Sins of Omission (37 page)

“Glamourous…at times,” Bebe said loftily. “At other times it was quite boring. I missed the cabarets of Paris.” She shrugged, indicating it was of no importance. “The men…most of them were over grown boys with only one thing on their minds. Sex,” she said authoritatively, “is a participatory event. I had no wish to participate.”

Mon Dieu,
Yvette thought. I must remember to spring this on Henri tonight when I kick him out of bed. “I see,” she said quietly. Her eyes dropped from Bebe's sad face to her slender polished fingernails which were drumming impatiently on the tabletop as she spoke.

“More tea,
chérie?
”

“I certainly had many propositions,” Bebe said, ignoring Yvette's offer. “I didn't make many friends among the women my age. For some reason they didn't seem to want to be around me. Mickey's friend said they were jealous. I suppose that's possible.” Her tone indicated she didn't believe it. “I'm an American,” she said flatly, as if that explained everything.

“I think you're just shy and tend to wait until the other person makes the first move…. Sometimes,
chérie,
the other person is just as shy as you. You learn these things as you get older,” Yvette advised in a motherly tone.

“You should have had a dozen children, Yvette. You'd make a wonderful mother,” Bebe said sincerely.

Here it comes. Yvette thought, and what do I tell this miserable young woman about her son? She gulped the rest of the tea in her cup, tea she didn't want.

“Well, I think I've taken up enough of your time,” Bebe said, rising. “Now I'd like to take a ride past the château. For old times' sake. And then I'll head back to Paris. Thank you for the tea and cake. It was wonderful. I…I want to…to thank you for welcoming me. I wasn't sure if…if you would want me to come here. I decided on impulse, the way I do most things. Say good-bye to Henri for me. I—I'll write if you'd like me to….”

Yvette crossed the short distance to the young girl and wrapped her in her arms. “My darling girl, please do write. I would love to hear from you. I get no mail on this miserable farm, so I will look forward to it, but only if you wish to write. Bebe, have you given any thought to going back to California?”

“I plan to return at the end of summer—late August, maybe the middle of September. I'm not sure. If Mickey should get in touch with you, please thank her for the use of the house. Tell her I'll take care of it. And thank you, Yvette, for being a wonderful friend to me when I needed a friend.” Yvette nodded and watched Bebe's eyes circle the kitchen, coming to rest on the slab of slate near the fireplace where the cradle had rested months before. From the fireplace they strayed to the little bedroom door off the kitchen. Now. Now, she's going to ask. Instead, Bebe hugged her again, kissed her soundly, and bolted out the door. Yvette blessed herself over and over as she watched the powerful car surge down the road.

Bebe drove carelessly, narrowly missing a rabbit on the road. She felt she drove well considering she'd had only three lessons. Any idiot could steer a car. Idiots could do a lot of things other people thought them incapable of.

Forty minutes later she ground the car to a halt at the bend in the road. From here she had a perfect view of the château. How lonely and sad it looked, so deserted with no smoke rising from the chimneys. The windows were covered from the inside with something heavy. The barn was closed and probably locked.

Not caring if she ruined the magenta shoes, Bebe slowly walked the quarter mile to the château. At one point the barn loomed directly ahead. Part of her past was there, she mused…but she refused to move toward it. She couldn't bear it. The front door, the back door, and the side door were all locked. A thought popped into her mind: Mickey must plan to be away for a very long time. Where did she go? Why did she go? The urge to kick the door, to break the lock, was so strong, Bebe had to grind her heels into the soft, loamy earth next to the back steps. A window, I could break a window, crawl through, and stay here for a while.
To what end?
queried a small voice. Just to feel again, to smell the scent of him, to touch the things he touched.

Tears spilled from her eyes, caught for a moment on her thick lashes, then streamed down her cheeks. Everything is gone…you can't get it back. Why aren't you here to help me? I need you, Daniel, you're the only friend I have.

She sobbed all the way back to the car. Five minutes later, the engine running, she sat swiping pitifully at her eyes. She wailed then, a high keening sound of pure misery. Ten minutes later she was dry-eyed and smiling, driving the car away from the château. Bebe Rosen from California was going to gay Paree.

