Sins of Omission (56 page)

“I like it, too.” Reuben grinned. “You must have noticed I kicked off my shoes as soon as I got here. That's a sign that a man is comfortable. You have a nice touch, Jane.”

“Thanks, Reuben.”

She was pretty when she smiled—not beautiful, but she was pretty. “Daniel asks about you all the time,” he told her. “After the party he talked for days about the good time you had.”

“How is he doing?” she asked. “I bet he's getting straight A's. I never met anyone as smart as Daniel.”

“Yes, he is smart, that's why he's at Harvard. Jane,” Reuben said impulsively, “do you have much money in the bank? What I mean is, are you interested in the stock market? Daniel gives me tips from time to time; I acted on one of them today, as a matter of fact. There's every chance you could make a nice nest egg for yourself.”

Jane's face puckered in thought. “Is it risky?” she asked.

“Everything's risky. Before I leave I'll give you a note to take to my broker. Go downtown on your lunch hour tomorrow and talk to him. Now, look,” Reuben said, holding up his hand. “Don't feel this is something you have to do just because I mentioned it. It's your money, and yes, it's risky. I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you decide to go ahead and invest, use only what you feel you can afford to lose if things don't work out right…. Tell me, how're things with the boyfriend?” he asked to change the subject.

Jane made a comical face. “What boyfriend? That's over. I'm footloose and fancy free. And I'm not looking for another boyfriend. I still hurt a little. Pride, Reuben, is such a deadly sin. I don't ever want to hang my head in shame. Do you know what I'm talking about?”

Of course he knew; he lived with it every day. He didn't trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded.

“I was so delighted when I heard you got married,” Jane continued. “I hope you're happy.” It occurred to her to wonder why he was here, why he'd almost invited himself. She'd heard the rumors, and then his absence from the studio for so long set tongues to wagging. She found it hard to believe this handsome man's beautiful wife was a drunk and dope fiend. How had he gotten involved with someone like that? She wished she could ask him.

“I really enjoyed my dinner.” Reuben looked around. “This place is you, Jane, but if you buy any more plants, you'll have to move. I'll come back again if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind at all. I was glad for the company this evening, and I will go down to your broker tomorrow. I appreciate the tip.”

“I'll be sending a young man over to your studio lot tomorrow—someone I came across today. I think maybe you two might hit it off, or at least be friends. He's a handsome fella working as a desk clerk at the Ambassador. We'll give him a screen test and see if he can't fit into some of your films. Treat him nice, okay?”

“Of course…. Good night, Reuben.” Jane stood on tiptoe to kiss Reuben lightly on the cheek. She smelled faintly of cinnamon. “That's for being a nice guy. Now, drive carefully.”

Even though it was late, Reuben decided to stop at the Mimosa Club for a drink in Max's back office. There was nothing to go home to but empty, dust-covered rooms.

Max stifled his surprise at Reuben's second visit of the day. He jerked his head in the direction of his office. “You want to drink alone or do you want to talk?”

“Depends on what you want to talk about, Max. Get the drink and then I'll decide.”

When Max returned a few minutes later, Reuben was sound asleep on the chair. Max scratched his head in bewilderment. He poked his head out the door and motioned to two of his bouncers.

“Carry him over to the couch. You wake him up and your ass is grass. Pretend you're carrying your mother to church,” he hissed.

When the door closed behind the two bouncers, Max opened the closet and pulled out an afghan his mother had crocheted for just such an occasion. It was purple and red with splotches of yellow throughout. It was loud and bright enough to wake the dead. Reuben didn't stir when Max covered him.

Sol Rosen paced his bedroom like a wounded bull. He felt like bellowing, but there was no one to listen.

For hours he'd been ringing Reuben's phone in Laurel Canyon and getting no answer. It was two-thirty now and there was still no answer. Sol always prided himself on putting two and two together and coming up with the right answer. And he'd done that the moment he saw Reuben and the girl on the bicycle. Jesus Christ, this was all he needed—Reuben out whoring around with one of his own stars while his wife was drying out in Palm Springs. No wonder his little girl had gone off the deep end.

