Mickey struggled to wakefulness as she felt the weight of the dog on her body. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, she pushed at him, her ears now as sharp as Jake’s. Her sluggish movements turned feverish as she reached for Philippe and upended him, holding him by the ankles. “Spit it out,” she ordered as she smacked the child’s back again and again. The deadly mucus in the baby’s lungs gushed out. Mickey cried out, and Jake whooped and woofed, his tail swishing back and forth as he circled the now-screaming baby. Surely now he would be let out to pee, and perhaps a sugar treat was in the offing. Again he barked as Mickey cradled the wailing baby to her chest.
Her body trembling with fright, Mickey sank to her knees beside the crib. Wearily she watched as Jake lifted his leg uncertainly against the rung of the rocking chair. “Yes, yes, I know, it’s time to go out, little Jake, but I do not have the energy to walk down those stairs to open the door. There will be no punishment. A hero deserves no punishment. Later, there will be treats when this angel sleeps. I think his fever is breaking now that the mucus has loosened. Whatever would I have done without you, my four-legged friend?”
When Yvette arrived after breakfast, she took in the scene at a glance. Immediately she ran to Mickey and brushed her face against the baby’s forehead. Her eyes glowed with happiness but turned stern when she looked at the puddle.
“No, no, do not scold Jake.” Mickey cried. “I fell asleep at my post, and he woke me when this angel started to choke. You must let him out for a run, and he deserves a treat. Perhaps two.” She smiled happily. “And will you fetch a sugar bottle for Philippe with perhaps one little drop of brandy in it?”
Yvette was a whirlwind, shooing Jake out, but not before she gave him a treat. Bucket and mop in hand, she swabbed at Jake’s error, a smile on her face. In seconds she had the crib stripped and placed fresh linen on the mattress. The moment the weary baby finished his sugar bottle, Mickey laid him on his stomach. How she loved this child of Reuben’s! She’d come so close to losing him. “My life is yours, little one,” she whispered.
“Enough already. It is time for your own bath, Michelene. You smell,” Yvette said tartly. “I have turned down your bed, your bath is ready, and I will sit here. It is my turn now. You are so selfish with my godchild. I cannot bear it sometimes. Go, before I take a broom to you.”
“Yes, my friend, I have no fight left in me,” Mickey said meekly. “Thank you for everything.”
“You are very welcome. My eyes will never leave this cherub.”
An hour later, fresh from her bath and on her way to her room, Mickey peeked into the nursery. She smiled. Yvette had Philippe in her arms, rocking him steadily and crooning a soft lullaby. “How loved you are, Philippe,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the months that followed, Reuben was inundated with invitations to every major as well as minor party Hollywood had to offer. As these affairs were generally more business than pleasure, he made it a point to appear at every function, even if it was only for five minutes, Bebe shining at his side.
Every minute of his day was taken up with meetings, negotiations, talks with bankers, and overseeing the tedious business of the studio lots. With each month the box office draw increased over 200 percent. He was meeting his bank loans ahead of schedule while he charmed and enticed actors and actresses away from other studios—to the outrage of the Hollywood “moguls,” as the newspapers referred to the studio heads. Sol happily fielded each phone call of complaint, grinned at the stormy, expletive-riddled diatribes they subjected him to, and laughed aloud at the black line on each monthly financial ledger.
Fairmont was moving into the big time with what Reuben called “blockbuster” movies and “hot property” actors and actresses. His instinct was to allow Farrell and Kramer full rein with Red Ruby which was topping all box office receipts while the public clamored for more. If those two successes weren’t enough to push him to the top, the promotion package he worked on for Diego Diaz did. Women clamored for the Latin lover, storming the gates of Fairmont so that extra security guards had to be employed. He watched from his office windows when the first mob of fans threatened to break down the gates. “We just want to see him in the flesh, to touch him, to breathe the same air!” they screamed.
