THE CARPETBAGGERS - 10

THE CARPETBAGGERS
HAROLD ROBBINS

(  INSTALMENT 10  )

TEN 


DAVID LOOKED AT THE DINING-ROOM TABLE AS HE FOLLOWED HIS MOTHER INTO THE KITCHEN. Places were set for five people. "You didn't tell me you were having a lot of company for dinner."

His mother, who was peering into a pot on the stove, didn't turn around. "A nice girl should come to supper for the first time with a young man without her parents?"

David suppressed a groan. It was going to be even worse than he'd suspected. "By the way, Mama," he said. "You better set another place at the table. I invited an old friend to have dinner with us."

His mother fixed him with a piercing glance. "Tonight, you invited?"

"I had to, Mama," he said. "Business."

The doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. "I'll get it, Mama," he said quickly. It was probably Needlenose.

He opened the door on a short, worried-looking man in his early sixties with iron-gray hair. A woman of about the same age and a young girl were standing beside him. The worried look disappeared when the man smiled. He held out his hand. "You must be David. I’m Otto Strassmer."

David shook his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Strassmer."

"My wife, Frieda, and my daughter, Rosa," Mr. Strassmer said.

David smiled at them. Mrs. Strassmer nodded nervously and said something in German, which was followed by the girl's pleasant, "How do you do?"

There was something in her voice that made David suddenly look at her. She was not tall, perhaps five four, and from what he could see, she was slim. Her dark hair, cropped in close ringlets to her head, framed a broad brow over deep-set gray eyes that were almost hidden behind long lashes. There was a faint defiance in the curve of her mouth and the set of her chin. An instant realization came to David. The girl no more cared for this meeting than he did.

"Who is it, David?" His mother called from the kitchen.

"I beg your pardon," he said quickly. "Won't you come in?" He stepped aside to let them enter. "It's the Strassmers, Mama."

"Take them into the living room," his mother called. "There's schnapps on the table."

David closed the door behind him. "May I take your coat?" he asked the girl.

She nodded and slipped it off. She was wearing a simple man-tailored blouse and a skirt that was gathered at her tiny waist by a wide leather belt. He was surprised. He was experienced enough to know that the pert thrust of her breasts against the silk of the blouse was not fashioned by any brassière.

Her mother said something in German. Rosa looked at him. "Mother says you and Papa go in and have your drink," she said. "We'll go into the kitchen and see if we can help."

David looked at her. Again that voice. An accent and yet not an accent. At least, it wasn't an accent like her father's. The women turned and started toward the kitchen. He looked at Mr. Strassmer. The little man smiled and followed him into the living room.

David found a bottle of whisky on the coffee table, surrounded by shot glasses. A pint bottle of Old Overholt. David suppressed a grimace. It was the traditional whisky that appeared at all ceremonies — births, bar mizvahs, weddings, deaths. A strong blend of straight rye whiskies that burned your throat on the way down and flooded your nose unpleasantly with the smell of alcohol. He should have had enough brains to bring a bottle of Scotch. He was sure it was Old Overholt that had kept the Jews from ever acquiring a taste for whisky.

It was apparent that Mr. Strassmer didn't share his feelings. He picked up the bottle and looked at it. He turned to David, smiling. "Ah, Gut schnapps."

David smiled and took the bottle from his hand. "Straight or with water?" he asked, breaking the seal. That was another thing that was traditional. The bottle was always sealed. Once it was opened and not finished, it was never brought out for company again. He wondered what happened to all the open, half-empty bottles. They must be languishing in some dark closet awaiting the day of liberation.

"Straight," Mr. Strassmer said, a faintly horrified note in his voice.

David filled a shot glass and handed it to him. "I’ll have to get a little water," he apologized.

Just then Rosa came in, carrying a pitcher of water and some tumblers. "I thought you might need this." She smiled, setting them on the coffee table.

"Thank you."

She smiled and went out again as David mixed himself a drink, liberally diluting it with water. He turned to Mr. Strassmer. The little German held up his glass. "L'chaim."

"L'chaim," David repeated.

Mr. Strassmer swallowed his drink in one head-tilted-back gesture. He coughed politely and turned to David, his eyes watering. "Ach, gut."

David nodded and sipped at his own. It tasted terrible, even with water. "Another?" he asked politely.

Otto Strassmer smiled. David refilled his glass and the little man turned and sat down on the couch. "So you're David," he said. "I’ve heard a great deal about you."

David smiled back and nodded. This was the kind of evening it would be. By the time it was over, his face would ache from all this polite smiling.

"Yes," Mr. Strassmer continued. "I have heard a great deal about you. For a long time, I've wanted to meet you. We both work for the same man, you know."

"The same man?"

"Yes." Mr. Strassmer nodded. "Jonas Cord. You work for him in the movie business. I work for him in the plastics business. We met your mother at shul last year when we went there for the High Holy Day services." Mr. Strassmer smiled. "We got to talking and found that my wife, Frieda, was a second cousin to your father. Both families came originally from Silesia."

He swallowed the whisky in his glass. Again he coughed, and looked up at David through teary eyes. "A small world, isn't it?"

"A small world," David agreed.

His mother's voice came from behind him. "So, nu, it's time to sit down to supper already and where's this friend?"

"He should be here any minute, Mama."

"Seven o'clock you told him?" his mother asked suspiciously.

David nodded.

"So why isn't he here? Don't he know when it's time to eat, you should eat or everything gets spoiled?"

Just then the doorbell rang and David heaved a sigh of relief. "Here he is now, Mama," he said, starting for the door.

The fall, good-looking young man who stood in the doorway was nothing like the thin, intense, dark-eyed boy he remembered. In place of the sharp, beaklike proboscis that had earned him his nickname was a fine, almost aquiline nose that contrasted handsomely with his wide mouth and lantern-like jaw. He smiled when he saw David's startled expression.

"I went to a face factory and had it fixed. It wouldn't look good I should walk around Beverly Hills with an East Side nose." He held out his hand. "It's good to see you, Davy."

David took his hand. The grip was firm and warm. "Come on in," he said. "Mama's ready to bust. Dinner's ready."

They went into the living room. Mr. Strassmer got to his feet and his mother looked at Needlenose suspiciously. David glanced around quickly. Rosa was not in the room. "Mama," he said. "You remember Irving Schwartz?"

"Hello, Mrs. Woolf."

"Yitzchak Schwartz," she said. "Sure I remember. What happened to your nose?"

"Mama," David protested.

Needlenose smiled. "That's all right, David. I had it fixed, Mrs. Woolf."

"A mishegass. With such a small nose, it's a wonder you can breathe. You got a job, Yitzchak?" she demanded belligerently. "Or are you still hanging around with the bums by Shocky's garage?"

"Mama!" David said quickly. "Irving lives out here now."

"So it's Irving now." His mother's voice was angry. "Fixing his nose is not enough. His name, too, he's got to fix. What's wrong with the name your parents gave you—Isidore—hah?"

Needlenose began to laugh. He looked at David. "I see what you mean," he said. "Nothing's changed. Nothing's wrong with it, Mrs. Woolf. Irving's easier to spell."

"You'd finish school like my son, David," she retorted, "it shouldn't be so hard to spell."

"Come on, Mrs. Woolf. David promised me knaidlach. I couldn't wait; all day I was so hungry thinking about it."

Mrs. Woolf stared at him suspiciously. "You be a good boy, now," she said, somewhat mollified, "and every Friday you come for knaidlach.''

"I will, Mrs. Woolf."

"All right," she said. "So now I'll go see if the soup is hot."

Rosa came into the room just as David was about to introduce Needlenose to the Strassmers. She stopped in the doorway, a look of surprise on her face. Then she smiled and came into the room. "Why, Mr. Schwartz," she said. "How nice to see you."

Irving looked up. He held out his hand. "Hey, Doc," he said. "I didn't know you knew my friend David."

She took his hand. "We just met this evening."

Irving looked at David. "Doc Strassmer did my nose retread. She's really great, David. Did you know she did that job on Linda Davis last year?"

David looked at Rosa curiously. No one had ever said anything about her being a doctor.  And the Linda Davis operation had been a big one. The actress's face had been cut to ribbons in an automobile accident, yet when she went before the cameras a year later, there wasn't the slightest visible trace of disfigurement.

He was suddenly aware that Mr. and Mrs. Strassmer were staring at him nervously. He smiled at Rosa. "Doctor, you're just the one I wanted to talk to. What do you think I ought to do about the terribly empty feeling I suddenly got in my stomach?"

She looked at him gratefully. The nervousness was gone from her eyes now and they glinted mischievously. "I think a few of your mother's knaidlach might fix that."

"Knaidlach? Who said something about my knaidlach?" his mother said from the doorway. She bustled into the room importantly. "So everybody sit down," she said. "The soup's on the table and already it's getting cold."


ELEVEN


WHEN THEY HAD FINISHED DINNER, ROSA LOOKED AT HER WATCH. "You'll have to excuse me for a little while," she said. "I have to run over to the hospital to see a patient."

David looked at her. "I’ll drive you over, if you like."

She smiled. "You don't have to do that. I have my own car."

"It's no bother," David said politely. "At least, let me keep you company."

Irving got to his feet. "I have to be going, too," he said. He turned to Mrs. Woolf. "Thank you for a delicious dinner. It made me homesick."

David's mother smiled. "So be a good boy, Yitzchak," she said, "and you can come again."

Rosa smiled at David's mother. "We won't be long."

"Go," Mrs. Woolf said. "Don't you children rush." She glanced beamingly at Rosa's parents. "We older ones have a lot to talk about."

"I'm sorry, Irving," David said as they came out of the apartment house. "We didn't have much of a chance to talk. Maybe we can make it tomorrow?"

"We can talk right now," Irving said quietly. "I’m sure we can trust Rosa. Can't we, Doc?"

Rosa made a gesture. "I can wait in the car," she said quickly.

David stopped her. "No, that's all right." He turned back to Irving. "I must have seemed stupid when you called yesterday. But Dan Pierce mostly handles our labor relations."

"That's O.K., Davy," Irving said. "I figured something like that."

