Sins of Omission (32 page)

When the bus crunched to a halt outside the studio gates, Reuben hung back, letting the crowd stampede by. Then he and Daniel looked at each other, their glances anxious but exultant. This was the day they'd been working toward.

 

Fairmont's studio lot was huge but unkempt, debris strewn all over. The guards at the gate were dressed sloppily, unlike the natty snap-to-attention men in uniform at the other studios. The buildings here were in dire need of paint and outside maintenance. The actors and actresses, with the exception of Fairmont's one big star, Clovis Ames, were as third-rate as the studio itself. The casting directors appeared unprofessional and sloppy. The clods directing the calls looked like recruited farmers to Reuben, although most of them had New York accents and talked out of the side of their mouths. An odd combination of traits, he mused, wondering if they were Sol's relatives.

Reuben mounted the seven steps that would take him to the studio head's office. In his mind he wasn't sure if he should approach Sol Rosen as studio owner or as Bebe's father. He decided to play it by ear. Sometimes rehearsed speeches and introductions came out flat and phony.

A middle-aged receptionist with spectacles hanging off her nose looked up at Reuben's entrance. His unusually virile good looks had the usual effect: her hand shot up automatically to pat her crimped and polished hair, and she smiled coyly. Reuben thought her round circles of rouge clownish. He smiled, the practiced smile, showing just enough strong white teeth.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“Reuben Tarz to see Mr. Rosen,” he stated, and handed her the sealed envelope.

“I usually open all the mail, unless it's personal. Is this personal?” the receptionist simpered.

“Yes, it is. It's from Madame Fonsard in France. I'll wait while you give it to Mr. Rosen.” He watched as the woman sashayed her way into what looked like Rosen's inner sanctum.

Reuben immediately began to study the waiting area. It was almost bare. Three straight-back chairs that looked uncomfortable as hell, the receptionist's desk and chair, a waste-basket, and a dusty plant that stood in one corner. A crooked picture of a bowl of fruit on one of the walls. The place resembled a room in a mission house. Where was the glitz and glitter he'd expected? Nevertheless, he felt a quiver of excitement. Potential. The place had potential just waiting to be tapped. It had all the right ingredients and obviously no one at the helm.

Reuben was almost glad his vision was impaired when he entered Rosen's office. Even before he stepped through the door he'd known that this office would be an extension of the waiting room outside. In the blink of an eye he categorized it as early prop room and the man sitting behind the desk as vintage prop room.

Sol Rosen stood and waddled over to Reuben in shoes that were too large for his feet. A fat, smelly cigar was clamped between his teeth. He was stocky, pugnacious-looking, and sported a nose that could be described only as a honker. Spiky gray hair stood on end, looking as though it hadn't been combed or brushed for days. His gray suit was unpressed, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie full of stains. Reuben knew the man's neck was dirty without having to look and could bet he'd worn the same shirt three days in a row.

Rosen worked the cigar around to the opposite side of his mouth with his tongue. He didn't bother to remove it when he spoke. “What kind of work you looking for? Times are hard here at the studios.”

Reuben blinked in disbelief at the whine in the man's voice. He was about to say something until he looked into Rosen's eyes—the same incredible green as Bebe's and just as calculating. Always start high, something told him. If you start low, you sink.

“Something in the front office. Managerial. A liaison, if you prefer,” he said coolly. He doubted the man even knew what the word meant.

Sol Rosen gave a horsey laugh. There was no amusement in the sound. “Do I look like I need a leezon?” he croaked. “I run this business myself. You start hiring people to take over and you end up out in the cold. They snatch the goddamn rug right out from under you. I might—and this is a big might, mind you—be able to give you a couple of days' work as extras. You interested?”

Reuben didn't have to think about his answer. “No. I don't think that was exactly what Madame Fonsard had in mind for us when she wrote you the letters you're holding.”

“You telling me you read these…these personal letters?” Rosen blustered.