At the end of ten days Reuben felt he had more than a working knowledge of Fairmont Studios. With Daniel's invaluable help, he was in the process of drawing up a temporary operational work plan. Presenting it to Sol would be an entirely different matter, however. The studio head had followed him with his eyes for the first few days. It hadn't been a comfortable situation.

He'd spent his evenings watching movies, trying to decide what could be classified as good, bad, and indifferent. His conclusion when he watched the last film was that all of them were indifferent. There was a plethora of beauty and handsomeness, but no talent. In the beginning, audiences had hungered for pie in the face, chases, and pratfalls. It was time for a change. Lester Kramer needed better scripts, better direction. And then there was Damian Farrell. Reuben had sat through
Tillie's Punctured Romance
four times, a 1914 movie directed by Mack Sennett. Jane Perkins came to mind immediately, and he made a notation to himself. With women as the main moviegoers, romance films should be at the top of the list. Fairmont had none. Jane would be perfect.

To date, the only thing he could give Sol Rosen credit for was the fact that he had copies of every film produced at other studios. For comparison, probably. But why didn't he upgrade his own productions?

 

It was two o'clock in the morning when Daniel tossed his papers aside. “That's it, Reuben! That's what the problem is. In the beginning distribution was a simple affair. Producers sold copies of films outright to whoever was showing them. They were sold at so much a foot, or by the reel. Maybe ten cents a foot or seventy to a hundred dollars a reel. Quality wasn't important. Rosen doesn't own any theaters like the other studios. No shekels coming in from that kind of operation. Distribution, Reuben, that's where it all is.”

Reuben tapped his pencil against his front teeth. “Sol Rosen doesn't
look
stupid. But is he? Who's actually in control of all the money?”

“From what I can tell, his brother handles all the paperwork. Reuben, it's a mess. See this stack of papers? It's a work sheet for every short, every film, every serial made by Fairmont. I'm sure you've seen all of them in the projection room. Twenty-five thousand to produce. The take should be around one-hundred-fifty-thousand. Doesn't matter if the film stinks. That's the take.”

“Jesus,” Reuben breathed.

“There's something else. At some point along the way, audiences got tired of seeing the same old thing over and over. Somebody set up an exchange where an exhibitor could trade in his prints and, for a small fee for the service, receive different prints from other exhibitors. Don't ask me who got the money. At some point competition increased, at least I think it did. The rental instead of the sale became the big thing. Producers then received a share of the actual box office drawing power. There's no record showing Sol got any.

“This is the way I interpret it,” he continued. “The product—in this case, the film—is not bought or sold. The patrons merely pay to look at the film. The retailers or exhibitors return a share of that income to the wholesalers or the distributors, who in turn subtract their expenses and profits and then pass the remainder on to the manufacturers or producers, in this case Sol or whoever he designated as head of this operation. Lots of room to skim off the top, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't think Rosen knows,” Reuben interjected. “And if he suspects…what's he going to do? Every goddamn employee is a relative. Obviously he hasn't kept up with the times. I'm no expert, but even I could tell his films are schlock.”

“Schlock?” Daniel queried.

Reuben shrugged. “Garbage. Hit-and-miss is what he's producing. No-formula pictures. Westerns, for example. One week the public gets a western, the next week a comedy, and the week after that a romance. He's grinding out the same old thing, day after day, week after week. He's also not capitalizing on his stars. Take Farrell, for example. Women are crazy over him. They swoon when he comes on the screen. Men whistle when Clovis struts her stuff. Everyone laughs for Lester Kramer. People want to see them again and again.” Reuben checked his watch. “It's late, Daniel. We should have been asleep hours ago. Too bad we can't get paid for all this time.”

Daniel rubbed his eyes and yawned elaborately. “What would we do with all that money?”

“Repay Mickey,” Reuben said.

“Have you written her?” Daniel asked quietly.

“I have half a letter finished. I'm no letter writer. I find it a monumental task. I want to do it, know I should do it, but I have difficulty saying what I want to say.”

“Practice makes perfect.” Daniel's tone stopped just short of severity when he chided, “It isn't fair of you not to write. I'm sure she goes every day to the post. She loves you, Reuben. You can't be so cold as to forget so easily.”

“Forget! That's why I'm having so much difficulty writing. I can't forget. I don't want her thinking I'm some lovesick puppy that can't control his emotions. I'll do it, Daniel. I said I would and I will. You sent the payment, right?”

“Last week. Good night, Reuben.”

Reuben changed into his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and washed his face. Then stomped his way back to the tiny living room with his half-finished letter to Mickey. It took him an hour and a half to finish the letter he'd started days earlier. Twice he read it over to make sure it said everything he wanted to say. He signed it, “My love for you endures, Reuben.” God, how he missed her.

Reuben fingered the material of his pajamas. He knew they'd cost a pretty penny, probably more than some men's entire wardrobes. The shoes at the front door and the jacket hanging on a hook under the hallway mirror had all been bought and paid for by Mickey. Even the food he'd had tonight for dinner was bought and paid for by Mickey. His debt to the woman he loved gnawed at his soul.

Reuben whistled on his way to the bus stop. It was another golden day full of promise and sunshine. The tree-lined sidewalk gave the appearance of a tunnel with lacy patterns of sunshine, even this early in the morning, hop-scotching all over the concrete. Daniel sighed happily. He'd had only four hours sleep, but he felt rested. Reuben hadn't gone to bed till almost dawn, but he'd finished his letter. He looked rested, and that pleased Daniel.

“Do you have your speech to Mr. Rosen down pat?” Daniel queried.

“I don't know if it's a speech, exactly. More like a list of questions. How he answers them will tell me how to proceed. Jesus, I had no idea he had so many relatives on the payroll. He's paying out a chunk of money that would pay off the national debt. If…if he was getting a return on the money, it would be a different story, but he isn't. I think he's going to be surprised when I show him what I have. Six months, Daniel, that's all it will take to put this company up there with the others. I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I asked Max to look into the distribution end of this thing. If he can move booze, he can move film. He's got the connections. Good cover for Max. Good for the studio, too. Sometimes you have to close your eyes to certain things. The decision will have to be Sol's, though. I'll just be the go-between.”

“What good is moving film if you don't have theaters to show them in?” Daniel asked.

Reuben sighed. “I told you, Max has connections. Legitimate connections. One hand washes the other, that kind of thing.

“Believe it or not, Max is all right. Like all of us, he has this passion to be someone important. I don't even think it's for himself, but for his mother. That's one for the books, isn't it?”

“I suppose so,” Daniel growled. “What happens if some of this backfires and you end up in the clink?”

“By that time you'll be a full-fledged lawyer and will simply bail me out. Don't think about it, Daniel, until it happens. I hate it when you stew and fret about things. Live for today. Yesterday is gone and tomorrow will take care of itself. Don't worry about something that hasn't happened yet and might never happen…. Good, here's the bus.” Daniel was so relieved the conversation was at an end, he tripped up the steps.

 

Sol Rosen seethed and fumed. His fingers drummed on his desk. A meeting, yet! A request for a meeting, the memo read. Ten o'clock, to discuss business. The guy had moxie. Christ, if only he knew one way or the other…did Mickey send him here to spy or didn't she? The cable he'd sent off a week before must have reached her, but there had been no response. Somehow, in some way, Tarz would ferret out everything. It was only a question of time till the ax fell…right over his head.

The guy was a worker, he had to give him that much credit. The guards at the gate said he was usually one of the first to arrive, around six-thirty or so, and one of the last to leave.

This morning he'd made an attempt to dress for what he now referred to as the Occasion. He'd had the maid press his suit and turn the collar and cuffs on his shirt. “Make it white,” he'd ordered. He could still smell the bleach in his shirt. He'd even spit on his shoes for a little shine. Now he straightened his tie and shook out the cuffs of his shirt. His vest was buttoned, his tie secured inside. All was as it should be as he walked to the door to let Reuben in. Nodding curtly, he motioned him to a seat. “You said you wanted a meeting, so let's get down to business,” he said.

Reuben withdrew a thick sheaf of papers from a brown folder. Sol could see another, fatter stack with a rubber band around it. Christ, he must have worked around the clock to come up with so much paper, he thought.

“I'd like to ask you a question, Mr. Rosen. You don't have to answer it, but if you do, it will be an indication of how we can proceed.” At Sol's nod, Reuben continued. “Do you want to be a major studio in this town and a force to be reckoned with?”

Sol swallowed hard. Christ, yes, he wanted to be a driving force, to have people recognize him, cater to him, be sought after. He couldn't trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded. “That's what I thought. You're no fool, Mr. Rosen, and I never thought of you as one. I think, in six months, I can put you on top.”

Sol blanched. Six months! “What's in it for you, Tarz?”

Reuben leaned across the desk so that their eyes were level. “Power.”

“If you have the power, where does that leave me?” Sol growled.

“Big…and rich. You'll be the power behind the power. You've got to give me the go-ahead, though. Don't decide now. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I'm going to leave these papers with you so you can go over them tonight at your leisure.”

“Show me,” Sol said gruffly.

“The first thing we have to discuss is your payroll. You have twenty-seven relatives working for you. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with hiring your relatives. What I am saying is, most of those relatives are not qualified to fill the jobs they hold. Like your director John Carlyle. You're paying out three hundred thousand dollars a year in salaries that are going down the toilet. In order to make money, you must spend money. But you've got to spend it in the right place. Now it's obvious that you are spending it and getting no return. Here's why….”

“My relatives ain't crooks,” Sol spat out.

“I don't believe I used that term,” Reuben said. “If they aren't, as you say, crooks, then that leaves you. Have you been skimming off the top?”

“I should bounce you out on your arse for saying something like that!” Sol barked.

“Why, for telling the truth? It's all here in black and white. You can't dispute it. They have to go, all of them. We'll find jobs for them, jobs that are more fitting to their talents, if they have any. If they have no talent, then they go. We'll hire professionals, men who know the business. That three hundred thousand dollars will go a long way in getting you the best. I'm personally going to take over the distribution of your films.”

“Lots of luck.” Sol laughed abruptly. “That's the problem, we can't
get
distribution!”

“No, that's not the problem. The problem is your people didn't go about it in the right way because they don't know how. That's what I've been trying to tell you. The next thing you're going to do is buy up a chain of theaters. If you have to, go to the bank for financing. You need control. You can't be content with your colleagues so far ahead of you. The way I see it, you are about one year away from going down the drain.”

“Where'd you learn all this stuff?” Sol muttered. He hated the thought of going belly up. He'd be a goddamn laughingstock.

“People talk. I can read. I listen. You helped. It's simply a question of interpreting the facts. And the facts say you're in a mess. I won't make any decisions without your okay. This is your company. Do you want me to help you or not?”

Sol thought about it for so long, Reuben was about to shove the contents of the folder on the floor and walk out. “If I make a deal with you, who else will know about it?”

“Daniel Bishop.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Sol barked nervously.

Reuben stretched his hand across the desk. Gingerly Sol reached for his hand. “I think I'll take a short vacation,” he said. “I don't want to be here when you ax the relatives. I don't have the stomach for that.”

“I'll handle it. I want a contract drawn up to this effect. You get a copy and I get a copy. Who you show yours to is your business. Daniel Bishop will be the only person to see mine, since he'll be drawing it up.”

Sol's eyes were glued to the door long after Reuben made his way to his own office. He started to shake, unsure if the trembling was due to excitement or fear.

Things were a little clearer now. The reason he'd had no response to his cable was that Mickey had turned everything over to Tarz. She wanted no contact with Sol himself. Now he was certain he'd made the right decision in going along with Mickey's protégé. To do otherwise would be fatal.

Did he want to be one of the big five? Hell, yes, he did. Power was what Tarz wanted. Power and money—a marriage that was difficult to dissolve. For some strange reason, he believed everything Tarz said.

His head whirled with thought. If he believed this good-looking kid and trusted him, where did that leave Mickey? He didn't doubt for one minute that Tarz had the ability to play both ends against the middle. When that happened, Sol knew, there was a winner and a loser, and the guy in the middle came out on top. Final approval. Tarz had said he wouldn't do anything until it had been okayed. That little tidbit would have to be written into the contract. Final approval would keep him on top. Sol reached for a cigar and was pleased to see that his hands were fairly steady now. The cigar glowed red as thin streams of smoke eddied upward to swirl about the room. He leaned back and propped his feet on an open desk drawer. Four days' vacation, that's what he'd give himself. His gut rumbled when he visualized the scenes that would be played out when Tarz lowered the boom on his money-grabbing relatives.

Sol walked from the studio lot, nodding his head first to one actor and then to another. Some of them he didn't even recognize. His thoughts now were on Mickey. Was she a first-class fool and so in love with Tarz she'd turned over her half of the business to him, or was she a shrewd businesswoman who, with the help of a smart guy like Tarz, could ace him right out of his 49 percent of the business? He started to tremble again. He knew then he would do a lot of trembling in the days to come.

 

Two days later Reuben did two things: he hired a secretary and bought a load of green plants for his office. Margaret, his secretary, was a no-nonsense woman who supported herself and her mother. She said she gave a day's work for a day's pay and in the next breath said loyalty was her strongest point after efficiency. Reuben hired her on the spot. “After you water the plants,” he told her, “find someplace suitable for a conference room and set up two meetings—one with all personnel, and one with the actors and actresses. Call the personnel office at Paramount and get the address of a Jane Perkins. She's an extra. If they don't have it at Paramount, then call every studio till you find her. You might have to go to her home or else you can send someone, someone reliable. Set up a meeting with her.”

“Shouldn't I know why?” Margaret queried in a businesslike voice, her pencil poised over her steno pad.

Reuben stared at her. “Yes, I guess you should. I never had a secretary before, so if I don't do something right, call me on it,” he said generously. “I want to give Jane a screen test. It's not necessary that she be told that right away. And Margaret, anytime anyone wants to see me, I'm not too busy. I'm here to put this studio on its feet, and the only way I can do that is with everyone's help. I don't want to be untouchable. The last thing is, no matter what I'm doing, no matter where I am on this lot—and you'll always know—if Daniel Bishop wants me, find me. Daniel
never
has to wait to talk to me.”

Reuben took a deep breath. “Order the trade papers,
Billboard, Moving Picture World,
and the
New York Dramatic Mirror.
I want to know what's going on in this business. Find out who we cozy up to for the latest gossip.”

“I'll see to it all, Mr. Tarz,” Margaret said briskly, pushing her pencil behind her ear as she closed the door behind her.

Reuben took over his tasks with a vengeance. More than anything else. he looked forward to seeing the expression on Jane Perkins's face when she stepped into his office and he offered her a screen test. Hollywood, the land of dreams. If nothing else, he would create a dream for Jane. Daniel was delighted when he was told of Reuben's plans and asked if he could sit in.

“You bet! We discovered that girl together. We just didn't know we were discovering her at the time.”

When Jane Perkins arrived promptly at three o'clock, Margaret ushered her into the room. Reuben came around his desk, and Daniel got up to shake her hand. “What are you guys doing here?” she asked, her hand on her hip.

“We work here.” Reuben grinned. “Fairmont Studios would be most pleased to offer you a screen test. In, say…” Reuben pulled out his watch and made a pretense of looking at it. “Exactly ten minutes.

“Everything is set up for you. Projection has a film they're going to run for you. I want you to pay close attention to it…very close attention. In your test I want you to emote the same way, do you understand what I'm saying?”

“She's fainting!” Daniel shouted as he tried to catch the falling girl. “You do have some impact on women, Reuben!”

Reuben called to Margaret, who immediately shooed them aside. She splashed cologne on a linen handkerchief and waved it under Jane's nose. The girl's eyes fluttered, and then she panicked as she struggled to get to her feet.

“Easy does it, Jane. When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“I'm real sorry, Mr. Tarz. Yesterday, maybe the day before, I guess. I'm a little short this week. Did you s-say screen test? I—I'm an extra,” stammered the ashen-faced girl.

“You
were
an extra,” Daniel said, beaming. “Look, we know your test is going to be fine. You're going on the payroll, and when you leave here today you'll have a contract in your pocket.”

“Gosh! Why me? You guys don't even know me. I'm grateful, so grateful I think I'm going to cry.”

“Your faint took five minutes. Come along, Jane, we'll get some doughnuts on the way so you have something in your stomach. I want you to give this test everything you've got. Did you ever see
Tillie's Punctured Romance?
”