"Dan tells me we're looking down the throat of a strike. I suppose you know we can't afford one. It'll bust us."

"I know," Irving answered. "And I'm trying to help. But I’m in a spot unless we can work out some kind of a deal."

"What kind of a spot can you be in? Nobody's pressing you to go out on strike. Your members are just getting over the effects of the depression layoffs."

"Yeah." Irving nodded. "They don't want to strike but the commies are moving in. And they're stirring up a lot of trouble about how the picture companies are keeping all the gravy for themselves. A lot of people are listening. They hear about the high salaries stars and executives get and it looks good to them. Why shouldn't they get a little of it? And the commies keep them stirred up."

"What about Bioff and Brown?"

"They were pigs," Irving said contemptuously. "One side wasn't enough for them. They were trying to take it from both. That's why we dumped them."

"You dumped them?" David asked skeptically. "I thought they got caught."

Irving stared at him. "Where do you think the government got its documentation to build a case? They didn't find it layin' around in the street."

"It seems to me you're trying to use us to put out a fire your own people started," David said. "You're using the commies as an excuse."

Irving smiled. "Maybe we are, a little. But the communists are very active in the guilds. And the entire industry just signed new agreements with the Screen Directors Guild and Screen Writers Guild calling for the biggest increase they ever got. The commies are taking all the credit. Now they're starting to move in on the craft unions. And you know how the crafts are. They'll figure that if the commies can do it for the guilds, they can do it for them. The craft-union elections are coming up soon. The commies are putting up a big fight and if we don't come up with something soon, we're going to be on the outside looking in. If that happens, you'll find they're a lot harder to deal with than we were."

David looked at him. "What you're suggesting, then, is for us to decide who we want to deal with—you or the communists. How do the members feel about it? Haven't they got anything to say?"

Irving's voice was matter-of-fact. "Most of them are jerks," he said contemptuously. "All they care about is their pay envelope and who promises them the most." He took out a package of cigarettes. "Right now, the commies are beginning to look real good to them."

David was silent while his friend lit a cigarette. The gold lighter glowed briefly, then went back into Irving's pocket. His jacket opened slightly and David saw the black butt of a gun in a shoulder holster.

Gold lighters and guns. And two kids from the East Side of New York standing in a warm spring night under the California stars talking about money and power and communism. He wondered what Irving got out of it but he knew better than to ask. There were some things that were none of his business.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Irving flicked the cigarette into the gutter. "The commies are asking an increase of twenty-five cents an hour and a thirty-five-hour week. We'll settle for five cents an hour now, another nickel next year and a thirty-seven-and-a-half-hour work week." He looked into David's eyes. "Dan Pierce says he hasn't the authority to do anything about it. He says he can't get to Cord. I been waiting three months. I can't wait any longer. You sit on your can, the strike is on. You lose and we lose. Only you lose more. Your whole company goes down the drain. We'll still get lots of action other places. The only real winners are the commies."

David hesitated. He had no more authority than Dan to make this kind of deal. Still, there
wasn't time to wait for Jonas. Whether Jonas liked it or not, he'd have to back him up.

He drew in his breath. "It's a deal."

Irving's white teeth flashed in a grin. He punched David lightly on the shoulder. "Good boy," he said. "I didn't think I'd have any trouble making you see the light. The negotiating committee has a meeting with Pierce tomorrow morning. We'll let them make the announcement."

He turned to Rosa. "Sorry to bust in on your party like this, Doc," he said. "But it was good seeing you again."

"That's all right, Mr. Schwartz."

They watched Irving walk over to the curb and get into his car, a Cadillac convertible. He started the motor and looked up at them. "Hey, you two. Yuh know what?"

"What?" David asked.

Irving grinned. "Like your Mama would say, yon make a nice-looking couple."

They watched him turn the corner, then David looked at Rosa. It seemed to him that her face was slightly flushed. He took her arm. "My car is across tike street."

She was silent almost the whole way to the hospital. 'Something bothering you, Doc?" he asked.

"Now you're doing it," she said. "Everybody calls me Doc. I liked it better when you called me Rosa."

He smiled. "What's on your mind, Rosa?"

She looked down at the dashboard of the car. "We came all the way to America to get away from them."

"Them?" David asked.

"The same as in Germany," she said tersely. "The Nazis. The gangsters. They're the same, really. They both say the same things. Take us or you'll get the communists. And we'll be easier to get along with, you can deal with us." She looked up at him. "But what do you say when you find they've taken everything away from you? That was the gimmick they used to take over Germany. To save it from the communists."

"You're intimating my friend Irving Schwartz is a Nazi?"

She stared at him. "No, your friend is not a Nazi," she said seriously. "But the same insanity for power motivates him. Your friend is a very dangerous man. He carries a gun, did you know that?"

David nodded. "I saw it."

"I wonder what he would have done it you'd refused him," she said softly.

"Nothing. Needlenose wouldn't harm me."

Again her gray eyes flashed at him. "No, not with a gun," she said quickly. "Against you, he has other weapons. Economic weapons that could bankrupt your business. But a man does not carry a gun if he does not intend to use it, sooner or later."

David stopped the car in front of the hospital. "What do you think I should have done? Refuse to make a deal with Irving and let everything I've worked for all these years go to pot? Ruin every lousy investor who has put his faith and money in the company? Put our employees out on the streets looking for jobs? Is that what I should have done? Is it my fault that my employees haven't brains enough to choose decent representatives and see to it that they have an honest union?" Without realizing it, his voice had risen in anger.

Suddenly, she leaned over and put her hand on his where it rested on the wheel. Her hand was warm and firm. "No, of course it's not your fault," she said quickly. "You did what you thought was right."

A doorman came down the long steps and opened the car door. "Good evening, Dr. Strassmer."

"Good evening, Porter," she said. She straightened up and looked at David. "Would you like to come in and see where I work?"

"I don't want to get in your way. I don't mind waiting here if you'd rather."

She smiled and pressed his hand suddenly. "Please come," she said. "It would make me feel happier. Then, at least, I’d know you weren't angry at me for putting my—how do you say it—two cents into your business."

He laughed, and still holding his hand, she got out of the car and led him up the steps to the hospital.

******

He stood in the doorway and watched as she gently lifted the bandage from the child's face. She held out her hand silently and the nurse took a swab from a bottle and handed it to her. "This may hurt a little, Mary," she said. "But you won't move or talk, will you?"

The girl shook her head.

"All right, then," Rosa said. "Now we’ll be still, very still." Her voice murmured, low and soothing, as her hand quickly traced the edge of the girl's lips with the swab. David saw the child's eyes fill with sudden tears. For a moment, he thought she was going to move her head but she didn't.

"That's fine," Rosa said softly as the nurse took the swab from her hand. "You're a brave girl." The nurse efficiently replaced the bandage across the girl's mouth. "Tomorrow morning, we'll take off the bandage and you'll be able to go home."

The girl reached for a pad and pencil on the table next to her bed. She scribbled quickly for a moment, then handed it to Rosa. She looked down at the paper and smiled. "Tomorrow morning, after the bandage comes off."

David saw the sudden smile that leaped into the child's eyes. Rosa turned to him as they walked down the corridor. "We can go back to your mother's now."

"That was a pretty little girl," he said as they waited for the elevator.

"Yes."

"What was the matter with her?"

She looked at him. "Harelip," she said. "The child was born with it." A note of quiet pride came into her voice. "Now she'll be just like anyone else. No one will stare at her or laugh when she talks."

The door opened and they stepped into the elevator. David pressed the button and the door closed. He noticed the note the girl had given Rosa still in her hand. He took it from her. It was in a childish scrawl. "When will I be able to talk?"

He looked at Rosa. "It must make you feel good."

She nodded. "Plastic surgery isn't all nose jobs, or double-chin corrections for movie stars. The important part is helping people so they can live normal lives. Like Mary up there. You've no idea how a deformity like that can affect a child's life."

A new respect for her grew in him as they crossed the lobby toward the front door. The doorman touched his cap. "I'll get your car, sir."

As he ran down the steps and crossed over to the parking lot, a big limousine came to a stop in front of them. David glanced at it casually, then turned toward Rosa. He pulled a package of cigarettes from his pocket. "Cigarette, Rosa?"

He heard the limousine door open behind him as Rosa took the cigarette. He put one in his own mouth and held a light for her. "You wanted to see me, David?"

David spun around, almost dropping his lighter. He saw the white blur of a shirt, then a head and shoulders appeared in the open doorway of the limousine. It was Jonas Cord. David stared at him silently.

Involuntarily David glanced at Rosa. There was a strange look in her eyes. He thought she might be frightened and his hand reached out for her.

Jonas' voice was a quiet chuckle behind him. "It's all right, David," he said. "You can bring Rosa with you."


TWELVE


ROSA SANK BACK ONTO THE SEAT IN THE CORNER OF THE LIMOUSINE. She glanced at David sitting next to her, then at Jonas. It was dark inside the car and occasionally the light from an overhead street lamp would flicker across Jonas' face as he sat facing them on the jump seat, his long legs stretched across the Tonen.

"How is your father, Rosa?"

"He is fine, Mr. Cord. He speaks of you often."

She sensed rather than saw his smile. "Give him my best when you see him."

"I will do that, Mr. Cord," she said.

The big automobile picked up speed as they came out on the Coast Highway. Rosa glanced out of the window. They were going north toward Santa Barbara, away from Los Angeles.

"McAllister said you wanted to see me, David."

She felt David stir on the seat beside her. He leaned forward. "We've gone about as far as we can on our own, Jonas. If we're to go any further, we'll need your O.K."

Jonas' voice was emotionless. "Why go any further?" he asked. "I'm satisfied with the way things are. You've eliminated your operating losses and from now on, you should be in the black."

"We won't stay in the black for long. The unions are demanding increases or they'll strike. That will absorb any profits."

"Let them," Jonas said, his voice still emotionless. "You don't have to give it to them."

"I already did," David answered.

Rosa could almost hear the moment's silence. She looked from one to the other, though she couldn't see their faces.

