His face was purple with rage as he swung about to attack Eli again, but the boy was too fast for him, scrambling up the stairs like a crab. “Goddamn fairy!” Sol bellowed over his shoulder as he strode out the front door.

  Eli staggered upstairs to the bathroom and turned on the faucets. Maybe he should drown himself, then the old man would feel better. If Bebe were here, he’d at least have a fighting chance of coming out even with his father. Bebe always defended him, took his side, and the old man loved her.

  Muttering incomprehensibly, Eli stripped off his clothes and kicked them into the corner. His skinny fingers picked at the jars on the glass shelf over the sunken tub: Bebe’s bath salts in every fragrance made. Lip’s pursed, he picked out a colorful decanter and poured lavishly, smiling when he saw the bubbles swirl and slide backward in the tub. Just the scent made him think he’d hear Bebe call his name any minute. For the thousandth time he wished that he’d gone with her. When Bebe was around he was accepted and almost respected—on his own he amounted to shit and he knew it.

  He loved his father, and when he was a boy he wanted to be just like him. For years he’d tried to get close to him, to win his affection, but it was Bebe with her big eyes and soft curls his father wanted. In those early years he’d tried to forget the disgust and shame on his father’s face when he looked at him. Was it his fault he had bad skin and stringy hair? He’d been born skinny and he stayed skinny; was that his fault, too? As he got older he realized he’d inherited the worst features of both parents, while Bebe had inherited the best. Such were the quirks of fate; he didn’t hate Bebe for her good fortune; on the contrary, he loved her. She was the only reason his father hadn’t locked him up in a loony bin.

  His bath over, Eli wrapped himself in a plush terry sheet that smelled like Bebe and trotted down the hall to her room. It was a pretty room, just like Bebe, all frilly and feminine. It still smelled like her, and she’d been gone for a long time. It was cleaned and aired once a week and the sheets changed even if no one had slept in the bed. There was so much sunshine, the room seemed to have a thousand lights. How often he’d come in here and poured his heart out to Bebe. Murmuring soft words of love, she’d stroke his neck and back and tell him things would get better. And she’d believed they would; she wasn’t lying when she’d said the words.

  Eli walked to Bebe’s closet, swung the mirrored doors to the side. Most of her things were gone, but there was still a row of dresses and coats. He rummaged until he found the old flannel robe Bebe wore when the California weather turned cool. It was pink and gray with a velvet cuff on the sleeves. Bebe loved it because it was big and roomy and she could cuddle
into it. Eli found himself slipping his arms into it and then belting it around his waist. He hunched his shoulders into it the way Bebe did, loving the feel of it on his naked skin. Jesus, he was tired—too tired to tromp back down the hall to his room. Better he should sleep here with the warm sun streaming into the room. Yawning, he drew back the flowered eyelet cover and crawled between the silky sheets. In seconds he was asleep, his face cradled against the sleeve of Bebe’s robe.

  The California sunshine was warm and golden when Reuben strolled to the bus stop like a man with a purpose. He was a man with a purpose, he told himself. Today he was dressed nattily in gray flannel slacks with a matching sweater vest, shirt, and tie, his cap tilted at a cocky angle; a navy-blue jacket with gold buttons completed the outfit. His dark curly hair was brushed back with just a trace of pomade, but already an unruly strand was flopping over his wide forehead. His hands were jammed into his pockets and his stride was loose and nonchalant. The observers, and there were many, couldn’t feel the fluttering in his stomach or see the wild ricocheting thoughts in his mind. This particular image was one he’d practiced for hours last night. Daniel had laughed himself silly, but in the end he’d agreed that Reuben looked and acted perfectly. “Never let them see you sweat, Daniel, and never let them see how hungry you are for what they have to offer.” So he’d gone to work in front of the mirror, practicing an elegant French shrug that was almost second nature to him now. Sol Rosen would be hard-pressed to find fault with him this morning.

