Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  The night was quiet, with only the faint sound of chirping crickets. Reuben wondered how many people in the world knew the sound crickets made came from rubbing their legs together. Mickey had told him that once at a picnic. He smiled.

  The house in Laurel Canyon was as dark as a shroud. The help had been temporarily dismissed, and the furniture was covered with sheets and blankets, awaiting his return. To Reuben, it looked like the prop room at Fairmont. He headed straight for the desk in his bedroom, fitted the key he carried on his watch chain into the desk lock, and withdrew a letter from Daniel. After countless perusals, he knew what it said, but he read it again.

  Dear Reuben.

  I don’t know if this will be important to you or not, but what I’m about to tell you is as close to gospel as it can be.

  My roommate’s father told him that Will Hays was a member of President Harding’s cabinet and, as chairman of the Republican National Committee, tilted the nomination to Harding. The payola was in the amount of $75,000. He also accepted a loan, the kind that doesn’t have to be repaid, from millionaire Harry Sinclair, out of gratitude for pushing Harding into the White House. That’s it, pal—hope the information can help you if you need it.

  Have to hit the books now, so I’ll sign off and write you a proper letter later. Take it easy, Reuben, and try to write more often. I miss you, pal.

  Your friend,

  Daniel

  Satisfied that he’d memorized the important information, Reuben locked the letter back in his desk. Tomorrow he would make it his business to stop by the Ambassador Hotel to speak with Will Hays. Jesus, what would he do without Daniel?

  He placed two more phone calls, one to Crocker, the other to the faceless name on the business card in his hand. Neither party was in, so he left his name both times, asking simply that they return his call. Now he could turn his attention to his mail and Daniel’s telegrams. First the telegrams. His eyes widened as he read. Tips for the market again. It was all Greek to him, but tomorrow he would head for Mort Stiner’s office. This time he would keep the tips from Sol, simply tell him they were too risky. But he’d give Max one of them. Oh, yes, he was feeling better by the moment. Power and money, money and power—aphrodisiacs that had no equal.

  The first letter he picked up was postmarked France. He stared at it so long, his eyes started to water. Mickey! After all this time. The various postal stamps, which traced the letter’s journey back to its source, showed that it had been mailed on June 1, 1922. A year ago! One month after his marriage to Bebe. His chest tightened and his throat felt constricted. For the first time he noticed the names on the envelope: Mr. and Mrs. Reuben Tarz. The letter fell from his hands and fluttered to the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Reuben Tarz…Sol must have had the house mail sent to the studio, he thought irrelevantly. The envelope bore the Laurel Canyon address.

  His head throbbed when he ripped open the letter. His eyes burned just as angrily as he read the short congratulations.

  It was Bebe! he realized. Bebe couldn’t wait to write and tell her. “Goddamn you to hell, Bebe,” he said hoarsely. Suddenly it occurred to him that he was damning the wrong woman. Bebe had every right to tell Mickey they were married. Mickey, on the other hand, couldn’t be bothered to write, to acknowledge his payments, but she could take the time to send a note of congratulations, and only because Bebe had obviously written her. And where had the letter been all this time? Misplaced? Lost? How ironic that it should appear now. A whole year had gone by, more than a year, and this letter had been lying somewhere. At least it was a communication of sorts. Mickey was alive and well. He would have to be content with that.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Halfway around the world in a daisy-filled meadow, a sturdy little boy pulled a bright red wagon filled with flowers. At his side was Jake, whose assignment was to sniff out the flowers for the little boy to pick. Every so often the boy and the dog scampered back to Mickey, who held her hand out for the flowers that were pulled off at the base of the bloom.

  “I need a stem, my darling. Jake, a long stem.” Mickey laughed delightedly as Jake raced away, his silky ears fanning out behind him. Philippe followed him, tumbling over his own feet twice. Protector that he was, Jake raced back to lick the little boy’s face and tug at his shirt. It was no fun when one ran and the other lay on the ground. He growled playfully.