"You did?" Jonas said quietly, but an undercurrent of coldness had come into his voice. "I thought union negotiations were Dan's province.''

David's voice was steady. There was a cautious note in it but it was the caution used by a man seeking his way through unknown territory, not that of fear. "It was, until tonight," he said. "Until it affected the welfare of the company. Then it became my business."

"Why couldn't Dan settle it?"

"Because you never replied to his messages," David said quietly. "He felt he couldn't make a deal without your approval."

"And you felt differently?"

"Yes."

Jonas' voice grew colder. "What makes you think you don't need my approval any more than he does?"

She heard a click as David flicked his lighter and held the flame to his cigarette. Light danced across his face for a moment, then went out. The cigarette glowed in the dark. "Because I assumed that if you'd wanted me to bankrupt the company, you'd have told me so two years ago."

Jonas ignored the answer. "What else did you want to see me about?"

"The government's starting that antitrust business again," David said. "They want us to separate the theaters from the studio. I sent you all the pertinent data some time ago. We'll have to give them an answer."

Jonas sounded uninterested. "I've already told Mac what to do about that. We'll be able to stall until after the war, when we ought to get a good price for the theaters. There's always an inflation in real estate after a war."

"What if we don't have a war?"

"We'll have a war," Jonas said flatly. "Sometime within the next few years. Hitler is going to find himself in a bind. He'll have to expand or bust the whole phony prosperity he's brought to Germany."

Rosa felt a knot in her stomach. It was one thing to feel that it was inevitable because you always kept hoping you were wrong. But to put it as simply and concisely as Jonas ... sans emotion; one plus one equals two. War. And then there would be no place left to go. Germany would rule the world. Even her father said that the Fatherland was so far ahead of the rest of the world that it would take them a century to catch up.

She stared at David. How could Americans know so little? Did they honestly believe that they could escape this war unscathed? How could he sit there talking business as if nothing were going to happen? He was a Jew. Didn't he, too, feel the shadow of Hitler falling across him?

She heard David chuckle. "Then we're in the same boat," he said. She stared at him in shocked surprise as he went on talking. "What we've done by virtue of enforced economies is to build a false economy for ourselves. One in which we count as profit the savings produced by eliminating the waste from our own body. But we haven't created any new sources of real profit."

"And that's why you've been talking to Bonner?"

She felt David start in surprise. For the first time that evening, his voice wasn't assured. "Yes," he answered.

"I suppose you felt it was quite within your authority to initiate such discussions without prior consultations with me?" Jonas' voice was still quiet.

"As far back as a year ago, I sent you a note asking your permission to talk to Zanuck. I never received a reply and Zanuck signed with Fox."

"If I’d wanted you to talk to him, I’d have let you know," Jonas said sharply. "What makes you think Dan can't do what Bonner can?"

David hesitated. He ground his cigarette out in the ash tray on the arm rest beside him. "Two things," he said cautiously. "I’m not knocking Dan. He's proved himself an extremely able administrator and studio executive. He has developed a program that keeps the factory working at maximum efficiency, but one of the things he lacks is the creative conceit of men like Bonner and Zanuck. The ability to seize an idea and personally turn it into a great motion picture."

He stared at Jonas in the dark. They passed a street lamp, which revealed Jonas for a moment, his eyes hooded, his face impassive. "Lack of creative conceit is the difference between a real producer and a studio executive, which Dan really is. The creative conceit to make him believe he can make pictures better than anyone else and the ability to make others believe it, too. To my mind, you showed more of it in the two pictures you made than Dan has in the fifty-odd pictures he's produced in the last two years."

"And what's the second?" Jonas asked, ignoring the implied flattery of David's words. Rosa smiled to herself as she realized that he'd accepted the remark as fact.

"The second is money," David replied. "Assuming Dan could develop this quality, it would take money to find out. Five million dollars, to make two or three big pictures. Money which you don't want to invest. Bonner brings his own financing. He'll make four pictures a year, and our own investment is minimal only the overhead on each. Between distribution fees and profit-sharing, we can't get hurt, no matter what happens. And his supervision of the rest of the program can do nothing but help us."

"You've thought about what this would do to Dan?" Jonas asked.

David took a deep breath. "Dan is your responsibility, not mine. My responsibility is to the company." He hesitated a moment. "There'd still be a lot Dan could do."

"Not the way you want it," Jonas said flatly. "No business can run with two heads."

David was silent.

Jonas' words cut sharply through the dark like a knife. "All right, make your deal with Bonner," he said. "But it'll be up to you to get rid of Dan."

He turned in the jump seat. "You can take us back to Mr. Woolf's car now, Robair."

"Yes, Mr. Cord."

Jonas turned back to them. "I saw Nevada earlier," he said. "He'll make that series for us."

"Good. We'll begin checking story properties right away."

"You don't have to," Jonas said. "We settled that already. I suggested to him we pick up the character Max Sand from The Renegade and take it from there."

"How can we? At the end of the picture, he rode off into the hills to die."

Jonas smiled. "We'll presume he didn't. Suppose he lived, took another name and got religion. And that he spends the rest of his life helping people who have no one else to turn to. He uses his gun only as a last resort. Nevada liked it."

David stared at Jonas. Why shouldn't Nevada like it? It captured the imagination immediately. There wasn't a Western star in the business who wouldn't jump at the chance of making a series like that. That was what he'd meant by creative conceit. Jonas really had it.

The car came to a stop in front of the hospital. Jonas leaned over and opened the door. "You get off here," he said quietly.

The meeting was over.

 ******

They stood in front of his car and watched the big black limousine disappear down the
driveway. David opened the door and Rosa looked up at him. "It's been a big night, hasn't
it?" she asked softly.

He nodded. "A very big night."

"You don't have to take me back. I can get a cab here. I’ll understand."

He looked down at her, his face serious, then he smiled. "What do you say we go someplace for a drink?"

She hesitated a moment. "I have a cottage at Malibu," she said. "It's not far from here. We could go there if you'd like."

They were at the cottage in fifteen minutes. "Don't be upset at how the place looks," she said, putting the key into the lock. "I haven't had time lately to straighten up."

She flicked on the light and he followed her into a large living room that was very sparsely furnished. A couch, several occasional chairs, two small tables with lamps. At one end was a fireplace, at the other a solid glass wall facing the ocean. In front of it was an easel holding a half-finished oil painting. A smock and palette lay on the floor.

"What do you drink?" she asked.

"Scotch, if you have it."

"I have it. Sit down while I get ice and glasses."

He waited until she went into another room, then crossed to the easel. He looked at the painting. It was a sunset over the Pacific, with wild red, yellow and orange hues over the almost black water. He heard ice clink in a glass behind him and turned. She held out a drink to him.

"Yours?" he asked, taking the glass from her.

She nodded. "I'm not really good at it. I play the piano the same way. But it's my way of relaxing, of working off my frustrations over my incapabilities. It's my way of compensating for not being a genius."

"Not many people are," he said. "But from what I've heard, you're a pretty good doctor."

She looked at him. "I suppose I am. But I’m not good enough. What you said tonight was very revealing. And very true."

"What was that?"

"About creative conceit, the ability to do what no other man can do. A great doctor or surgeon must have it, too." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm a very good workman. Nothing more."

"You might be judging yourself unfairly."

"No, I’m not," she replied quickly. "I’ve studied under doctors who were geniuses and I've seen enough others to know what I'm talking about. My father, in his own way, is a genius. He can do things with plastics and ceramics that no other man in the world can. Sigmund Freud, who is a friend of my father's, Picasso, whom I met in France, George Bernard Shaw, who lectured at my college in England—they are all geniuses. And they all have that one quality in common. The creative conceit that enables them to do things that no other man before them could do." She shook her head. "No, I know better. I'm no genius."

He looked at her. "I’m not, either."

David turned toward the ocean as she came and stood beside him. "I’ve known some geniuses, too," he said. "Uncle Bernie, who started Norman Pictures, was a genius. He did everything it now takes ten men to do. And Jonas Cord is a genius, too, in a way. But I’m not sure yet in what area. There are so many things he can do, it's a pity."

"I know what you mean. My father said almost the same thing about him."

He looked down at her. "It's sad, isn't it?" he said. "Two ordinary non-geniuses, standing here looking out at the Pacific Ocean."

A glint of laughter came into her eyes. "And such a big ocean, too."

"The biggest," he said solemnly. "Or so some genius said. The biggest in the world." He held up his glass. "Let's drink to that."

They drank and he turned again to the ocean. "It's warm, almost warm enough to swim."

"I don't think the ocean would object if two just ordinary people went for a swim."

He looked at her and smiled slowly. "Could we?"

She laughed. "Of course. You'll find swimming trunks in the locker in the utility room."

******

David came out of the water and collapsed on the blanket. He rolled over on his side and watched her running up the beach toward him. He held his breath. She was so much a woman that he had almost forgotten she was also a doctor.

She dropped beside him and reaching for a towel, threw it across her shoulders. "I didn't think the water would be so cold."

He laughed. "It's wonderful." He reached for a cigarette. "When I was a kid, we used to go swimming off the docks in the East River. It was never like this." He lit the cigarette and passed it to her.

"Feel better now?" she asked.

He nodded. "It's just what the doctor ordered." He laughed. "All the knots came untied."

"Good," she said. She dragged on the cigarette and passed it back to him.

"You know, Rosa," he said, almost shyly, "when my mother asked me to dinner to meet
you, I didn't want to come."

"I know," she said. "I felt the same way. I was sure you'd be a real slob."

She came down into his arms, her mouth tasting of ocean salt. His hand found her breast inside her bathing suit. He felt a shiver run through her as the nipple grew into his palm, then her fingers were on his thigh, capturing his manhood.

Slowly he reached up and slipped the suit from her shoulders and drew it down over her body. He could hear her breath whistling in her chest as he pressed his face against her breasts. Her arms locked around his head, closing out the night. Suddenly, her fingers were frantic, leading him to her, her voice harsh and insistent. "Don't be so gentle, David. I'm a woman!"