The entire front page of the Los Angeles Examiner was dedicated to Diego the day after the threatened break-in. Pictures of hysterical, screaming fans demanding to see the star covered pages one, two, and three. The headline read LATIN LOVER TAKES AMERICAN WOMEN BY STORM. WE WANT MORE! THEY SCREAMED. Reuben and Sol laughed all the way to the bank.
By the new year, the media was calling Reuben Tarz the Golden Boy, the Wonder Boy of Hollywood. Reuben started to look for a house in Laurel Canyon at the end of January when his picture appeared on the front pages of The Saturday Evening Post, Knickerbocker Magazine, Harper’s New Monthly and Harper’s, and Scribner’s Magazine. Not to be outdone. Reader’s Digest ran an article on him with quotes from Sol and the directors at Fairmont. Reuben was pleased with the flattery and the genuine kind things that were said about him. Like a miser surrounded by gold, he hugged his success to his breast, and only late at night in his room did he lament the sad truth: he had no one with whom to share any of the good things that were happening to him. Bebe…Bebe was still a meddling child to him, decorative…and useful.
On the first day of February a second murder occurred, this one in Hollywood. The front-page headlines announced the death of director William Desmond Taylor. It was a double blow to Paramount studios, which still had its hands full with the Hastings scandal. The Los Angeles Examiner, which had been kind to Reuben and Fairmont, attacked Paramount with a vengeance. Reuben followed the account of how Mabel Normand had rushed to the apartment on Alvarado Street to retrieve a bundle of her correspondence. Charles Taylor rushed to the same apartment to get rid of all the illegal liquor, while Adolph Zukor sneaked in to clean up any traces of sexual hanky-panky. Reuben read on about how the police uncovered a cache of pornographic photographs hidden in William Taylor’s bottom drawer, which meant Zukor and Charles Taylor were unable to finish their housecleaning. Mary Pickford was questioned and reported that she knew nothing and would pray for Taylor’s soul, and would the police please return her photograph. Reuben laughed outright when he read that a letter was found between the pages of White Stains, a book of erotica by Aleister Crowley. The scented page was monogrammed with the initials M. M. M.—Mary Miles Minter, Paramount’s answer to Mary Pickford.
Reuben was keeping score. One down and four to go; Paramount was sure to crumble under this latest blow. Stars were falling by the wayside. Obviously another discussion with Sol was called for, along with another trip to the bank. With Paramount controlling five hundred of the choicest theaters across the country, it would behoove him to be ready to pick up what he could when the time was right. With Daniel gone, Margaret had worked days to compile the list for him. So now his hunch was going to pay off. But was it a hunch, or was it a death wish for the studio that was so large and powerful? Even now he could see the headline: WONDER BOY STRIKES AGAIN. Anyone else would have felt like a ghoul getting ready to pick at the flesh of the dead studio, but not Reuben—he simply petitioned Sol to send money anonymously to the Dickie Hastings Defense Fund.
It took all of three days to tarnish Mary Miles Minter’s virginal image and destroy her promising career. The Examiner slashed words like dope angle, queer meeting places reputed to be dens where effeminate men and peculiarly masculine-looking women dressed in kimonos and lounged around using marijuana, opium, and morphine, all served from elegant tea carts.
The public, incensed at this betrayal by one of their idols, sought to topple another. Howling for vengeance, they now pointed an accusing finger at Mabel Normand, the darling of the Keystone Kops, when it was revealed that some of her appealing effervescence could be attributed to the use of cocaine.
One article stated that her “cokey” habit was singing to the tune of two
thousand dollars a month. This, combined with a romantic connection with the murdered William Desmond Taylor, was enough for a bloodthirsty moviegoing public. Mabel soon retired from the screen. Reuben smiled; the irony of it, he realized, was that their misfortune was his good fortune.
Each day he scanned the papers, pointing out to Sol uncomplimentary press notices and denunciations ringing out from the pulpit. The Hollywood magnates didn’t fear divine wrath but retaliation at the box office. Reuben kept Sol on course as they prepared to be first in line to pick up what they could of the Paramount theater chain.
“It won’t be long now. The professional puritans out there aren’t going to let this alone,” he told Sol.