  Even though her eyes were glued to Philippe and Jake, Mickey’s thoughts were far across the Atlantic. Bebe’s latest letter had arrived days before. It was long and rambling, the contents forgotten save for news of the girl’s pregnancy. That had been a devastating blow, and Mickey had felt physically ill for several days.

  A baby. Reuben and Bebe’s…second child. She wondered then, and not for the first time, if Bebe had ever told Reuben about her first baby. She’d visited and written Yvette three letters, but not once had she asked about the child. Nor had she asked after Mickey. Yvette had been apologetic about this; she’d only touched upon Bebe’s blatant indifference, preferring instead to share the newsy, chatty aspects of the girl’s letters. And now, of course, there would be another letter for Yvette soon, different from the one she herself had received a few days earlier. Yvette’s would be full of Bebe’s famous husband and how busy they were with all the Hollywood parties and how women, especially the female stars, were so crazy about her good-looking husband, but he had eyes only for her.

  The child was back now, holding out a crushed cowbell.

  “I would very much like a piece of sugar bread and some”—the little face puckered in thought—“some juice!” he said triumphantly. “Sugar bread for Jake, too, just one little piece.” He pushed his thumb and index finger together. Jake’s ears shot up at the sound of his name. Mickey watched him as he cocked his head toward the sun, somehow calculating that it was treat time. She thought she loved Jake almost as much as she loved Philippe.

  “You would, eh?” Mickey laughed. “Sugar bread and juice and a cookie for Jake. And if I give out these luscious treats, what do I get in return?”

  “Two kisses and a hug this big,” the little boy said, stretching his arms wide.

  Mickey pretended to think. “I can’t pass up an offer like that.” She leaned over for Philippe, who planted two wet smacking kisses on her cheek. Jake woofed and licked her hand.

  “Climb into the wagon and I’ll pull you back to the château.”

  “No, I wish to walk with Jake,” the little boy said stubbornly.

  Mickey smiled. “If you get tired from the long walk, you’ll have to take a nap.”

  “Will you tell me a story if I take a nap?”

  “I have a better idea, you tell me a story.” The little boy’s eyes sparkled, and he nodded gleefully.

  “I think I will sit in the wagon and think of my story. It will be about my papa.” He motioned for Jake to hop into the wagon.

  “Aha, a double load. That means you must tell me two stories,” Mickey teased.

  Later, his face and hands clean, Jake settled at the foot of his bed, Philippe sat up importantly. “My first story will be about my papa. He loves me more than sugar bread. He loves Jake, too. He does love us, doesn’t he, Maman?” the boy asked wistfully.

  “Very much, Philippe,” Mickey said softly.

  “He can’t come to visit me because he is busy fighting pirates and riding a horse. He captures all the bad men and ties them up. If he had Jake with him, he would warn him about the bad people. My papa is…a musketeer,” he said proudly. “That’s my story.”

  “Not so fast, young man. You promised me two stories,” Mickey said, smiling.

  “My papa lives in a big castle. He is the king. When he comes to take us with him you will be the queen and I will be…What will I be, Maman?”

  “The prince.”

  “I will be the prince. He will be wearing his crown and he…he will have one for you, Maman. My room in the castle will be full of toys. Jake will have his own little house and…do dogs wear crowns, Ma�
�?”

  Mickey brushed at the tears on her cheeks. Poor lost lamb, how badly he wanted a father. How selfish she was being! But if Reuben knew, he would take him away. And Reuben was married now with a child of his own on the way. You’re all I have, Philippe, and I won’t let anyone take you from me. No, you’re mine…until such time as I…until I decide to give you to your father, and I hope that day never comes! You are my life, little one.

  Jake’s ears wobbled over his head, and he looked at Mickey expectantly. “No, little one, you stay here and watch my love. I leave him in your capable…paws.” She leaned over to fondle the dog’s silky ears. “I think, little Jake, that you, Philippe, and myself are the true Three Musketeers. Nothing and no one can shake the love we have for one another. In our lives there is no Bebe Rosen. And for dinner you shall have a whole chop because you deserve it. And ice cream for Philippe.”