THIRTEEN 


ROSA CAME INTO THE COTTAGE AND WENT DIRECTLY INTO THE BEDROOM. She glanced at the clock on the night table. It was time for the six-o'clock news. She turned on the radio and the announcer's voice filled the room as she began to undress:

Today the pride of the German army, Rommel, the "Desert Fox," got his first real taste of what it felt like to eat desert sand as, in the midst of a whirling, blinding sandstorm, Montgomery began to push him back toward Tobruk. Obviously inadequately prepared for the massive onslaught, the Italians, supporting Rommel's flanks, were surrendering en masse. With his flanks thus exposed, Rommel had no choice but to begin to fall back to the sea. In London today, Prime Minister Winston Churchill said-

She flicked off the radio. War news. Nothing but war news. Today she didn't want to hear it. She turned and looked at her naked body in the mirror over the dresser.

She pressed her hand to her stomach. It felt strong and somehow full to her. She turned sideways and studied herself. She was still flat and straight. But in a little while, she would begin to get round and full. She smiled to herself as she remembered the surprise she had heard in Dr. Mayer's voice. "Why, Doctor, you're pregnant!" There had been a look of amazement in his eyes.

She had laughed. "That's what I thought, Doctor."

"Well," he sputtered. "Well!"

"Don't be so shocked, Doctor," she said, almost dryly. "These things are known to happen to many women."

Then she was surprised by the sudden feeling of pride and happiness that swept through her. She had never thought she would feel like this. The thought of having a child had always frightened her. Not a physical kind of fear but rather that pregnancy might keep her from her work, interfere with her life.

But it turned out to be not like that at all. She was proud and happy and excited. This was something only she could do. There had never been a man, in all medical history, who had given birth to a child.

She threw a robe around her shoulders and went into the bathroom, turning on the tub water. Almost languidly she sprinkled the bath salts into it. The fragrance came up and tickled her nostrils. She sneezed. "Gesundheit!" she said aloud to herself and pressed her hands to her stomach.

She laughed aloud. The baby wasn't even shaped inside her yet and already she was talking to it. She looked at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her skin was clear and pink and her eyes were sparkling. She smiled again. For the first time in her life, she was glad she was a woman.

Carefully she stepped into the tub and sank into the warm water. She would not soak too long. She wanted to be at the telephone at seven o'clock when David called from New York. She wanted to hear the happiness in his voice when she told him.

******

David looked down at the blue, leather-bound book of accounts. Six million dollars' profit this year. Almost two million last year. If nothing else, the figures proved how right had been the deal he made with Bonner three years ago.

True, Bonner made almost as much for himself. But he had a right to it. Almost all that profit had come from his own big pictures, those he had produced and financed himself. If only David had been able to persuade Jonas to come up with the financing when Bonner offered it to them. If he had, the profit this year would have been ten million dollars.

Only one thing troubled David. During the past year, Cord had been gradually liquidating part of his stock as the market rose. He'd already recovered his original investment and the twenty-three per cent of the stock he still owned was free and clear. Ordinarily, in a company this size, that meant control. But someone was buying. It was the story of Uncle Bernie all over again. Only this time, Jonas was on the wrong side of the fence.

One day, a broker named Sheffield had come to see David. He was rumored to be the head of a powerful syndicate and their holdings in the company were considerable. David had looked at him questioningly, as he sat down.

"For almost a year now, we've been trying to arrange a meeting with Mr. Cord to discuss our mutual problems," Sheffield said. "But no one seems to know where he is or how he can be reached. We've never even received an answer to our letters.''

"Mr. Cord is a busy man."

"I know," Sheffield said quickly. "I’ve had dealings with him before. The least I can say is that he's erratic." He drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket and opened it. Carefully he took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He lit the cigarette and as carefully put the case back in his pocket. He blew a cloud of smoke toward David. "Our patience is at an end," he said. "We have a considerable investment in this company, an investment that will tolerate neither a dilettante operation nor an obvious neglect of profit opportunities."

"It seems to me the investors have very little to complain about," David said. "Especially in view of the profits this year."

"I commend your loyalty, Mr. Woolf," Sheffield said. He smiled. "But we both know better. My group of investors was willing to advance the financing needed for certain pictures which might have doubled our profit. Mr. Cord was not. We are willing to work out an equitable stock and profit-sharing plan for certain key executives. Mr. Cord is not. And definitely we are not interested in burdening the company with certain expenses, like those at the Boulevard Park Hotel."

David had been wondering how long it would take him to get around to that. It was an open secret in the industry. Cord's harem, they called it.

It had begun two years ago, when Jonas tried to get a suite in the hotel for a girl and was refused. Using the picture company as a subterfuge, he then rented several floors of the staid establishment on the fringe of Beverly Hills. On the day the lease was signed, he had the studio move in all the girls on the contract-players' list.

There had almost been a riot as thirty girls swarmed into as many apartments under the shocked eyes of the hotel management. The newspapers had a field day, pointing out that none of the girls made as much in a year as each apartment would have ordinarily cost in a month.

That had been two years ago but the lease ran for fifteen years. Admittedly, it cost the company a great deal of money. The hotel would have been only too willing to cancel the lease but Jonas would have no part of it. Gradually most of the girls moved out. Now most of the apartments were empty, except when Jonas came across a girl he thought had possibilities.

David leaned back in his chair. "I don't have to point out, of course, that Mr. Cord receives no remuneration or expenses from the company."

Sheffield smiled. "We would have no objections if Mr. Cord rendered any service to the company. But the truth is that he is not at all active. He has not attended a single board meeting since his association with the company began."

"Mr. Cord bought the controlling interest in the company," David pointed out. "Therefore, his association with it is not in the ordinary category of employees."

"I'm quite aware of that," Sheffield said. "But are you quite sure control of the company still remains in his hands? We now have as much and perhaps more stock than he has. We feel we're entitled to a voice in management."

"I'll be glad to relay your suggestion to Mr. Cord."

"That won't be necessary," Sheffield said. "We are certain, because of his refusal to reply to our requests for a meeting, that he is not interested."

"In that case, why did you come to me?" David asked. Now the preliminaries were over; they were getting down to the heart of things.

Sheffield leaned forward. "We feel that the success of this company is directly attributed to you and your policies. We have the highest regard for your ability and would like to see you take your proper place in the company as chief executive officer." He ground out his cigarette in the ash tray before him. "With proper authority and compensation, of course."

David stared at him. The world on a silver platter. "That's very gratifying," he said cautiously. "What if I were to ask you to leave things as they are? What if I were to persuade Mr. Cord to adopt some of your suggestions? Would that be satisfactory to you?"

Sheffield shook his head. "With all due respect to your sincerity—no. You see, we're firmly convinced that Cord is detrimental to the progress of this company."

"Then you'd launch a proxy fight if I didn't go along with you?"

"I doubt that it would be necessary," Sheffield said. "I have already mentioned that we own a considerable amount of the stock outstanding. Certain brokers have pledged us an additional five per cent." He took a paper from his pocket and handed it to David. "And here is a commitment from Mr. Bonner to sell us all of the stock in his possession on December fifteenth, the day of the annual meeting, next week. Mr. Bonner's ten per cent of the stock brings our total to thirty-eight per cent. With or without the five per cent you own, we have more than sufficient stock to take control of the company. Even with proxies, Mr. Cord would not be able to vote more than thirty per cent of the stock."

David picked up the sheet of paper and looked at it. It was a firm commitment, all right. And it was Bonner's signature. He pushed the paper back to Sheffield silently. Suddenly, he remembered the old Norman warehouse, where he had first gone to work. The king must die. But now it was no mere platform boss, it was Jonas. Until this moment, he had never let himself think about it. Jonas had seemed invulnerable.

But all that had changed. Jonas was slipping. And what Sheffield was saying in effect was, string along with us and we'll make you king. David took a deep breath. Why shouldn't it be he? It was something he had felt ever since that first day in the warehouse.

******

Rosa put the newspaper down on the bed and reached for a cigarette. She looked at the clock. It was after eight. That made it after eleven o'clock in New York. David should have called by now. Usually, if he expected to be out late, he would let her know.

Could something have happened to him? Could he be lying hurt in the streets of New York, three thousand miles away, and she'd never know until it was too late?

She picked up the telephone and called him at his hotel in New York. She heard the rapid relay of the telephone across the country, then the phone ringing in his suite. It rang for a long time.

"Hello," he said. His voice was low and cautious.

"David, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said.

"I was worried. Why didn't you call?"

"I’m in the middle of a meeting."

"Oh. Are you alone? Are you in the bedroom?"

"Yes," he answered, in the same low, cautious voice. "I’m in the bedroom."

"Are you sitting on the bed?"

"Yes."

"I'm lying on the bed." She waited for him to ask the usual question. This time he didn't, so she told him, anyway. "I have nothing on," she whispered. A sudden warmth rose up in her. "Oh, David, I miss you so. I wish you were here beside me."

She heard the faint sound of a striking match. "I'll be out there by the end of the week."

"I can't wait, David. Can you?"

"No," he said, still cautiously.

"Stretch out on the bed for a moment, David," she whispered. "I want you to feel me as I feel you."

"Rosa— "

"Oh, David," she whispered, interrupting. "I can see you now. Hard and strong. I can feel you pouring life into me." She closed her eyes against the flush of heat spreading upward from her loins. She could hear his breathing in the telephone. "David," she whispered. "I cannot wait."

"Rosa!" His voice was harsh. "I— "

Her voice was warm and languid. "Freud would have a wonderful time with me," she whispered. "Are you angry with me, David, for being so greedy?"

"No," he said.

She took a deep breath. "I’m glad," she said. "I have wonderful news to tell you, darling."

"Can it wait until tomorrow, Rosa?" he said quickly. "I’m in the middle of an important meeting."

She hesitated in stunned silence.

He took it for acquiescence. "That's a good girl, darling," he said. "Bye now."

There was a click and he was off the line before she could answer. She stared at the telephone in bewilderment for a moment, then put it down slowly.

She reached for the cigarette still smoldering in the ash tray. The acrid smoke burned in her throat. Angrily she ground it out. She turned her face into the pillow and lay there silently.

I shouldn't have called him, she thought. He said he was busy. She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror.