Late in the day he received a call announcing a meeting at Universal to discuss moral rectitude. He and Sol left straight from the office, deep in conversation.
Louis B. Mayer called the chaotic meeting to order and in a breathless, fearful voice announced, “We need a watchdog for this business before we all get flushed down the toilet. I’d like to appoint Will H. Hays to the position. He’s a member of President Harding’s cabinet and chairman of the Republican National Committee. His salary, which some of you may think outrageous, is going to be earned, every penny of it. One hundred thousand a year.” The members in the smoky room drew back in horror to stare at Mayer as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head.
“For Christ’s sake, Louie, Hays is postmaster general. Do you think overseeing the smut mail is enough to appoint him to this kind of job?” Sol bellowed. Reuben blinked at Sol’s belligerence.
“Hell yes, Sol,” Mayer shouted back. “I’ve checked this guy’s background. He’s a Presbyterian elder, a member of the Masons, the Knights of Pythias, Kiwanians, Rotarians, the Moose, and Elks. This is the man who can give the Purity Leagues a run for their money. We can send him to ‘neutral’ territory; I suggest New York. That’s all I got to say. Let’s all think about this and meet again tomorrow to take a vote.”
A week later, news reporter Elinor Glyn stated that the founding fathers of filmdom had unanimously agreed to hire Will Hays as referee of Hollywood morals.
Within the month, Hays issued his first dictate: Films were to be purified, all screen immorality would be scissored. No more hungry kisses, no more carnality, no more improprieties of any kind, and God help anyone caught off screen doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing, because it would mean instant release from his studio—in other words, the ax.
Reuben had no illusions that the morals clause would get the industry to mend its ways. When word filtered down to him that a “doom book” was being compiled by a host of private detectives unleashed by Hays, he started to sweat. In the end, 117 names appeared on the list—two of them starlets from Fairmont. Paramount’s top box office draw headed the list, a superb actor named Wallace Reid. Zukor shouted long and hard that he would lose two million a year if he sacked Reid. “It’s suicide!”
Reuben moved swiftly by applying to the banks holding the mortgages on 250 choice theaters. However, he did refuse to be a party to smearing Zukor. The next day, the Graphic’s banner headline read HOLLYWOOD HOPHEADS!…and the article said Reid had been spirited away to a secluded private sanitarium.
“Where’s the son of a bitch!” Adolph Zukor shouted the moment he hit the front door of Fairmont’s executive offices.
“Which son of a bitch are you referring to?” Margaret asked smoothly, her eyebrows raised in questioning arches.
“That Tarz crud and that fat Jew Rosen. Where the fuck are they?” Zukor screamed.
Reuben stood at his door. “I’m right here, and I believe Mr. Rosen is in the men’s room. If you want to talk, we can talk. If you want to swear and curse and shout, you’ll have to go somewhere else.”
“You’re a goddamn vulture, is what you are,” Zukor hissed.
“I’ve been called worse. Sit down, Mr. Zukor.”
“You pipsqueak. Just how the hell old are you, anyhow?”
“Old enough. What does age have to do with business?”
“Plenty. You’re robbing me blind. I got troubles coming out my ass, and a pipsqueak’s robbing me blind. What the fuck happened to decency?”
“Ask Will Hays. You can hardly blame Mr. Rosen or myself for the…indiscretions of your staff.”
“You were right there, weren’t you? You couldn’t wait. My fucking ashes aren’t even cold yet.”
Reuben leaned across his desk. “My…ah, sources tell me that the line to snap up your theaters is five deep. I just happened to get there first. Where did you ever get the idea there was loyalty in this business? One way or another we all feed off one another. If I didn’t buy up your theaters, someone else would have, maybe one of your good friends, Mr. Zukor. I don’t consider myself a good friend of yours. A business associate, yes; but that’s all.”
“Was this your idea, Sol?” Zukor pounced on the big man as he took a seat across from Reuben. “Kick a man when he’s down, by Christ, that’s the lowest thing going. Who is this crud to us?” He jerked his head in Reuben’s direction. “Jesus, he ain’t even dry behind the ears.”