  The tree-lined street was beautiful, he decided. The sidewalks were swept clean, the gutters cleaner. Birds chirped overhead in their nests of greenery. The tangy salt air mixed with the fragrant orange blossoms growing in profusion in the front yards, Reuben liked it here. Soon he would belong; he and Daniel would be true Californians. New York was so far away, France even farther, he thought sadly.

  By now he was almost at the bus stop and he could see the knots of people trying valiantly to form a line. For some reason Reuben couldn’t fathom, all of them seemed to be ignoring the green-striped waiting bench with its colorful advertising. As he approached the bus stop he noticed a young woman with pale blond hair and a stunningly beautiful face. She was beautiful enough to be in films. Her face was artfully made up, not that she needed cosmetics. Huge gold hoops dangled from her ears and jiggled whenever she moved her head. In the space of ten seconds he had her cast in a film, outfitted in a ridiculous costume of gold lamé. A vamp. Seductive and…kind of like Bebe.

  Packaging. The outside trappings. Important. He made a mental note to apply this thought to his new job. The showy blonde was staring at him, probably wondering if he was a film star the way he wondered about her. Brazenly he stared back until she lowered her eyes. Other people were looking at him now openly, assessing his wardrobe, wondering where he was going and what he did for a living. The speculation in their eyes was obvious.

  The huge bus was trundling down the road now, sliding gracefully to the curb. The last to board, Reuben walked to the rear of the bus and sat down. The blonde was in front of him, and as he stared at her crimped blond hair, he realized it wasn’t clean. Also, her scent was overpowering and made him recoil slightly. A smick-smack girl.

  A car, he decided. Pretty soon he was going to get a car so he didn’t have to ride these damn buses that belched smoke on the outside and stale sweat on the inside. A Stutz Bearcat. Why the hell not? Go for the best, the top of the line. Don’t ever settle. If you can’t have the best, do without until you can.

  Sol Rosen took a good look around his office. Crummy was the only word he could come up with. Reuben Tarz wouldn’t fit in here in his hotsy-totsy clothes. Christ, he should have done something about redecorating a long time ago. When his secretary poked her head in the door to announce Tarz, Sol decided she was as crummy-looking as his office. His wife’s cousin.

  Sol clamped a dark brown cigar between his teeth and grudgingly walked around his desk. He made his hands busy with lighting his cigar so he wouldn’t have to shake hands. But when Reuben walked in and waited in front of him with his hand outstretched, there was nothing Sol could do but stretch out his own. Reuben’s grasp was so overpowering, Sol thought his hand would fall off at the wrist.

  Reuben pulled out the pocket watch Mickey had given him to check the time, a reminder that he was on schedule and ready to get down to business.

  “Nice watch,” Sol grunted. “Lessee.”

  Dutifully Reuben handed it over. While Sol was examining the watch, Reuben sat down, hiking up his trousers to preserve the crease. In one fluid motion he leaned back, a young man completely at ease, and watched as Sol’s face went from purple to pink to white. Of course, he’d read the inscription Mickey had engraved on the watch. The older man’s hands trembled when he gave the watch back.

  “Keeps perfect time, right to the second,” Reuben said quietly as he pocketed the watch.

  Sol tried to pull his vest down over his bulging stomach. Reuben noticed two of the buttons were missing. Once he was behind the scarred, cluttered desk, the studio head looked more comfortable, Reuben decided. It was time for him to stand up. Mickey had told him towering over sitting men put them at a disadvantage, one they wouldn’t care to admit to. They could hardly stand, once they’d settled themselves, without looking foolish. Reuben gazed benignly at Sol, the picture of relaxation.

  Sol grumbled in his throat, then hawked and spit accurately into the spittoon a yard from his foot. “I decided to hire you, Tarz. It’s up to us old birds to give you young ones a chance. I’m using my noodle here by hiring you. I think you might be an asset to my studio.” Reuben smiled. Instead of the compliment it was, the word asset sounded obscene coming from Sol’s puckered mouth. “Salary is seventy simoleons a week. That okay with you?”