“That's not what I'm saying at all,” Reuben said smoothly, his eyes never wavering. “Madame Fonsard read me the letters before she sealed them in the envelope. She expects you to give my partner and myself suitable employment. She said if you couldn't see your way clear to doing as she asked, I was to cable her immediately.” Reuben turned as if to leave.

“Hold on, not so fast. What's so special about you and your buddy? And where the hell is this buddy of yours?”

“He's here at the studio checking things out,” Reuben informed him. The men stared at each other. Rosen took a step backward and Reuben smiled gently.

“Why's she putting the squeeze on me like this?” The obscene-looking cigar shifted to the left side of Sol's mouth.

“Your daughter was a real handful, Mr. Rosen. But then, that's why you sent her to France, wasn't it? Madame read me your letter, the one where you implored her to take care of Miss Rosen? She put all her affairs aside to do as you requested—and before you can ask what my position was, I ran the winery in Bordeaux.” Reuben's stomach tightened when he thought of what he had just said. None of it was untruth—especially about how Mickey had put
all
her affairs to one side when Bebe arrived. “Madame Fonsard took me into her confidence because she trusted me. She said you needed someone in your offices that you could trust. That's why I'm here. But if you've got no place for us…” His hand reached out to open the door before Sol called him back.

“Hey, you, wait a minute.” Reuben turned around, a friendly smile on his face. Sol sighed. “Let me see what I can work out here. Come back tomorrow morning around ten, you and your…partner. I'm not promising anything. You content to chew on that for the time being?”

“I'll hold off sending the cable, then, and I'll see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Rosen. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.” He held out his hand, but Sol turned his back and shuffled across the room to his desk.

When the door closed behind Reuben, Sol sat down heavily and tried to light his soggy cigar. Finally he gave up and took a new one out of a dusty box in his bottom drawer. He bit off the end and spit it across the room. “What chutzpah!” he muttered. Right this goddamned minute that arrogant shit was walking away thinking him an
alter kocker.
“Bullshit!” he exploded, puffing away at his newly lit cigar.

Sol unfolded Mickey's letter and read it several more times. It was worded cleverly, but he wasn't stupid. He correctly interpreted the implied threat. Either he gave these two jokers jobs—jobs that paid decent money—or she would start to take an active interest in her half of the business. Marchioness Michelene Fonsard owned 51 percent of Fairmont Studios. A very willing silent partner who, up until now, had never asked for an accounting, never interfered with how the business was run, and never made demands.

His ass would be in a sling if he didn't comply with her request. He couldn't help but wonder how much Mickey had told the man who had just left his office. If he was her lover, which he probably was, then he knew everything. As he contemplated this assumption, Sol got a jittery feeling in his stomach.

He was grateful to Mickey for saving his hide, but only when it was convenient to be grateful. He'd come to Los Angeles because his wife hated the junk business he'd run on Chicago's South Side. With her incessant complaining, she'd convinced him that their fortunes could be made in the movie business. They'd soon found out that the capital from the sale of their junk business wasn't going to get them anywhere in the new boomtown called Hollywood. It had been his wife's idea to go to France and talk to her cousin Mickey. Sol had been able to convince Mickey that a fortune was there for the making in the up-and-coming motion picture industry, and she'd invested handsomely. Actually, she'd contributed almost three-quarters of the capital needed, but on paper they were almost equal partners. Within two years Sol had repaid her a quarter of the money he owed. And until this letter, she'd never mentioned the business. Oftentimes he'd wondered if she was interested at all. Now he knew she was.

In the beginning, when the studio was operating in the red, he'd sent quarterly reports. But when the numbers switched from red to black, he'd developed a bad memory. When Mickey made no comment about the fact that she no longer seemed to be receiving any reports, he felt safe skimming off the top. If his memory was accurate, he was now about three years behind in his reports to Mickey, even longer with his payments.

An inch of thick gray ash from Sol's cigar dropped to his chest. He sat bolt upright in his swivel chair as a horrible thought hit him between the eyes. Tarz was a spy! Mickey had sent him to spy and report back. Somehow he'd weaseled his way into her bed, a young stud, and like all stupid women she'd spilled her guts, and Tarz'd seen a good thing staring him in the face. It was probably his idea to come here and smell things out. Goddammit!