“He’s dry enough to put the skids to you,” Sol said. “If you can’t control your studio, don’t come crying to me. It wasn’t my idea to hire Hays. I went along with the rest of you because something needed to be done, but Hays is so far out of line, it isn’t funny. You guys hired him, so now you’re stuck with him. If you want some advice, Adolph, look into his background. He was a politician and he hangs out with politicians. Some dirt must have rubbed off on him.”
Zukor snorted. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
“It’s the best advice I can offer at the moment. Good luck, Adolph.”
“Shove that luck up your fat ass, Sol,” Zukor snarled. “And as for you, Tarz, I hope I’m around the day you get yours. And you will, you know. You get what you dish out.” He slammed the door so hard on the way out, the paperweight slid across Reuben’s desk.
Reuben turned to Sol with a boyish grin. “Mission accomplished, I’d say. And with this one out of the way, I think it’s time to renegotiate my contract, Sol. With a handsome raise. Twenty-five thousand.”
Sol frowned. “Are you nuts? You’re making sixty grand now.” Suddenly his jaw dropped. “You mean twenty-five thousand—a month?” Reuben smiled and nodded.
On April 10, fourteen months to the day of his arrival in Los Angeles, Reuben sent the balance of the money he owed to Michelene Fonsard. He put the money neatly in a folded blank piece of paper and slipped it into an envelope. No note, no tender words of love or gratitude this time. There was a bitter look in his eyes and an angry set to his jaw when he mailed the letter from the post office. He was going to give her exactly one month to cable her response. If she didn’t, he’d carve her out of his heart once and for all.
In May, one month later, Reuben asked Bebe Rosen to marry him. She accepted. The wedding ceremony was small and private, held at his new house in Laurel Canyon. His only guest was his secretary, Margaret. Bebe invited her father and brother. It was a late afternoon affair with candles of every size and shape lighted on the terrace where they took their vows. Love, honor, and obey. Till death do us part. Bebe had every intention of honoring it all.
Sol and Eli left at ten-thirty, offering congratulations for the dozenth time. Bebe smiled prettily and winked at Reuben. “I’ll go upstairs and get ready.” Reuben swallowed hard, hating the happy look on his new wife’s face. The overpowering sickness in his stomach at the thought of sleeping with her astonished him.
No matter how hard he tried to get his thoughts in order about what should be considered a normal course of events, he failed miserably. One question kept insinuating itself into his mind: How could you make such a horrendous mistake—now, with all your plans and dreams at your fingertips…. Mickey! Mickey…
Perfumed and powdered, wearing a nightdress made especially for her, short notice and all, by Balenciaga, Bebe paced the
room nervously. This was what she’d wanted. This was what she’d wanted ever since she’d laid eyes on Reuben. He was hers now, all hers. Forever and ever.
At twelve o’clock her nervousness gave way to irritability. At two, irritability progressed to hostility, and by three-thirty hostility had intensified to a venomous anger. A marriage in name only. A way to lock the studio to him. Tears spilled from her eyes, hot and scalding.
At four o’clock she ripped off the virginal white lacy gown and tossed it in the hamper. Breasts heaving with frustrated rage, she threw on her old flannel robe and ran down the stairs. Her eyes spilled over a second time when she saw her husband sprawled out on the sofa, an empty whiskey bottle on the table. Her mind flashed to an image of him that was almost a duplicate of what her eyes were registering now. Reuben…the library at the château. She felt her skin begin to crawl.
“You bastard! You dirty rotten bastard! You’d rather sit down here and drink that rotgut than make love to me. This time it’s our wedding night, Reuben! Do you hear me, our wedding night! I ought to kill you! I should have killed you that night in the barn. Damn you to hell!”
“Wha—” Reuben elbowed his way to a sitting position. He looked at Bebe in her ratty robe, trying to comprehend what she was doing in his house, and then he remembered.
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