Women! By God, they were always at the root of a problem. Just like Mickey was at the root of his problem. Temporarily diverted from thoughts of Reuben, Sol brooded over the fact that Mickey hadn't responded to his long-overdue payment months before. He'd formally requested an additional 25 percent of the studio, and when she hadn't answered him, he'd sent a letter to her bankers in Paris as well; but they hadn't responded, either. The fact that he'd received neither a yes nor a no could only mean Mickey was content to let things be as they were, with Reuben calling all the shots and reporting back to her. If he could just get that other 25 percent, he wouldn't give a shit what Reuben did. Maybe he should write another letter and let her know Reuben was into some hanky-panky with someone other than his wife. How would Michelene like to hear that?

Sol continued to pace, scowling with every step he took. At ten minutes after four he called the house in Laurel Canyon again. He let the phone ring twenty-four times before he replaced the receiver in the cradle. “You son of a bitch!” he snarled. When he dialed the number again at twenty-five minutes after five he laid the receiver on the table. The goddamn phone would ring until someone picked it up and the connection was broken.

At eight o'clock the phone was still ringing. Sol wondered about the durability of the telephone system. At last he broke the connection and called his daughter in Palm Springs. He half expected Bebe to cry, but she didn't. All she said was she would wait and talk to Reuben when he returned.

On his way to the studio, Sol decided he was as big a bastard as Tarz. What kind of father would tell his daughter what he'd just told Bebe? He began to rationalize his action, telling himself it was his only way of getting back at Reuben, something he'd been wanting to do since the day the bastard had first walked into his office. Reuben deserved whatever happened to him. If he could just sack him, boot his ass out into the street, he'd be the happiest man alive.

Sol barely looked at Reuben when he stomped his way to his office. The newspaper was laid out on his desk with his morning cup of coffee. He glanced at the headlines with disbelieving eyes.
WILL HAYS TO RETURN TO NEW YORK
…after issuing a statement saying all was well in the city of sex, sin, and scandal. Sol's breath exploded in a long sigh until he read on: “Reuben Tarz, vice president of Fairmont, was seen entering Will Hays's suite at midday for a meeting with the fearless crusader. This paper wonders what the meeting was about. Will Hays would only say it was informative. As we go to press, Reuben Tarz was unavailable for comment.”

Sol stumbled his way to Reuben's office, ignoring Margaret's shout about being formally announced.

“What in the goddamn hell is this all about?” he snarled, brandishing the newspaper. “I want an answer right now!”

Reuben shrugged. “I cut him off at the pass. What more do you need to know?”

“How?” Sol bellowed.

“That's my business. I solved our problem, that's the end of it.”

“Like hell it's the end of it. You can't trust that mealy-mouthed bastard. How do you know he won't—”

“Inform the public about Eli and Bebe? Take my word for it, he won't.”

“It's your fault Bebe's like she is. She never drank or took dope till she married you. I must have been out of my mind to give her permission to marry you. I saw you last night, Tarz, with that girl on the handlebars of the bicycle. You went home with her, and don't goddamn deny it. I tried calling your house till eight o'clock this morning and you weren't there. Just where the hell were you?”

“That's none of your business,” Reuben retorted coldly. “My personal life has nothing to do with this studio, and don't ever make the mistake again of asking me where I spend my time. I've been cleaning and scraping your family's slime for too long. From now on you can scrape it yourself.”

“Bebe's your wife,” Sol blustered. “She's carrying your child…. Well, goddammit, say something!”

“There's very little you know about your daughter, Sol. I did not force her to drink, nor did I force her to smoke marijuana or sniff cocaine. Eli introduced her to all three amusements. You lay the blame where it belongs.” Reuben got up from his desk and walked around to confront Sol. “Butt out of my personal business, Sol.”

“This is my…Fairmont is…”

Reuben's eyes narrowed. “Your studio, is that what you were going to say? Of course it is. The next time you feel it necessary to remind me of that will be the day I walk out of here leaving you holding the bag. You got that?”