How smart was Tarz? If he or his friend had any brains at all, the cat would be out of the bag in a few weeks. But not if I can help it, Sol told himself. He'd been caught off guard today, but by tomorrow he'd be in command again. And if there was one thing he knew something about, it was greed. Tarz could be had; it was written all over him. As he deliberated about the best way to deal with Reuben Tarz and his confederate, Sol's gut churned and his ears felt warm, sure signs of an increasing self-confidence.

Hollywood. Sin city. City of back-room deals and front-room deals. Everyone washing one another's hands.

Sol hefted himself from his comfortable swivel chair. Now was as good a time as any to go over his books—to find out exactly how much he owed to Mickey.

 

Outside in the bright sunshine, Reuben fired a cigarette and waited for Daniel. He didn't have to wait long.

“This place is a dump compared with the other studios,” Daniel said as he joined Reuben. “What happened in there?” he asked.

Reuben filled him in. “Tomorrow I report back here and we'll both have jobs. You know, there was something in Rosen's eyes I couldn't figure out. And you're right, this place is a dump, but it makes money. I wish I could put my finger on it, but…You know, Daniel, this is going to sound crazy, but that guy looked like he was afraid…of me! He got indignant and he blustered and tried to con me, but it was an act. I knew he was going to hire us, I just knew it. He was playing some kind of waiting game. I don't know the rules yet, though. It's just a feeling…. You know how you can smell trouble? Well, it was the same kind of feeling. I wish I knew what it meant.”

Daniel laughed. “If I know you at all, pal, and I do, you'll figure it out!”

A crowd of people stood before them, waiting in line for the buses that would take them back to the city. Most of them milled about with downcast eyes and slumped shoulders. They didn't even have the promise of a job, but tomorrow was a new day. They'd struck out today, but they'd be back again, revved up and ready, hopeful and energized by other success stories.

A young girl wearing incredibly high-heeled shoes tripped past Reuben and Daniel, singing happily. She turned to call over her shoulder, “I got a job for tomorrow. You guys get lucky?”

Reuben nodded. The girl was ideal for moving pictures, bright-eyed and animated—her bow of a perfect mouth smiled back at them merrily. “What've they got you doing?” he asked.

She turned and walked back over to the wall where Reuben and Daniel were standing. “Not much, standing in a crowd. I've been coming here every day for almost a year. This is my third call. Maybe this time someone will want to take an option on me. It happens,” she said cheerfully. “I've done my share of leaning on this wall. When you leave here, you either lean on it and cry, or you lean on it and light a cigarette!”

“Where's your cigarette?” Reuben teased. Up close, he realized the girl couldn't be more than seventeen, maybe eighteen.

She blushed crimson. “I'm not lighting a cigarette because I don't have a red cent to buy cigarettes.” She laughed, the happy sound contagious.

Reuben reached into his pocket and handed her a cigarette. She took it, lighted it, and inhaled deeply, a contented smile on her face.

“The only thing that puts a damper on tomorrow's job is that it's with Fairmont,” she confided.

“Why's that?” Daniel asked.

“Because they suck your blood, that's why. Fairmont makes you wait for your money, and their directors think they're God's gift to the universe. It's a cut-rate studio,” she said authoritatively.

Reuben and Daniel looked at each other with raised brows.

“What'll you guys—My bus!” She started to run to the stop, then paused long enough to ask their names.

“Reuben Tarz, and this is my friend, Daniel Bishop.” In two long strides Reuben was by her side, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and handing them to her. “Take these, and congratulations! Maybe we'll see you around.”

The girl fought her way onto the bus and poked her head out the window as it began to pull away. “Jane Perkins!” she shouted, waving the cigarette pack. “And thanks!”

“Pretty, wasn't she?” Daniel remarked. “Kind of reminded me of Bebe with all that fluffy hair and green eyes. How old do you think she is?”

“Seventeen or so. Why?”

“She looked like she was taking a shine to you. Didn't you see her flirting?”