You ought to be able to understand, she told herself. There have been times you've been too busy to come to the telephone when he called. You, of all people.

Almost surprised, she saw the tears well up into her eyes and begin to run down her cheeks. Then they overwhelmed her and she sank to her knees, her face against the cold porcelain bathtub. She covered her face with her hands.

Was this what it meant to be a woman?


FOURTEEN


MAURICE BONNER SAT UP IN THE BED AND WATCHED THE GIRL WALK OVER TO A CHAIR AND SIT DOWN. He studied her appreciatively. The girl was naked. And beautiful. The strong, full breasts resting on the finely boned rib cage. The flat, hard stomach swelling abruptly into the surprising rise of her pubis, then tapering gently into the thighs of her long, slim legs.

He watched the muscles of her back suddenly come into play as she turned to pick up a pack of cigarettes from the table. He nodded to himself. She was beautiful, all right. Perhaps not in the ordinary sense of the word but beautiful as a whore had any right to be. And never was.

"Christ, you're ugly," the girl said, looking at him.

He grinned, exposing the crooked, uneven teeth in his long horse face. What she said was nothing new. He was not unaware of it himself; he could see it in his mirror. He threw back the sheet and got out of bed.

"Here, cover yourself," the girl said, flinging a towel at him. "You look like an ape with your cock hanging down like that." He caught the towel deftly and wrapped it around his waist. "Was it any good?" he asked curiously, taking a cigarette from the package.

She didn't answer.

"Was it worth it?"

"I guess it was," she said unemotionally.

He went back to the bed and sat down on the edge. "Is that all it is to you?" he asked. "Just another John?"

She stared at him. "You're supposed to be a pretty hep guy. You want the truth?"

He smiled again. "The truth, of course."

"You're all the same to me," she said, meeting his gaze steadily. "You might as well be goosing me with a Coca-Cola bottle for all the difference it makes."

"Don't you feel anything, ever?"

"Sure," she answered. "I'm human. But not with the customers. I can't afford it. They pay for perfection." She ground out the cigarette in the tray. "When I feel I got to get my kicks, I take a week off and go out to one of those dude ranches that cater to married women on holiday. There's always some cowpoke out there who thinks he's making it big for me. And he is, because I don't have to give him the best. But the Johns pay. You're entitled."

"But aren't you cheating the Johns?"

She smiled at him. "Do you feel cheated?"

"No," he said. Then he added quickly, "I don't know. I didn't know you were acting."

"I wasn't acting," she said, taking another cigarette. "I was working. That's my job."

He didn't speak.

She lit the cigarette and gestured toward him. "Look," she said. "You eat a good dinner. Afterwards, you say to your friends, that was a great steak. The greatest. You don't mind talking about it. You even tell your friends where you had it so they can get themselves one. Right?"

He nodded.

"It's like that with me," she said. "You got a friend. This time it's Irv Schwartz. You're playing gin and he looks at you and says, 'I had a great piece last night. The greatest. Jennie Denton. Give her a blast.' So you come over and put your money on the table. You climb up, you climb down. You get filled with air like a balloon and float around the world. I’ll bet it's a long time since you popped three times in as many hours. Do you still feel cheated?"

He laughed, suddenly feeling young and strong. She was right. He hadn't felt like this in a long time, maybe twenty years. He felt the warmth return to his loins. He got up, letting the towel fall to the floor.

She laughed. "You're younger than I thought. Look, its midnight."

"So?" He stared at her.

"The deal was two bills till midnight," she said. "You're all paid up. It's three bills from here till morning. But that includes breakfast."

He laughed. "You're worse than MCA. O.K., it's a deal."

She smiled and got to her feet. "Come on."

He followed her into a large bathroom with a giant square marble tub sunken into the floor. There was a rubbing table against the wall under the window. She gestured to it. "Get up there.'

He sat on the edge of the table and watched her open the medicine cabinet. She took down a safety razor, a tube of shaving cream and a brush. She filled a tumbler with water and soaked a washcloth under the tap. These she placed on the edge of the sink near the table. "Lie down," she said, dipping the brush into the tumbler and working up a lather with the cream.

"What are you going to do?"

"What does it look like?" she asked. "I’m going to shave you."

"I shaved this evening."

She laughed. "Not your face, stupid." She reached out a hand and pressed him back onto the table. "I want to see what you look like underneath all that fur."

"But—"

"Lie still," she said fiercely, already beginning to brush the lather on his chest. "I won't cut you. I used to do this all the time when I worked in the hospital."

The lather was oddly soothing. "You worked in a hospital?"

She nodded. "I graduated from nursing school when I was twenty," she said. "Cum laude, too."

"Why'd you leave it?"

He scarcely felt the razor moving over his body. She turned to rinse it under the tap. "Sixty-five a month, eighteen hours a day," she said, turning back to him. She began to lather the other side of his chest. "And too many jokers thinking it was free."

He laughed as the razor glided across his stomach. "That tickles."

She rinsed the razor again. "Turn over," she said. "I want to do your back and shoulders."

He rolled over on his stomach and rested his face on his arms. The faint menthol smell of the lather came up into his nostrils. He felt the razor moving quickly over him. He closed his eyes.

She tapped him on the shoulders and he opened his eyes. She reached into the cabinet and took out a bar of soap. Breaking off the wrapping, she handed it to him. "Now take a hot shower and scrub yourself clean."

The water shot down at him in a needle spray, filling the stall with steam and the scent of jasmine from the soap. He could feel his skin beginning to tingle and glow. When he came out, his face was ruddy and smiling.

She held a large bath sheet toward him. "Dry yourself and get back on the table."

He toweled himself quickly and stretched out. She took a small hand vibrator from the cabinet and plugged it into the socket. She began to massage him slowly. The buzzing sound of the vibrator seemed to stretch and loosen the muscles in his body. "This is better than a Turkish bath," he said.

"This is a Turkish bath," she said dryly, then switched off the vibrator and threw the towel over him. "Now, you just lie there for a few minutes."

He watched as she leaned over the marble tub and turned on the water. She tested it carefully until it was just the temperature she wanted, then let it run. When the water had risen about four inches up the side of the tub, she turned it off. "O.K.," she said. "Get up."

He sat up, the towel falling behind him. "You know," she said, "you don't look half bad with all that hair off." She kicked the bathroom door closed, revealing a full-length mirror on the back.

He looked into the mirror and a smile broke over his lips. She was right. Suddenly, he looked twenty years younger. His body was clean and white under all that hair. He even felt slimmer.

She smiled at him in the mirror. "Enough narcissism," she said. "Get into the tub."

He sat down in the water. It was just slightly warmer than body temperature. "Stretch out. I’ll be right back."

He leaned back in the tub and in a moment, she came back into the bathroom. In one hand she carried a magnum bottle of champagne, in the other a small vial. She put the champagne on the floor, opened the vial and let a few drops from it fall into the water. The heavy scent of jasmine immediately filled the room. She put the vial back on the basin and picked up the champagne bottle.

Expertly she ripped the foil and sprung the wire from around the cork. The cork popped and the champagne flowed over her fingers. "You forgot the glasses," he said, watching her.

"Don't be silly. Only fools drink this stuff. This is for the tub. It's better than bubble bath." She began to empty the bottle into the water around him.

The wine fizzed and tickled his skin with a refreshing sensation. She put the empty bottle on the floor and took a cigarette box from the cabinet. Opening it, she took out a cigarette and lit it. He smelled the dull, acrid pungency of marijuana.

She dragged once on the cigarette and held it toward him. "Here," she said. "Two puffs. No more."

He shook his head. "No, thanks. I don't go for that stuff."

"Don't give me a hard time," she said. "I only want to slow you down a little."

He took the cigarette from her hand and gingerly put it between his lips. He drew on it. The smoke went down deep inside him. There was no need for him to blow it out. His body had soaked it up like a sponge.

He looked down at himself in wonder. Suddenly he felt so buoyant. His body was so clean and strong. He looked up at her as she stepped into the tub. He dragged on the cigarette again. He could feel himself floating lightly in the water.

"That's enough." She took the cigarette from his lips and tossed it into the bowl.

"This is crazy," he said, smiling, as she stretched out in the water beside him.

"It had better be," she said, lowering her head to his chest, where he lay covered with a shallow layer of water. He gave a start of surprise as he felt her teeth scrape lightly across his breast. She raised her head, smiling as she looked at him. "It had better be," she repeated. "That bottle of champagne cost me twenty bucks."

He never knew exactly when the idea came to him. It was probably while he was asleep. But it didn't matter. It was there when he came down to breakfast that morning. And he had the confidence that came with the success of many such ideas in the past.

She looked up from the dining-room table when she heard the sound of his feet on the staircase. "Good morning, Mr. Bonner. Hungry?"

He returned her smile with appreciation. "Starved," he said, surprising himself. It had been a long time since he'd felt like eating a good breakfast. Juice and coffee was his usual routine.

He saw her foot move as she pressed a button on the floor under the table. A chime echoed from the kitchen in the back of the house. "Drink your juice," she said. "Your breakfast will be out in a minute."

He sat down opposite her and lifted the large glass of tomato juice out of the ice in which it had been resting. "Cheers."

He looked at her with approval. In the clear light of morning, there wasn't a trace of a line on her face. Her eyes were clear and dark and there was only a light touch of color on her lips. Her pale-brown hair was secured neatly behind her head in a pony tail. Her arms were tan against her white, short-sleeved sport blouse, which was tucked neatly, almost primly, into a casually tailored, gored skirt.

The door behind her opened and a heavy-set Mexican woman waddled in carrying a large tray, the contents of which she transferred to the huge Lazy Susan in the center of the table. Then she deftly removed the empty glass from in front of him and replaced it with a large dinner plate. "Café, un momento," she said quickly and vanished.

"Help yourself, Mr. Bonner," Jennie said. "You'll find ham, bacon, steak, kippers and kidneys on the plates with the green covers. There are fried eggs, scrambled eggs and French fries under the yellow covers."