  Downstairs in the library, Mickey walked over to the mantel and looked up at the portrait. “This was only temporary, a short span of time that had meaning but no resolution.” She gave a halfhearted salute to the portrait. “To all the yesterdays,” she said tearfully, “for tomorrow never comes.”

  She wept then, bittersweet tears of sorrow.

  Reuben and tomorrow would never come.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Reuben sat at his office desk, his fingers drumming impatiently on the glossy surface that was devoid of all papers. It was early, just a little after six, and his emotions were as impatient as his fingers. Part of him wanted to be here at the studio; another part wanted to be in Palm Springs supervising his wife’s activities. The rest of him wanted to be in France. He wondered if he looked as haggard as he felt. He hadn’t slept at all in the dust-covered bed but had sat up on a chair covered with a yellow blanket. His fingers picked up momentum, the sound startling to him in the quiet of the office.

  It was hard to believe that in less than an hour the studio would be a beehive of sound and activity, but for now this was the only place he could think objectively. He leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head. He’d follow the Jewish creed of doing business: business first, family affairs later.

  At two minutes after seven he was on the phone with Jim Crocker. “I’m going to have to admit my ignorance on this, Jim. In terms of box office I have no idea what a biblical film will do. Convince me, sell me on it, and we can talk dollars. Better yet, come round to the office this morning and we can talk. Do you have any figures on paper?…Good, bring everything with you.”

  At seven-thirty he was talking to the faceless Rupert Julian. He, too, had a property he was interested in peddling if the price was right. “If you’re interested in lunch from the wagon, come around noon to my offices and we can talk.”

  After he’d rung off, Reuben stared at the phone, his drumming fingers silent. Moses on the Mount and Witches and Ghosts. Jesus. Moses would probably do well with Hays in power. Or would the public ignore horror and something with religious overtones out of spite? “Go with your gut feelings, Tarz,” he muttered to himself.

  At seven-forty he placed a call to Max and shared with him the second of Daniel’s four “hot” tips. “Let’s do it,” Max said, chortling. Both men were waiting at Mort Stiner’s door at exactly eight o’clock.

  “This is insane, Mr. Tarz. Where in the hell are you coming up with these…Very well, it’s your money.” The bespectacled man grimaced.

  “Exactly. Win or lose, you still get your commissions.”

  “Mr. Rosen isn’t…participating?” Stiner queried.

  Reuben grinned. “He thinks it’s too risky.”

  “A very wise man.” The broker wiped at his chin with his rumpled handkerchief.

  On the way out of the office, Max looked up at Reuben in awe. “What the fuck am I going to do with all this money?”

  “Get married and settle down. Your wife will show you what to do with it.” Reuben laughed derisively. “Now, tell me who Rupert Julian is and why you sent him to me.”

  Max looked embarrassed. “Look, Tarz, it’s one of those things, my mother knows his mother…Well, these two old ladies decided it was time for a really, really good spook film. They swear people like to be scared silly. My mother belongs to all these clubs and organizations, and Sadie, that’s Julian’s mother, is beating the bushes for her son and this picture he wants to make. Hell, according to the Examiner, most of the box office is made up of women, anyway. If you aren’t interested, tell him to take a walk. What I was trying to do was…repay the stock tip. I’m the first to admit I don’t know anything about making movies….” His voice trailed off.

  “It won’t cost a thing to listen, Max. I told Julian to come to the office around noon, and we’d have some lunch and talk about it. Fair?”

  “Yeah, fair. See you around, Reuben.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  Max stopped in his tracks. “You set the rules early on, remember? I haven’t stepped over the line. I don’t think it would do your reputation any good for you to be seen with me.” The little man’s eyes were embarrassed and hopeful as he looked up at Reuben.

  “Max, how would you like to have some breakfast? I’m buying. And”—he waved his hand under Max’s nose—“I only invite people whose company I enjoy to eat with me. Now, you coming or not?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m coming—especially if you’re buying.” Max beamed, his face lighting up like a hundred candles.

