Sins of Omission (59 page)

“I see…. Okay, look—I'll head over to the bank now. Give me the name of the man for the safe and I'll go over to his shop as soon as I finish. