Sins of Omission (35 page)

Sol felt his throat constrict. Free, my arse. Snoop! Goddamn spy is what this bird was. He wanted an inside track to find out what was going on at the studio. Once his pal was in the legal department, he'd know everything that went on.

“Oy gevalt,”
he sputtered. “You don't want much, do you?”

“Not really,” Reuben said quietly. “In the long run I'm saving you money. I'm here to work, not sit on my haunches. Trust me.”

Sol shifted the cigar in his mouth. “I learned a long time ago never to trust anyone who says ‘Trust me.' Your pal ain't going into my legal department because we ain't got a legal department. This,” he said, pounding his head, “is my legal department. Your pal goes into the prop or transportation department. Take it or leave it!”

Reuben walked back to the desk and leaned over until his face was just inches from Sol's. “I don't understand something here. My friend Daniel doesn't know a thing about props or transportation. Why would you be willing to put him on the payroll with a decent salary to sit on his behind doing God only knows what? If you don't have a legal department, it's time you got one.” Reuben stopped just long enough to take a meaningful look around the old man's office. “Your bookkeeping can't be all that efficient.”

“Don't go telling me how to run my business. Take it or leave it!”

“Then I guess I have to leave it. We came here for honest work, not charity.”

Sol could feel the sweat dripping down his back. The son of a bitch was leaving. Well, let him leave! He waited until Reuben was out the door and halfway down the stairs before he rumbled to the doorway to call him back. “Ain't no call for you to be so hotsy-totsy with me,” he said. “I ain't giving you charity. I'm giving you a job. I said it was okay. If I ain't got a legal department, what do you want from me?”

“Start one,” Reuben said smoothly. “You need one and you certainly have the room. I'd like business contracts drawn up. Two years. Is that agreeable with you?”

“Two years! Two goddamn years! All right already,” Sol grumbled.

“But,” Reuben said, wagging a finger in front of him, “my salary goes to seventy-five in six weeks. That's how long it will take me to learn this business. Every six months I want a fifty-dollar-a-week raise. Don't look so sour, Mr. Rosen. I'll be saving you a hundred times that much money, down the road.”

“Cocky bastard!” Sol spat. “A
chachem
yet!”

Reuben hid his smile. “Someday maybe,” he said. “Now, about Daniel Bishop. What shall I tell him?”

Sol rubbed his chin. “I told you we ain't got a legal department. So I'll open up a broom closet or something. Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. Both of you. You'll be working here with me. That door opens into another small room. I'll get it cleared out.”

“That sounds fine, Mr. Rosen. We'll both be here. For now, though, I'd like a pass to go about the studio lot. Strictly as an observer.”

Sol winced. There was nothing he could do but issue the pass and usher the
ganef
out of his office. His stomach rumbled ominously as he closed the door. So now he was going to have an office assistant
and
a legal department. But things could be worse. A lot worse, he consoled himself. How the hell could this scheming little snotnose save him money, he wondered. And how long would it be until his report went out to Mickey Fonsard? He pushed the thought out of his mind. What he would do now was go home to Benedict Canyon, pack up his ledgers and the studio contracts, and bring them back so Tarz's pal would have something to look at. How much savvy could a green kid like Bishop have? He wasn't even in law school yet. All he had to remember was that this was his company, and he ran it the only way he knew how. Maybe Tarz wasn't a spy after all. “And they get ice water in hell,” he muttered as he struggled back into his jacket.

 

Reuben meandered around the studio lot, stopping along the way to introduce himself. His bone-crushing handshake made more than one department head flinch. And when he announced his name and title, he saw fear in every face. Or was it apprehension? Reuben decided he liked the feeling of power he was arousing. How much was due to his image and how much to his title?

So far he'd been to five departments—prop, carpentry, electrical, camera, and editing. Lunch was being served in the dining hall via a caterer when he arrived and introduced himself. He glanced at the silver serving dishes and fine china, then picked up the menu to see what was being served. Mongole soup, steak, lyonnaise potatoes, stewed tomatoes, garden salad, and floating island for dessert. The reverse side read simply hamburgers and weiners, obviously for everyone else.

“Who pays for this?” Reuben asked curiously.

John Carlyle, the head director, looked up. He was a small man, round from his neck to his ankles. “The…the studio,” he said. Reuben thought he could see the man's hair bristling at the question.

“Who eats the hamburgers and weiners?”

Carlyle shrugged. “My helpers, the cast, anyone who wants them.”

“Who pays for them?”

Carlyle lowered his fork onto his plate. “They do.” Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. He smiled uncomfortably, waiting for the next question.

“Is there a personnel folder on you in the office, John?” The man nodded numbly. Reuben smiled, a cat with a mouthful of feathers. “Good…. Enjoy your lunch, John. It's all right to call you John, isn't it?”

“Sure, sure. Is it okay to call you Reuben?”

“No.” Reuben said, and sauntered off, his hands still in his trouser pockets. By nightfall, he knew, every department head would be storming Sol's office. He laughed, a deep, rich sound that made scurrying actors and actresses turn for a second look.

The casting, art, and costume departments took up the rest of Reuben's afternoon. When he walked out of the studio at five-thirty, he had a working knowledge of what was going on. He itched to dive in with both hands and feet.

 

Max Gould's plastered-down eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch when Reuben walked through the door at six ten and straddled a chair next to the bar. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“It's yours,” Max said, puzzled. He jerked his head at the bartender, who immediately set out a cup of coffee. Max hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “You looking for a run tonight?”

“No, I just came for coffee. It's good,” he said, surprised.

“We grind it fresh every day. It's good you aren't looking for a run because I don't have one today. Tomorrow I will, okay?” Reuben nodded. “You get a job? You look like one of those guys that strolls around on a golf course on his day off.”

Reuben listened for disapproval but heard only genuine interest in Max's voice. “I start tomorrow. I'll be Sol Rosen's assistant at Fairmont Studios.”

“That's not too shabby. Are they paying you decent money?”

“Pretty decent.”

“So how long you think it'll take you to start running things or even taking over the place?” Max laughed.

Reuben thought about the question before he answered. “A year, give or take a month or so. You want to lay a bet on the time or what? Good coffee,” Reuben said, tossing a dime on the bar.

Again Max laughed, but this time he stopped when he saw Reuben's eyes. “I'm not laughing at you, Tarz, I'm laughing with you. You take over that place and I'll clean up. Sure, I'll make book on it. Why the hell not?”

Reuben smiled. “Why the hell not,” he said quietly. “I'll see you tomorrow, Max. Good night.”

Max snapped his suspenders, making a loud noise just as Eli Rosen walked through the door. The young man's face was a splotchy red. He was trying to grow a mustache and constantly caressed the nubby hairs with his index finger. “I thought I told you to use the back door,” Max growled. “Are you trying to give this place a bad name?”

“You got nothing but a mud hole out back. And garbage,” Eli whined. “You want to know how much I paid for these shoes? I ain't ruining them even for you, Max. How about a drink and something to eat?”

“Did Daddy give you your allowance today?” Max hated this kid with a passion, but he did bring in business. Compared with Reuben Tarz, Eli was nothing—a pimple on the ass of life. “I see your old man hired on an assistant. Does this mean he's finally going big time?”

Eli ignored him. Max knew Sol Rosen never confided in his son—the question was just one way of giving him a hard time. “So whatcha got for me tonight, Maxie baby?”

Max wanted to tell Eli he had a king-size package of gift-wrapped horseshit, but he didn't. There were times, like now, when he needed this slimy, greasy little weasel. He motioned in the direction of his table in the back.

Eli calmly slid off the stool and followed Max. News traveled fast. If he was patient, by the end of the night he'd have the scoop on his father's new assistant, whoever he was. If Max weren't waiting for him, and he didn't have what he thought was a tough-guy image to protect, he would have run outside and kicked the building and punched his fist through a window. How many times had he begged to work in the front office of the studios? Christ, he'd actually groveled to his father—but the bastard had only laughed at him. Now he felt like crying as he sauntered back to Max's private table.

 

Reuben decided to sit on one of the green-striped benches while he waited for the bus. His leg was aching, and he hadn't eaten since that morning. All things considered, though, he was pleased with the way the day had gone. Later in the evening, after a long, hot bath, he would work on his schedule for tomorrow. His head was buzzing with ideas. Relaxed now, almost sleepy, he closed his eyes against the soft twilight—and a moment later he felt rather than saw a man sit down next to him.

“Beautiful evening,” said a distinct voice. “That's one of the things I like about California. Damian Farrell here.”

Reuben stirred and turned. “Reuben Tarz,” he said, offering his hand. “It is a beautiful night. New York was never like this, even in the summer. I'm getting used to this weather real fast.”

“You look familiar,” Farrell said.

“I was going to say the same thing about you. Have we met?”

“I work at Fairmont Studios. I'm an actor, maybe you saw one of my films.” His voice sounded apologetic.

“I haven't seen many films lately. I've been in France and just got back. Maybe I saw you at the studio today. I start work there tomorrow myself.”

Farrell snapped his fingers. “You're right. You're the guy that gave Jack Carlyle heart palpitations. That man is the worst director I've ever worked with.”

Reuben nodded slightly. You always learn more when you listen, Mickey had said. He listened.

“I've worked under a few, some worse, some better. Carlyle is Rosen's wife's nephew—was, actually, she's dead now. Most of the studios have this nepotism thing. If they'd only hire people that know what the hell they're doing, things would pick up. I'm thinking of moving on since my contract will be up in another two months. I want to do something…important. I've got some great ideas, but no one in the front office will listen. I can't get past Carlyle. Say, what kind of contract did they offer you?”

Reuben laughed. “I'm not an actor. I'm going to be Rosen's assistant. Tell me more about your ideas.”

Neither man paid attention as bus after bus pulled to the curb and then glided away. Lavender faded to charcoal as night fell, and still the men talked, quietly at first, then excitedly. The moon crept behind its cloud cover and sailed across the spangled sky, and still the men made no move to leave. When Reuben finally looked at his pocket watch it was ten-thirty. “I think we missed the last bus,” he said, grinning. The two men stood and shook hands, with Reuben promising to put Farrell's ideas into the works. The chance meeting was the beginning of a friendship that was to last all their lives.

 

The small kitchen in the apartment was fragrant with the smell of fried onions and peppers, Daniel's favorite. One end of the table was set for Reuben while at the other end Daniel pored over one of the law books that had been Mickey's gift to him.

Reuben entered the kitchen like a whirlwind. Daniel looked up and blinked. His friend exuded excitement, an excitement he obviously couldn't wait to share. Daniel closed his mouth as Reuben sat down, his plate full.

“Wait till you hear this, Dan'l,” he said between mouthfuls of food. “I met this guy, Damian Farrell, who's one of Fairmont's biggest actors. He was just sitting there waiting for the bus like me. We got to talking, and he said his contract was up in two months and he's thinking about moving on.

“He has an idea,” Reuben continued enthusiastically, “and if Fairmont won't go with it, he's going to take it somewhere else. You aren't going to believe this, I swear, but I told him the studio
would
develop his idea. I actually said that! Picture this now. Farrell as Red Ruby, bungling, bumbling jewel thief, and his foil will be Lester Kramer, who will play the part of Whitey Diamond, the cop who is just as bungling, and just as bumbling. Red Ruby occasionally pulls off a heist and stashes his loot, but can never fence it because Whitey Diamond is always on his tail. A serial, or a series, Daniel. Jesus, the public will go crazy for something like this! I guarantee the box office will quadruple in six months. He also said he'd want double what he's getting paid now. I told him…I gave him my word we'd make it a deal. It felt right, Dan'l. You have a whole book on contracts. I want one for Farrell and Lester Kramer that is absolutely foolproof. A series like this could run for years!”

Daniel winced at the word
contract
as Bebe's face flashed before him. “Jesus Christ, Reuben, you got balls! You haven't started working yet and you're already making deals. Did you shake hands on it?”