“You're a bastard!” Sol bellowed.

“At least we're in agreement about something,” Reuben replied.

“What about Bebe?”

“What about her?”

“Well…what…I already…”

“What you did was put your big foot in your mouth, and now I'll have to pull it out. I'll take care of my wife. Is there anything else you want to discuss? If there isn't, let me get back to work.”

“When are you going back to Palm Springs?” Sol demanded.

“When I'm goddamn good and ready, that's when.”

Sol was a bull elephant charging out of the office, slamming the door so hard Reuben thought it would fall off the hinges.

 

Eli whispered into the phone, his ferret eyes sweeping the room to see if anyone was listening. “Bebe, I can't. Pop will kill me if he finds out. Of course I love you, Bebe, wait till after you have the baby…. Bebe, listen to me—don't cry, Bebe…Oh, all right, I'll leave in a little while. Just a little bit…. No, I can't…. That's too much, Bebe…. Of course, I don't want to keep driving back and forth. If Pop catches on, or Reuben, what will you tell them?…Yes, yes, I'll come. You're going to owe me big-time for this, Bebe. If Pop gets after me for anything, it doesn't matter what it is, you better promise me…In half an hour. Good-bye, Bebe.”

Shit! Now he was going to have to scurry around like a rat to get what Bebe wanted. He was like a wet noodle in her hands.

When Reuben returned to Palm Springs four days later, his wife was in the same shape as when he'd first brought her to the resort. It took him an hour to find all the places she'd stashed what she called her goodies. He was angry now and disgusted. “There was no reason for any of this, Bebe. Why couldn't you wait to hear my side of things? I did not do what Sol accused me of. I ate dinner at Jane's apartment and later stopped in at the Mimosa Club and slept in Max's office all night. Right now I don't give a damn if you believe me or not. This time you will weather this alone. I'll have guards watch you. You brought this on yourself, Bebe.”

Reuben stayed in Palm Springs until two of Max's henchmen arrived to serve as “body” guards. “Meals in her room,” Reuben instructed them. “Make her walk three times a day. Let her sit in the sun, but don't ever take your eyes off her. When she goes into labor, call me.” To Bebe he said in a cold, deadly voice. “You fuck up this time and I will divorce you. You do anything to harm the child you're carrying and I'll personally retaliate.” His voice softened a degree. “I am so disappointed in you, Bebe. You gave me your word. I trusted you to deliver a healthy child for us.” With that he turned on his heel and left.

“Reuben, wait,” Bebe called after him frantically. “Reuben, does this mean we won't start over when…Reuben, please come back…. I'm sorry, I won't—Reuben!”

Ten weeks later Reuben was back at the private clinic in Palm Springs. It was a little past midnight and he was pacing the floor like any expectant father. Each time he heard Bebe scream, it was like a knife slicing through him.

The doctor's weary eyes sought Reuben out. “You have a son, Mr. Tarz. I usually like to tell the fathers they have healthy, bouncing baby boys, but I'm afraid I can't in your case. Your son is premature at five pounds, and he's not robust. I can't understand the hard labor we went through since your wife has had a previous child. For some reason she seemed to be holding back, not cooperating when I instructed her to bear down. I guess I'm just tired; it's been a very long night. You can see your son shortly. My nurse is cleaning him up.”

Reuben reeled in shock. Bebe had had another child? But then, why should it come as such a surprise to him? She'd pranced and danced her way all over Europe. God only knew whom she'd slept with. He walked outside, taking deep gulps of fresh air. Christ, he was tired. He decided then, for his own emotional survival, that whatever had transpired in Bebe's life before he'd married her was her business. He would not let his wife know that the doctor had told him.

When the nurse held up his son, Reuben peered through the glass and blinked in shock. He wanted to shout. Take it back, that isn't my son! He'd been expecting a pink-cheeked, plump infant with a sweet, downy head—a miniature of either himself or Bebe. This scrawny, red, puckered bundle looked exactly like Eli. He turned away so the nurse wouldn't see the disgust he felt.

