Sins of Omission (33 page)

Reuben's mouth dropped open. “Me? Go on, get out of here!”

“No, I'm serious. When you gave her those cigarettes she almost fainted. I have eyes. You should use yours, pal.”

“When did you get so smart about women?” Reuben was flustered and Daniel grinned, shook his head. Obviously his friend was unaware of his tall good looks and the effect he had on women. Sometimes he was so dumb, it was pitiful.

“I think this is our bus,” Reuben called, pointing. “Let's go home and have lunch. I have to be at the Mimosa Club a little early today.”

Mickey would approve of this small, tastefully furnished apartment, Reuben decided. For the most part all he and Daniel would be doing was sleeping and eating here, and the rent wouldn't make a sizable dent in his bank account. A respectable address was important, and this one was more respectable than the Crestwood. The apartment was on the first floor of a two-family house, on a tree-lined street that smelled of orange blossoms. Temporary. All things now were temporary.

Deep in his heart he'd known that his time in France with Mickey was temporary, even though he'd wished it permanent. He wanted to be back there so badly he ached with the feeling. Yet whenever he wondered where Bebe was, what she was doing and how long it would be before she appeared, the ache magically left him. Now, however, he needed control, no more thoughts of Mickey and Bebe, except maybe late at night when he lay in darkness. A clear, sharp mind uncluttered with emotional debts and plans for revenge would serve him well.

Daniel watched Reuben as he paced the living room. He knew he was thinking of Mickey, maybe Bebe, too. Reuben's face always softened when he spoke or thought of Mickey and darkened when he thought of Bebe. As close as they'd always been, he felt the same way as Reuben—half of him wanted to return to France, the other half wanted to stay—to protect Reuben from Bebe when she showed up. Reuben would always win if there was a contest, and he knew it; so did Reuben.

Suddenly Reuben's pacing became frenzied, his softened features replaced by a hard, calculating look.

“What's eating you, Reuben?” Daniel asked. “Is it something you want to talk about?”

“No. Yeah. Yes, I do.” Reuben sat down on a gray-corduroy-covered chair, hunched his shoulders, and slapped the palms of his hands on his knees. Now he was almost relaxed. “I have so many ideas buzzing in my head. I know you think I'm impulsive at times, but when I get ideas and gut feelings, and if something
feels
right, I want to do something about it. Now. Not later, not tomorrow or next week, but now! Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Daniel nodded and leaned forward, listening carefully.

“I know I could get Fairmont Studios on its feet in no time at all. It's a gut feeling, Daniel. I'm the first to admit I don't know a goddamn thing about the movie business, but I didn't know anything about the wine business, either, and I learned. For some reason I don't think you have to know a whole hell of a lot to make movies. All those other studio heads started from nothing. One was a junk dealer in New York just like Sol Rosen. Now, you tell me what qualities a junk dealer has to have to make movies?” Daniel shrugged, and Reuben continued, not waiting for a verbal reply. “One studio head was a pool hustler from the Lower East Side, and still another was a glove peddler from the Warsaw ghetto. Ignorant immigrants, Daniel. They all came here to the land of milk and honey. They could barely speak English. Right now, right this very second, I know as much as they knew when they first started. I want you to research all the studios, Daniel, and make me a chart. I want to see the highs, the lows, whatever you can find out. I was thinking…let's ask Jane Perkins if she wants to earn a few dollars helping with the research. If she can read, that's all we need. Sometimes women see things men tend to overlook. Mickey taught me that,” Reuben said, a catch in his voice. “What do you think?”

“I think it's a great idea,” Daniel said slowly. “It's something I can really sink my teeth into. Do you want this from day one, or just a few years, or what?”

“From day one. I want to see what Sol Rosen did wrong and be able to understand it. In detail. Everyone else is making it big, why isn't he? Why is his studio such a joke?”