  “No.” Reuben’s response was so quick, so cool-sounding, Sol’s jaw dropped.

  “Ain’t it enough for you?” Sol demanded. Here it comes, he thought. He sucked in his belly and waited.

  “Actually seventy is more than fair. I thought we could work out a deal….”

  Sol flushed. “I don’t make deals with—”

  “You haven’t heard mine,” Reuben interrupted, unperturbed by the explosive response. “I propose you pay me forty a week. I’ll work for you here in the office doing whatever you want me to do from eight in the morning till one-thirty in the afternoon. From one-thirty to five or six, I want to be free to learn this business on my own. What that means exactly is I want to be free to come and go undisturbed. I want to be able to ask questions and get answers. Inside of six weeks I think I can have some kind of business plan to present to you. I’d like Daniel Bishop to work in the legal department, since that’s where his talents can better serve you. And since he’ll be starting law school soon, the hands-on experience will be good for him. Fifty-five a week will be a good starting salary. What do you think?”

  Reuben could feel his eyes narrow as he peered at Sol. The room wasn’t hot, but the man was sweating profusely. A large vein in his temple throbbed as if it might pop any second. Reuben removed his hands from his pockets and strolled about the cluttered room as he waited for a response.

  Sol felt his throat constrict. Free, my arse. Snoop! Goddamn spy is what this bird was. He wanted an inside track to find out what was going on at the studio. Once his pal was in the legal department, he’d know everything that went on.

  “Oy gevalt,” he sputtered. “You don’t want much, do you?”

  “Not really,” Reuben said quietly. “In the long run I’m saving you money. I’m here to work, not sit on my haunches. Trust me.”

  Sol shifted the cigar in his mouth. “I learned a long time ago never to trust anyone who says ‘Trust me.’ Your pal ain’t going into my legal department because we ain’t got a legal department. This,” he said, pounding his head, “is my legal department. Your pal goes into the prop or transportation department. Take it or leave it!”

  Reuben walked back to the desk and leaned o
ver until his face was just inches from Sol’s. “I don’t understand something here. My friend Daniel doesn’t know a thing about props or transportation. Why would you be willing to put him on the payroll with a decent salary to sit on his behind doing God only knows what? If you don’t have a legal department, it’s time you got one.” Reuben stopped just long enough to take a meaningful look around the old man’s office. “Your bookkeeping can’t be all that efficient.”

  “Don’t go telling me how to run my business. Take it or leave it!”

  “Then I guess I have to leave it. We came here for honest work, not charity.”

  Sol could feel the sweat dripping down his back. The son of a bitch was leaving. Well, let him leave! He waited until Reuben was out the door and halfway down the stairs before he rumbled to the doorway to call him back. “Ain’t no call for you to be so hotsy-totsy with me,” he said. “I ain’t giving you charity. I’m giving you a job. I said it was okay. If I ain’t got a legal department, what do you want from me?”

  “Start one,” Reuben said smoothly. “You need one and you certainly have the room. I’d like business contracts drawn up. Two years. Is that agreeable with you?”

  “Two years! Two goddamn years! All right already,” Sol grumbled.

  “But,” Reuben said, wagging a finger in front of him, “my salary goes to seventy-five in six weeks. That’s how long it will take me to learn this business. Every six months I want a fifty-dollar-a-week raise. Don’t look so sour, Mr. Rosen. I’ll be saving you a hundred times that much money, down the road.”

  “Cocky bastard!” Sol spat. “A chachem yet!”

  Reuben hid his smile. “Someday maybe,” he said. “Now, about Daniel Bishop. What shall I tell him?”

  Sol rubbed his chin. “I told you we ain’t got a legal department. So I’ll open up a broom closet or something. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Both of you. You’ll be working here with me. That door opens into another small room. I’ll get it cleared out.”