He spun the Lazy Susan until he found the ham and served himself. As he filled his plate, the Mexican woman came back with a pot of coffee and hot rolls and toast. He looked down at his plate. The ham was just the way he liked it.

Jennie was helping herself to a generous portion of steak. "You set a hell of a fine table," he said as the Mexican woman filled his coffee cup.

Jennie smiled at him. "There's nothing cheap in this house."

The Mexican servant walked over and filled Jennie's cup, then waddled back into the kitchen. "You look like you're playing tennis this morning," he said.

She nodded. "That's exactly what I'm doing. I play for two hours every morning."

"Where do you play?"

"Bel Air. I have a standing date with Frankie Gardner."

He raised an eyebrow. Frankie Gardner was one of the top tennis pros in the country. He was expensive—at least twenty-five dollars an hour. "Is he one of your customers?" he asked curiously.

"I don't play with my customers. It's bad for business. I buy his time like anybody else."

"Why?"

"I like the exercise," she said. "It helps me keep in shape. You know by now that sometimes I put in some pretty long hours."

"I see what you mean. Have you ever thought about doing anything else?"

"What do you mean?" she asked. "I told you I studied nursing."

"I don't mean that. How come you never tried the movies?"

She laughed merrily. "I'm a native Californian, Mr. Bonner. I've seen what happens to the kids that come out here. Better-looking than I ever was. They wind up as car hops, hustling hamburgers, or five-dollar whores working the Strip. I know better."

"I mean it," he said earnestly. "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course, Mr. Bonner. I read the papers. You're one of the biggest producers in Hollywood."

"So maybe I know what I'm talking about, eh?"

"Maybe you do." She smiled. "But I know myself and I'm no actress."

"That wasn't what you said last night."

"That's something else," she said. "That's my business. Besides, you see the way I live. It would be a long time before I could earn a grand a week in pictures."

"How do you know? We've had a script around for five years that we haven't been able to find a lead for. It was written for Rina Marlowe. I think you could do it."

"You're crazy!" She laughed. "Rina Marlowe was one of the most beautiful women on the screen. I couldn't hold a candle to her."

He was suddenly serious. "There are things about you that remind me of her."

"Could be," she said. "I hear she was pretty wild."

"That, too," he said, leaning toward her. "But that isn't what I'm talking about. Come down to the studio tomorrow and I’ll set up a screen test. If it doesn't work, we forget about it. If it does—well, there's just one man's approval I need and you're good for two grand a week."

"Two grand?" She stared at him. "You're joking."

He shook his head. "I don't joke about money."

"Neither do I," she said seriously. "Who is this man whose approval you'd need?"

"Jonas Cord."

"We might as well forget about it," she said. "From all I heard around town from some of the girls, he's a real nut."


FIFTEEN


IRVING FOLLOWED DAVID INTO THE LIVING ROOM AS ROSA BEGAN TO CLEAR THE DISHES. "I never saw her looking so good," he said, stretching out in a chair in front of the fire.

David nodded absently. "Yeah."

Irving looked at him. "You got something on your mind, Davy?"

"The usual things," David said evasively.

"That ain't the way I hear it."

Something in his voice made David tense. "What do you hear?"

"The word is out they're giving your boy the squeeze," Irving said in a low voice.

"What else do you hear?"

"The new crowd wants to make you top dog if you throw in with them," Irving said. "They're also saying that Bonner has sold out to them already."

David was silent. He couldn't believe that Jonas didn't know about what was happening. But it was possible.

"You ain't talking, Davy," Irving said quietly. "You didn't bring me out here for nothing."

"How did you find out?"

Irving shrugged his shoulders. "We got stock," he said casually. "Some of the boys called up and told me that their brokers were contacted. They want to know what we should do."

"How much stock?"

"Oh, eighty, ninety thousand shares around the country. We figured it would be a good deal the way you were running things."

"Have you—" David corrected himself. "Have the boys made up their minds yet which way they're going?" That stock could be important. It was over three per cent of the two and a half million shares outstanding.

"No, we're pretty conservative," Irving said. "We like to go where the money is. And they been making it sound real pretty. Complete financing, doubling the profits, maybe even splitting the stock in a couple of years."

David nodded. He reached for a cigarette thoughtfully. It hung in his lips unlit. Why hadn't Jonas replied to his messages? Three times he'd tried to locate him and each time there had been no reply. Surely he must know by now. The last place he checked had sent word that Jonas was out of the country. If that was true, the whole thing would be a fait accompli by the time he returned.

"What are you going to do, Davy?" Irving asked softly.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what to do."

"You can't ride the fence much longer, chum," Irving said. "There's no way on earth to live with the loser."

"I know." David nodded. He finally struck a match and held it to his cigarette. "But it's like this. I know Cord doesn't pay much attention to us, maybe sometimes he even holds us back a little. But I also know he can make a picture, he's got a real feel for this business. That's why he bought in. It's not just all cold ass like it is with Sheffield and the others. Plain banker-and-broker arithmetic and to hell with everything except the profit-and-loss statement and balance sheet."

"But the bankers and brokers hold all the cards," Irving said. "Only a fool bucks the house."

"Yeah," David said almost savagely, grinding out his cigarette.

Irving was silent for a moment, then he smiled. "Tell you what, Davy. I’ll get all our proxies together and deliver 'em to you. When you decide what's best, vote 'em for us."

David stared at him. "You'd do that?"

Irving laughed. "The way I see it, I got no choice. Didn't you haul that alky for us from Shocky's garage?"

"Here comes the coffee," Rosa announced, carrying in a tray. "Jesus!" Irving exclaimed. "Lookit that choc'late layer cake."

Rosa laughed in a pleased voice. "I baked it myself."

Irving leaned back against the couch. "Oh, Doctor!" he said, looking at Rosa and rolling his eyes.

"Another piece?"

"I had three already. Another and you'll have to do a plastic job on my stomach to get me back in shape."

"Better have some more coffee, then," she said, refilling his cup. She began to gather up the cake plates.

"I meant to ask you, Davy," Irving said. "You ever hear of a broad named Jennie Denton?"

"Jennie Denton?" David shook his head. "No."

"I forgot," Irving said, glancing up at Rosa. "You been out of circulation."

"What about her?" Rosa asked. "I knew a Jennie Denton."

"You did? Where did you know her, Doc?"

"At the hospital. Four years ago there was a nurse there by that name."

"About five six, dark eyes, long, light-brown hair, good figure and an interesting way of walking?"

Rosa laughed. "Sexy, you mean?"

Irving nodded. "Yeah, that's what I mean."

"Sounds like the same girl," Rosa said.

"What about her?" David asked.

"Well, Jennie is probably the most expensive hooker in L.A. She has her own six-room house in the hills and you want to see her, it's by appointment only and you go there. She won't walk into a hotel room. She's got a real exclusive list and you want a date, you got to wait maybe two, three weeks. She only works a five-day week."

"If you're recommending her to my husband," Rosa interrupted, smiling, "you'd better stop right there."

Irving smiled. "Well, it seems one night, earlier this week, Maurice Bonner went there and she gave him the full treatment. So, nothing will do the next day but he has Jennie down to the studio for a screen test. He shoots her in color, some scenes from some old script he's got laying around. While he's at it, he decides to make it real good. He dresses her in a white silk sheet. It's supposed to be a baptism scene and when she comes up out of the water in the big tank on Stage Twelve, you can see everything she's got. In two days, that test becomes the biggest picture on the home circuit. Bonner's got more requests for it than Selznick's got for Gone With the Wind!"

There was only one script David remembered that had a baptism scene. "You wouldn't remember the name of the script?" he asked. "Was it The Sinner?"

"Could be."

"If it was, that's the script Cord had written especially for Rina Marlowe before she died."

"I don't care who it was written for." Irving smiled. "You gotta see that test. You'll flip. I sat through it twice. And so did everybody else in the projection room."

"I’ll look at it tomorrow," David said.

"I’d like to see it, too."

David looked at Rosa. He smiled. It was the first time she'd ever expressed any interest in a picture. "Come down to the studio at ten o'clock," he said. "We'll both look at it."

"If I didn't have an important meeting," Irving said, "I'd be down there myself."

******

David tied the sash of his pajamas and sat down in the chair near the window, looking out at the ocean.

He could hear the water running in the bathroom basin and the faint sound of Rosa's voice, humming as she rinsed her face. He sighed. At least, she could be happy in her work. A doctor didn't have to survive a war of nerves in order to practice medicine.

The door clicked open behind him and he turned around. She looked at him, a musing expression on her face, as she stood in the doorway.

"You had something to tell me?" He smiled. "Go ahead."

"No, David," she replied, her eyes warm. "It's a wife's duty to listen when her lord and master speaks."

"I don't feel much like a lord and master."

"Is anything wrong, David?"

"I don't know," he said and began to tell her the story, beginning with his meeting with Sheffield the night she had called. She walked over to him and put her arms around his head, drawing him to her bosom. "Poor David," she whispered sympathetically. "So many problems."

He turned his face up to her. "I’ll have to make a decision soon," he said. "What do you think I ought to do?"

She looked down at him, her gray eyes glowing. She felt strong and capable, as if her roots were deep into the earth. "Whatever decision you make, David," she said, "I feel sure will be the right one for us."

"For us?"

She smiled slowly. This new-found strength, too, was what it meant to be a woman. Her voice was low and happy.

"We're going to have a baby," she said.


SIXTEEN


THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT HURT THEIR EYES AFTER THE DARK OF THE SCREENING ROOM. They walked along silently toward David's office, in one of the executive cottages.

"What are you thinking, David?" she asked quietly. "That test make you sorry you're married?"

He looked at her and laughed. He opened the door to his cottage and they went past his secretary into his private office. David walked around behind his desk and sat down.

She seated herself in a leather chair in front of his desk. The thoughtful expression was still on his face. She took out a cigarette and lit it.

"What did you think of the test?" he asked.

She smiled. "Now I understand why she's driving all the men crazy," she answered. "The way that sheet clung to her when she came out of the water was the most suggestive thing I ever saw."

"Forget that scene. If it weren't in the test, what would you think of her?"

She dragged on the cigarette and the smile left her face. "I thought she was wonderful. She almost tore my heart out in that scene where all you saw was Jesus' feet walking, the bottom of the Cross dragging along as she crawled in the dirt after Him, trying to kiss His feet. I found myself crying with her." She was silent for a moment. "Were those real tears or make-up?"

David stared at her. "They were real tears," he said. "They don't use make-up tears in tests."

He felt his excitement begin to hammer inside him. In her own way, Rosa had given him the answer. He hadn't felt like this since he'd first seen Rina Marlowe on the screen. They'd all been too blinded by the baptismal scene to see it.

He pulled a buck slip from the holder on his desk and began to write on it. Rosa watched him for a moment, then walked around the desk and looked down curiously over his shoulder. He had already finished his scribbling and was reaching for the telephone.

JONAS—

I THINK IT'S ABOUT TIME WE GOT BACK INTO THE PICTURE BUSINESS. LET ME HEAR FROM YOU.

DAVID

"Get me McAllister, in Reno," David said into the telephone. He looked up at Rosa and smiled. She smiled back and returned to her chair.

"Hello, Mac," David said, his voice firm and forceful. "Two questions you can answer for me."

A feeling of pride began to run through her. She was glad she'd come down to the studio. This was a facet of her husband she had never known before.

"First," David said into the telephone, "can I sign an actress to a contract with Cord Explosives? I have specific reasons for not wanting to sign her with us. Important reasons." David relaxed slightly.

"Good. Next question. I have some film I want Jonas to see right away. Can you get it to him?"

He waited a moment. "Can't ask for anything more than that. I'll have the film at your L.A. office in two hours. Thanks, Mac. Good-by."

He pressed down the bar on the telephone and raised it again. "Miss Wilson, get me Jess Lee in printing and developing, then come right in here."

He held onto the telephone and reached for a cigarette. He put it in his mouth. She leaned across the desk with a match. He drew in on the cigarette and smiled at her.

"Jess," he said, as the door opened and his secretary came in. "I’m shooting down a buck slip to you. I want you to photograph it on the title card and splice it onto the end of the Jennie Denton test, right away."

David covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Take that buck slip down to Jess Lee yourself," he said to the secretary, indicating the paper on his desk. She picked it up silently and walked out.

"I know it's a wild test, Jess," he said into the phone. "Make up one print with my buck slip and shoot it right over to Mr. McAllister's secretary at Cord Aircraft. It's got to be there by noon."

"You've made up your mind?"

He nodded. "I'm playing a long shot," he said. "If I’m wrong, it won't matter which of them wins. I lose."

Rosa smiled. "There comes a time like that in every operation. You're the surgeon, you hold the knife and the patient is open before you. According to the book, there are many things you can do, many ways you can go. But you have only one way to go—the right way. So you make the decision. Your way. No matter what the pressures are, no matter what the books say. You have to go your own way." She looked at him, still smiling. "Is that what you're doing, David?" she asked gently. "Going your own way?"

He looked at her, marveling at her insight and knowledge. "Yes," he said unhesitantly. "I'm going my own way."

He had never thought of it quite like that. She was right, though. He was on his own now.

******

Jennie was sitting at her desk in the living room, writing checks for the monthly bills, when the door chime rang. She heard the Mexican woman waddle past her on the way to answer it. She frowned, looking down at the desk.

She'd been a fool, she thought bitterly, letting herself be talked into that screen test. She should have known the John was only shooting his mouth off. Now they were laughing their heads off all over Hollywood. At least four other Johns had called her up,
sarcastically congratulating her on her screen test. They'd all seen it.

She had known she wasn't an actress. Why the hell had she fallen for the gag? Just like every stage-struck kid that came out here. But she thought she was too wise. She'd never fall into a trap like that. Then she'd gone for it, just like all the others.

She should have known the moment she stood in front of the cameras that it wasn't for her. But she'd read the script. Mary Magdalene. At first, she'd almost died laughing. No wonder Bonner had thought of her. It was type-casting of a high order.

Then something of the story had got to her. She'd felt moved and shaken. She'd lost herself in the part and there were times when she cried while the cameras were on her.

And that was something she hadn't done since she was a little girl. No wonder they were laughing. She'd have laughed herself if it had been anyone else. The whore crying for the whore. She never should have listened. The week had gone by and there hadn't been even a word from Bonner.

The heavy footsteps of the Mexican woman sounded behind her. She looked around. The servant's beady eyes were inscrutable. "Señor Woolf está aquí."

Woolf. She knew no one by that name. Maybe he was the new man from the cops. They'd told her a new man was coming around to pick up the pay-off.

"De las películas," the servant added quickly.

"Oh." She nodded. "Tráigale aquí." She turned back to her desk as the servant moved away. Quickly Jennie made a neat pile of the bills and put them in a drawer. She turned in her chair just as the Mexican returned with a young man.

She looked coldly at him, rising from her chair. "Bonner sent you?"

"No," he said. "As a matter of fact, Bonner doesn't even know I'm here."

"Oh." She knew now why he had come. "You saw the test?"

He nodded.

Her voice grew even colder. "Then you might as well go," she said. "I see no one except by appointment."

A faint smile tugged at his lips. She grew even angrier. "And you can tell Bonner for me that he'd better stop showing that test around town or he'll regret it."

He laughed, then his face grew serious. "I’ve already done that, Miss Denton."

"You have?" She felt her anger dissipating. "A thing like that could ruin my business."

"I think you're out of that business," he said quietly.

She stared at him, her eyes large. "What do you mean?"

"I’m afraid you don't understand," he said, taking a card from his pocket and handing it to her. She looked down at it. It was an expensive engraved card. DAVID WOOLF, it read simply, and down in one corner, the words: EXECUTIVE VICE-PRESIDENT. Below that was the name of the motion-picture company Bonner was connected with. Now she remembered who he was. She'd read about him in the papers. The bright young man. Cord's boy wonder. She looked up at him.

The faint smile was playing around his lips again. "Would you like to play Mary Magdalene?"

Suddenly, she was nervous. "I don't know," she said hesitantly. "I thought—it was all a kind of joke to Bonner."

"Perhaps it was," David Woolf said quickly. "I don't know what he thought. But it's no joke to me. I think you can be a great star." He was silent for a moment. "And my wife does, too."

She looked at him questioningly.

"Rosa Strassmer. She knew you at the hospital four years ago."

A light came into her eyes. "You mean Dr. Strassmer? The one who performed the skin graft on Linda Davis' face?"

He nodded again, smiling. "I was chief nurse in surgery that day," she said. "She was great."

"Thank you. Now, would you like to play Mary Magdalene?"

Suddenly, she wanted to more than anything else in the world. "Yes."

"I hoped that would be your answer," he said, taking a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. "How much did Bonner say he would pay you?"

"Two thousand a week."

He already had the pen in his hand and was writing on the sheet of paper. "Wait a minute, Mr. Woolf," she said quickly. "I know Bonner only meant it as a gag. You don't have to pay me that much."

"Perhaps he did. But I don't. He said two thousand, that's what you'll get." He finished writing and handed the contract to her. "You'd better read that carefully."

She looked down at the printed form. The only thing written on it was her name and the salary figure. "Do I have to?"

David nodded. "I think you should," he said. "Contracts are easy to sign but not that easy to get out of."

Jennie sank back into the chair and began to read the contract. "I notice it's with Cord Explosives."

"That's standard practice with us. Cord owns the company."

"Oh." She finished reading and reached for a pen. Quickly she signed her name and handed the contract back to him. "Now what do we do?" she asked, smiling.

He put the contract into his pocket. "The first thing we do is change your name."

"What's the matter with it?"

"Too many people will recognize it," he said. "It might prove embarrassing later."

Jennie thought for a moment, then laughed. "I don't give a damn," she said. "Do you?"

David shook his head. "Not if you don't."

She laughed again. Let the Johns eat their hearts out over what they were missing.

He looked around the room. "Do you own or rent this?" he asked.

"Rent."

"Good," he said. "Close down and go away for a while. Out on the desert. Palm Springs, maybe. Don't let anyone know where you are except me."

"O.K.," she said. "What do I do then?"

"You wait," he said. "You wait until we discover you!"


SEVENTEEN


"SORRY, DAVID," PIERCE SAID, GETTING TO HIS FEET. He was smiling but his eyes were cold. "I can't help you out."

"Why not?"

"Because I sold the stock a year ago."

"To Sheffield?" David asked.

The agent nodded.

"Why didn't you get in touch with Jonas?"

"Because I didn't want to," Pierce snapped. "He's used me enough. I was good enough for him during the rough years. To do the dirty work and keep the factory going. But the minute things were good enough to make the big ones, he brings in Bonner."

"You used him, too. He went into the hole for millions because you wanted a studio to play with. You're a rich man because of him. And you knew by the time Bonner came that you were an agent, not a producer. The whole industry knew it."

"Only because he never gave me a chance." Dan grinned mirthlessly. "Now it's his turn to sweat a little. I'm waiting to see how he likes it." He walked angrily to the door but by the time he turned back to David, his anger seemed to have disappeared. "Keep in touch, David. There's an outside chance I could spring Tracy and Gable from Metro on loan if you came up with the right property."

David nodded as the agent walked out. He looked down at his desk. Business as usual, he thought bitterly. Pierce would think nothing of setting up a deal like that and handing the company a million-dollar profit. That was his business. It had nothing to do with Jonas Cord personally. But the sale of his stock in the company was another matter.

He picked up the telephone on his desk wearily. "Yes, Mr. Woolf."

"Call Bonner's office and find out if I can see him right away."

"In your office or his?" his secretary asked.

He smiled at himself. Ordinarily, protocol dictated that Bonner come to him. But it was amazing how sensitive the studio grapevine was. By now, everyone was aware that something was up, and even his secretary wasn't completely sure of his position. This was her way of probing.

"My office, of course," he said testily, putting down the telephone.

******

Bonner came into his office about three-quarters of an hour later. It wasn't too bad, considering their relative importance. Not too long to appear rude, not too quickly to appear subservient. He crossed the room to David's desk and sat down. "Sorry to disturb you, Maurice," David said politely.