Daniel felt elated. It thrilled him when Reuben got intense and passionate about things. But he'd also have to make sure his friend didn't get too carried away too quickly. “I know you can do it, but…listen to me, Reuben, you have to crawl before you walk. Slow. No rash moves, no rash decisions. From all you said this afternoon, it sounds to me like Bebe's father doesn't exactly trust you.”

Reuben slapped at his knee. “You're right. I wish I could put my finger on what it was with Rosen this afternoon, but I can't. Daniel, sometimes there are things you simply know, and what I know is we're going to get jobs. I can't explain it, I just know.”

Daniel's heart thumped. He wouldn't admit it, but he had the same feeling. “Reuben, if we do get the jobs, how can I work on the research project?”

Reuben wagged a finger under Daniel's nose. “You are going to be in the perfect place to do all this: the legal department. They probably have a bigger research facility than the main library here in town, and if they don't, you simply requisition what you want from the town. They'll be happy to comply with a studio,” Reuben said confidently.

If there was one thing Daniel loved, it was dealing with graphs, charts, and numbered columns. The research would be a breeze thanks to his French tutor. “Do I do this on my own time, or on Rosen's time if we manage to get the jobs?”

“Either or. I don't think there's going to be a lot for you to do…at first. Use your best judgment. Listen, Daniel, and tell me what you think of this idea. Whatever Rosen offers me in the way of salary, I'll ask him to cut it in half. Half the time I'll work in the office doing whatever he wants me to do. The rest of the time I want to be free to go about the studio to learn what's going on, how they operate, what goes into a studio. Rosen may think it's pushy on my part, but I should be able to convince him that I'm serious about learning the business. I want a favorable report to go back to Mickey. I don't ever want her ashamed of either of us. If necessary, we'll work our asses off to prove ourselves,” Reuben said, his voice choked with feeling.

“Do you miss her, Reuben?” Daniel asked softly.

Instead of answering, Reuben chose to make a statement. “The minute our jobs are secure, the minute I know we have money in the bank, I'm going back, but I can't go back until I've proven myself. I want her faith in us justified. We can't ever lose sight of the fact that we have a debt that has to be honored.”

Daniel nodded solemnly.

“I wonder if we'll ever hear from Bebe again. Where do you suppose she is?” he asked.

“Who cares! She'll show up out of the blue as though nothing ever happened. Meanwhile she's no doubt whoring around Europe, getting the education she thinks European men can give her.”

“I can't believe you said that!” Daniel said.

Reuben snorted. “Don't tell me you didn't think that, too. I just say out loud what you think.”

“I think you're wrong. She might be a party girl, what they call a jazz baby around here, but she's no whore. Wherever she is, I hope she's happy. Bebe deserves some happiness,” he said.

This was what Reuben liked best about Daniel—his defense of anything and anyone, his loyalty, and his friendship. What would he think if he knew what had gone on in the barn? “Thanks for pulling me up short,” Reuben said, “and don't ever be afraid to do it again if I get off track. Let's get back to subject one—what's wrong with Fairmont Studios. They have Clovis Ames, one of the biggest stars in the business. We saw hundreds of people buzzing around, so we know they have a sizable payroll. The studio has to be making money. Why isn't it up there with the others?”

Daniel shrugged. “There could be a hundred reasons. Maybe Rosen has no desire to compete, or he doesn't know how. My opinion would be the latter.”

Reuben's eyes grew thoughtful. “Maybe it's like the wine business. When I asked Mickey why she didn't want to expand Château Michelene, she told me one of the reasons was she would have to devote all her time to it. She said if she hired new people, they would rob her blind. I have to assume she knew what she was talking about. So she strives for quality versus quantity. My guess is Rosen is doing the opposite—except they aren't grinding out all that many films, according to Jane Perkins.” He sighed. “I suppose in some crazy way there's a method to all of Rosen's business madness.”

Daniel threw his hands up in the air. “I saw pictures and posters in the personnel office of some of their latest movies, and none of them looked top-drawer to me. Everything is shabby and rundown.”