“Did they show him to you, Reuben?” Bebe asked wanly when he came to visit. Is he beautiful? He will be later. Sometimes new babies look like dried-up prunes, but after a week or so they start to fill out, and…What's wrong?”

“He looks like…Eli.”

“Like Eli?” Bebe shrilled, horrified. “Like
Eli?
”

Reuben nodded. “Maybe they showed you the wrong baby,” she squealed. “Reuben, tell them I want to see him. Now! If you don't, I'll scream my head off.
Now!
”

Bebe's wails of outrage rang in Reuben's ears for hours after he left the clinic. He'd wanted this baby, wanted it desperately. He wanted something to love, something of his very own, something he'd created. Instead he'd walked away, in his own fashion denouncing the child because it had the misfortune to look like Eli. Blame something, Tarz, he told himself. Blame…blame…blame…

He had a son.

On leaden feet Reuben returned to the clinic nursery. “I'd like to…to hold my son,” he told the nurse on duty.

She nodded sympathetically. “We don't usually allow the fathers to hold preemies, but this time I'm going to allow it. Here, put this gown on. He's frail, but he's not going to break.”

The minute the nurse was out of sight, Reuben examined every inch of his new son. Satisfied that he had all his parts, he leaned back to savor the feel of the life he'd created. The bundle was warm and snug, the little face screwed into a grimace. How defenseless, how dependent he was! Reuben made a vow to the warm being in his arms to give him everything life had to offer. “We're calling you Simon,” he whispered. “It's a strong name for such a little man, but you'll live up to it. I know you don't understand a word I'm saying, but I want to apologize for my earlier feelings. Maybe someday we'll talk about this day, and maybe we won't. If we do, I won't lie to you. I'll never lie to you, Simon, because I am your father and fathers don't lie to their sons.”

The nurse was back, her arms outstretched to take the child. “It's time for him to eat.”

“Eat?” Reuben said stupidly.

The nurse smiled. “Yes, eat.”

Reuben followed her to Bebe's room and watched as she fit the baby to his wife's breast.

“I hate this,” Bebe said through clenched teeth.

Until Bebe opened her mouth, Reuben had thought it a beautiful sight. For the second time that day, he turned on his heel and left the clinic.

The next morning, he left for Los Angeles.

Bebe and the baby, along with the two bodyguards, returned six weeks later to the house in Laurel Canyon. Bebe handed Simon to the nurse and immediately went to the phone to call Eli.

 

Reuben found his life changing; he was now a parent with a parent's responsibilities—responsibilities that he took so seriously, he became the butt of good-natured jocularity at Fairmont. He woke early in the mornings to accommodate Simon's schedule. He watched while the little fellow took his bottle, had his bath, and was introduced to mashed food. He would hold his clean, sweet-smelling baby for twenty minutes, or until he fell asleep. He returned at noon, or as close to noon as he could, when Simon had his lunch. On more than one occasion when business was heavy he had the nurse bring the baby to the studio.

Several times Reuben found himself featured on the second page of the
Examiner
with a tidbit about how he'd held his son during a business meeting, chuckling and burping him at the same time. A devoted father. Nothing was ever said about Simon's absentee mother. At six o'clock he dropped whatever he was doing, no matter how important, to head home for Simon's dinner and bedtime. In the beginning it was a chore, but as time went on Reuben grew to like his routine and actually looked forward to the time he spent with his son.

He recognized the fact that Simon would never be a strong, robust child; doctors told him, clucking their tongues in sympathy, that Bebe's dependence on alcohol and drugs during the early stages of her pregnancy had dictated his condition. While Reuben accepted the doctor's words with equanimity, inside he damned Bebe for her recklessness. Each time he looked at her, his eyes accused her…until the day he told her he couldn't bear the sight of her another minute. And always, not far back in his mind was the knowledge that she'd borne another son or daughter that he knew nothing about. Where was the child and who was the father? As much and as many times as he told himself he didn't care, he did care. It ate at him daily, no matter how hard he tried to shove it far back in his mind.