"That's quite all right, David," Bonner answered, equally polite. "I managed to finish the morning production meeting."

"Good. Then you have a little time?"

Bonner looked at his watch. "I do have a story conference due about now."

David smiled. "Writers are used to waiting."

Bonner looked at David curiously. Unconsciously, his hand crept inside his jacket and he scratched his shirt. David noticed and grinned. "Got a rash?"

"You heard the story?" Bonner asked.

David nodded.

Bonner grinned, scratching himself overtly now. "It's driving me nuts. It was worth it, though. You got to try Jennie sometime. That girl can make your old fiddle twang like a Stradivarius."

"I'll bet. I saw the test."

Bonner looked at him. "I meant to ask you. Why did you pull all the prints?"

"I had to," David said. "The Sinner isn't our property. It belongs to Cord personally. And you know how he is. I wasn't looking for any trouble."

Bonner stared at him silently. There wasn't any point in beating around the bush, David decided. "Sheffield showed me your commitment to sell him your stock."

Bonner nodded. He wasn't scratching now. "I figured he would."

"Why?" David asked. "If you wanted to sell, why didn't you talk to Cord?"

Bonner was silent for a moment. "What would be the point? I never even met the man. If he wasn't polite enough to look me up just once in the three years I've been working for him, I see no reason to start running after him now. Besides, my contract is up next month and nobody has come around to talk about renewing it. I didn't even hear from McAllister." He began scratching again.

David lit a cigarette. "Why didn't you come to me?" he asked softly. "I brought you over here."

Bonner didn't meet his gaze. "Sure, David, I should have. But everybody knows you can't do anything without Cord's O.K. By the time you could have got to him, my contract would have run out. I'd have looked like a damn fool to the whole industry."

David dragged the smoke deep into his lungs. They were all alike—so shrewd, so ruthless, so capable in many ways, and still, so like children with all their foolish pride.

Bonner took his silence as resignation. "Sheffield told me he'd take care of us," he said quickly. "He wants us both, David. You know that. He said he'll set up a new deal the minute he takes over. He'll finance the pictures, give us a new profit-sharing plan and some real stock options."

"Do you have that in writing?"

Bonner shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "He can't sign me to a contract before he's taken over. But his word is good. He's a big man. He's not a goof ball like Cord who runs hot and cold."

"Did Cord ever break his word to you?"

Bonner shook his head. "No. He never had a chance to. I had a contract. And now that it's almost over, I'm not going to give him a chance."

"You're like my uncle." David sighed. "He listened to men like Sheffield and ended up in stocks and bonds instead of pictures. So he lost his company. Now you're doing the same thing. He can't give you a contract because he doesn't control the company, yet you give him a signed agreement making it possible for him to take over." David got to his feet, his voice angry. "Well, what are you going to do, you damn fool, when he tells you, after he's got control, that he can't keep his promise?"

"But he needs us to run the business. Who's going to make the pictures for him if I don't?"

"That's what my Uncle Bernie thought, too," David said sarcastically. "But the business ran without him. And it will run without us. Sheffield can always get someone to run the studio for him. Schary at MGM is waiting for a job like this to open up. Matty Fox at Universal would take to it like a duck takes to water. It wouldn't be half as tough for him here as it is over there."

David sat down abruptly. "Do you still think he can't run the company without us?"

Bonner stared at him, his face white. "But what can I do, David? I signed the agreement. Sheffield can sue the ass off me if I renege."

David put out his cigarette slowly. "If I remember your agreement," he said, "you agreed to sell him all the stock you owned on December fifteenth?"

"That's right."

"What if you only happened to own one share of stock on that day?" David asked softly. "If you sell him that one share, you've kept your word."

"But that's next week. Who could you get to buy the stock before then?"

"Jonas Cord."

"But what if you can't reach him in time? Then I’m out four million dollars. If I sell that stock on the open market, it'll knock the price way down."

"I’ll see to it you get your money." David leaned across his desk. "And, Maurice," he added softly. "You can start writing your own contract, right now."

******

"Four million bucks!" Irving screamed. "Where the hell do you think I can lay my hands on that kind of money?"

David stared at his friend. "Come on, Needlenose. This is tuchlas."

"And what if Cord says he don't want the stock?" Irving asked in a quieter voice. "What do I do with it then? Use it for toilet paper?" He chewed on his cigar. "You're supposed to be my friend. I go wrong on a deal like this, I'm nobody's friend. The late Yitzchak Schwartz, they’ll call me."

"It isn't as bad as that."

"Don't tell me how bad it is," Irving said angrily. "From jobs like mine you don't get fired."

David looked at him for a moment. "I'm sorry, Irving. I have no right to ask you to take a chance like this." He turned and started for the door.

His friend's voice stopped him. "Hey, wait a minute! Where d'you think you're going?"

David stared at him.

"Did I say I definitely wouldn't do it for you?" Irving said.

******

Aunt May's ample bosom quivered indignantly. "Like a father your Uncle Bernie was to you," she said in her shrill, rasping voice. "Were you like a son to him? Did you appreciate what he done for you? No. Not once did you say to your Uncle Bernie, while he was alive, even a thank you." She took a handkerchief from the front of her dress and began to dab at her eyes, the twelve-carat diamond on her pinkie ring flashing iridescently like a spotlight. "It's by the grace of God your poor tante isn't spending the rest of her days in the poorhouse."

David leaned back in the stiff chair uncomfortably. He felt the chill of the night in the big, barren room of the large house. He shivered slightly. But he didn't know whether it was the cold or the way this house always affected him. "Do you want me to start a fire for you, Tante?"

"You're cold, Duvidele?" his Aunt May asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I thought you might be chilly."

"Chilly?" she repeated. "Your poor old tante is used to being chilly. It's only by watching my pennies I can afford to live in this house."

He looked at his watch. "It's getting late, Tante. And I have to get going. Are you going to give me the proxies?"

The old woman looked at him. "Why should I?" she asked. "I should give proxies to help that momser, that no-good, who stole his company from your uncle?"

"Nobody stole the company. Uncle Bernie would have lost it anyway. He was lucky to
find a man like Cord to let him off so easy."

"Lucky he was?" Her voice was shrill again. "Out of all the shares he had, only twenty-five thousand I got left. What happened to the rest of them? Tell me. What happened, hah?"

"Uncle Bernie got three and a half million dollars for them."

"So what?" she demanded. "They were worth three times that."

"They were worth bupkas," he said, losing his temper. "Uncle Bernie was stealing the company blind and you know it. The stock wasn't worth the paper it was printed on."

"Now you're calling your uncle a thief." She rose to her feet majestically. "Out!" she screamed, pointing at the door. "Out from my house!"

He stared at her for a moment, then started for the door. Suddenly he stopped, remembering. Once his uncle had chased him out of his office, using almost the same words. But he'd got what he wanted. And his aunt was greedier than Bernie had ever been. He turned around.

"True, it's only twenty-five thousand shares," he said. "Only a lousy one per cent of the stock. But now it's worth something. At least, you got somebody in the family looking out for your interests. But give your proxies to Sheffield and see what happens. He's the kind that got Uncle Bernie into Wall Street in the first place. If you do, I won't be there to watch your interests. Your stock won't be worth bupkas again."

She stared at him for a moment. "Is that true?"

He could see the calculating machine in her head spinning. "Every last word of it."

She took a deep breath. "So come," she said. "I'll sign for you the proxies." She turned and waddled to a cabinet. "Your uncle, olev a'sholem, always said I should listen to you when I wanted advice. That David, he said, has a good head on his shoulders."

He watched her take some papers from the cabinet. She walked over to a desk, picked up a pen and signed them. He took them and put them in his jacket pocket. "Thanks, Aunt May."

She smiled up at him. He was surprised when she reached out her hand and patted his arm almost timidly. "Your uncle and me, we were never blessed with children," she said in a tremulous voice. "He really thought of you like his own son." She blinked her eyes rapidly. "You don't know how proud he was, even after he retired from the company, when he read about you in the trade papers."

He felt a knot of pity for the lonely old woman gather in his throat. "I know, Aunt May."

She tried to smile. "And such a pretty wife you got," she said. "Don't be a stranger. Why don't you sometime bring her here to have tea with me?"

He put his arms around the old woman suddenly and kissed her cheek. "I will, Aunt May," he said. "Soon."

******

Rosa was waiting in his office when he got back to the studio. "When Miss Wilson called and told me you'd be late, I thought it would be nice if I came down and we had dinner out."

"Good," he said, kissing her cheek.

"Well?"

He sat down heavily behind his desk. "Aunt May gave me her proxies."

"That means you've got nineteen per cent to vote."

He looked at her. "It won't do much good if Jonas doesn't back me up. Irving told me he'd have to sell the stock to Sheffield if Cord wouldn't pick it up."

She got to her feet. "Well, you've done all you could," she said in a practical voice. "Now let's go to dinner."

His secretary came in just as David got to his feet. "There's a cablegram from London, Mr. Woolf."

He took the envelope and opened it.

SET PRODUCTION DATE SINNER MARCH 1.
CORD.

Just as he was about to hand it to Rosa, the door opened and his secretary came in again. "Another cablegram, Mr. Woolf."

Quickly he ripped it open. His eyes skimmed through it and he felt a sudden relief surge through him.

MCALLISTER READY WHATEVER CASH NEEDED SPIKE SHEFFIELD. GIVE IT
TO HIM GOOD.

 Like the first cablegram, it was signed CORD. He passed them both to Rosa. She read them and looked up at him with shining eyes. "We did it!" he said excitedly. He had started to pick her up in his arms when the door opened again.

"Yes, Miss Wilson?" he said in an annoyed voice.

The girl stood hesitantly in the doorway. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Woolf," she said, "but another cablegram just arrived."

"Well, don’t stand there. Give it to me." He looked at Rosa. "This one is for both of us," he said, handing it to her. "You open it."

She looked down at the envelope, then back at David. A smile came over her face.

He looked down at the cable in her hand.

MAZEL TOV! HOPE IT WILL BE TWINS!

This one was signed JONAS.

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