“That's cosmetic, Daniel, easy to fix, and it wouldn't be costly, either. Some gardeners, some painters, some decent-looking uniforms for the employees, a little glamour for the front offices, a lot of decent advertising. Better scripts for better films. I had some wonderful ideas for Mickey's wine business. I could take those same ideas and apply them here. I know they'd work.”

“All indications point to Rosen liking things the way they are. Older people resist change, you know. Slow, Reuben. Real slow,” Daniel cautioned.

Reuben leaned back in the comfortable chair. “Sol Rosen isn't one to resist change. The man gave up a thriving business in Chicago to come here and make it big. Big, Daniel, means money and power, and not necessarily in that order. Rosen has made money, that's obvious, but he is not a power in the movie business. Maybe he's too short-sighted. On the other hand, he may be content with pocketing his profits and living like a king. Bebe told us that. Remember when she described the house and the pool and the tennis courts and all the help they had in the way of servants? She made it sound like they shook money off a tree.” Just the mention of Bebe made his head throb. Where in the hell was she, and when was she going to turn up? He rubbed his forehead wearily, trying to exorcise the demon and concentrate on the task at hand. “Go back to your book, Daniel, I have some more thinking to do.”

While Reuben brooded upon various strategies to insinuate himself and Daniel into the mainstream of Fairmont Studios, miles away in Benedict Canyon, Sol Rosen was busy trying to think of ways to keep them at bay.

The stack of financial ledgers bore out Sol's original thoughts. Tarz was here to spy on him. If his rough calculations were correct, he owed Mickey Fonsard over half a million dollars. Where had it gone? It sure as hell wasn't in the bank. Slumping back in his chair with a frustrated sigh, he looked around him. Of course—the house, the pool, the tennis courts, the cabanas, the nine-hole golf course. That's where it was! The renovations on the house alone had cost him a fortune. Everything was the best, the imported Oriental rugs, the mahogany staircase, the Bavarian crystal chandeliers, the tile, everything from Europe. In addition, he had a cook, a laundress, an upstairs maid, and a downstairs maid. Four gardeners were required to tend the lawns, and others were needed for the pool and tennis courts. A steady crew of five worked five days a week to maintain the golf course no one ever played on. He was paying out a damn fortune to live in Hollywood, and it wasn't doing him a damn bit of good socially. Bebe and Eli had gone to the best private schools, wore the best clothes, drove fancy cars, and ate only the best food. The plain simple truth was, he didn't know how to manage money. And he'd refused to listen to the people in his front office. Everything was kept in his head—his deals, his bank balances, and the actors' and actresses' salaries. Still, he paid front office help, because if he didn't, the other studio heads would make him out to be a jerk. His pudgy fingers ran down his ledger. Twenty-three relatives, mostly his wife's nieces and nephews, were on the payroll. Deadwood. God knew he couldn't fire them when she was alive, and he sure as hell couldn't fire them now that she was dead. Their salaries came out of Mickey's share of the business. And healthy salaries they were. Tarz would find all this out and report back to Mickey. Jesus! He could just picture Mickey taking the next ship to the States and arriving on his doorstep demanding an accounting. Fifty-one percent of the business was hers. The fifty-fifty split was merely a paper calculation; the real contract was in France with Mickey's bankers. Maybe that was why Fairmont never achieved the status and the glory of the other studios, he reflected sourly. His heart and soul wasn't in the business because he owned only a minority 49 percent.

At least three times a week Sol had nightmares about Fairmont. Mickey always showed up in his dreams with the contract in hand, saying she was taking over. In one dream she appointed him janitor. Goddammit to hell, he was over a barrel!

Sol mopped at his face with a dirty, frayed handkerchief he'd honked his nose all week and bellowed for the maid. “Fetch me a drink—a double whiskey and a beer.” Thanks to Eli and his friends, his liquor cabinet was always full. “If it isn't too goddamn much trouble, I'd like to have my dinner now, too.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Rosen. You told the cook—”

“I don't care what I told the cook, I want my supper. Where the hell is it? What am I paying all of you for, to sit on your asses and paint your fingernails?”

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

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

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

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