  It was a quick breakfast of ham and eggs and three cups of coffee each. They talked about the orange crop, baseball, and the possibility of rain for the weekend. It was one of the most pleasant breakfasts Reuben ever had.

  At the desk of the Ambassador Hotel Reuben was informed by the clerk that Mr. Hays and his entourage had a suite of rooms on the fifth floor. “No, no,” Reuben said, smiling broadly, “don’t announce me. I want to surprise Will.” He winked slyly at the desk clerk. “You know, you’re handsome enough to be in films. Come around to the studio and ask for me.”

  The startled clerk stared at the card Reuben handed him. “Oh…I always…yes, sir…go right up…” He removed his hand from the phone to hold the card closer to his eyes. “I have a day off tomorrow, will that be…convenient?”

  “Not a minute too soon, in my opinion.” Reuben smiled. “Remember now, don’t call Will and tell him I’m on my way up.”

  The desk clerk smiled broadly. “No, sir, I sure wouldn’t want to spoil your surprise.”

  “Good. Oh, by the way,” Reuben called over his shoulder, “are you married or spoken for?”

  “No…no, sir. Is…is that a requirement?”

  “Hell, no,” Reuben called back. “Just curious, that’s all.”

  Upstairs, Reuben rapped sharply on Will Hays’s door. Hays himself opened it, and when he saw who his visitor was he smiled widely. He loved it when what he called the high muckety-mucks came to crawl at his feet. Depending on his mood at the time, he either kicked them or made them lick his boots. This guy, he decided at first sight, would do both.

  “Where’s the doom squad?” Reuben asked as he handed Hays his studio card.

  “Around town casting doom and gloom,” Hays replied flippantly, chuckling at his own joke.

  “I think we can get down to business, then. I understand you think you have some…unsavory little tidbits about my family that wouldn’t look good in print.”

  “Mr. Tarz, I don’t think, I know. Quite a dossier, I might add.”

  “Dossier?” Reuben said nonchalantly.

  “Yes, a list of indiscretions, and quite a lengthy one. Worthy of the front page.” Hays’s huge bat ears twitched. Tarz was big and lean and the look on his face was starting to bother him. “If you think you can come here and intimidate me…threaten me…you’ve come to the wrong place. I have a job to uphold. I am,” he said, puffing out his cheeks, “the moral conscience of this town.”

  “What you really are, Mr. Hays, is a fucking sanctimonious son of a bitch! If you print one word about
my wife or anyone at Fairmont, I will come down on you like Father Doom himself. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You can’t scare me,” Hays bristled. “Just who the hell do you think you are coming in here trying to muscle me? You aren’t much of a man if you can’t control your own wife.”

  “My wife is none of your business,” Reuben said coldly.

  “You aren’t very clean, either, Mr. Tarz. I’ve heard about your…underworld connections.”

  Reuben laughed, a deep mocking sound that made Hays’s ears twitch again.

  “You aren’t a man, you’re a muckraker who makes his living by destroying people’s lives. I despise men like you.”

  “If that’s what you came here to tell me, consider it done. Now you can leave.”

  Hays’s left eye was twitching now. Reuben smiled. If he wanted to, he could have this guy conduct a whole symphony with his twitching and squirming. This time he chuckled aloud at the thought. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Hays. I came here personally to deliver something to you.” He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket.

  Hays reached for it, then withdrew his hand. “What is it?” he demanded.

  Reuben’s even white teeth gleamed. “Mr. Hays, this is your dossier.”

  Hays unfolded the paper, his eyes bulging as he read Reuben’s written words.

  “Now we each have a dossier. Time is money, Mr. Hays, but then I don’t have to tell you that, do I? It’s been nice talking to you.”

  Reuben closed the hotel door softly behind him. He could hear Hays snarl “This is a goddamn pack of lies!” but there was no conviction in the man’s voice. Maybe the crusader would lay low for a while and not bother the other studios and their stars. If the man had a brain in his head, he’d start worrying. Reuben smiled to himself. Let him sweat.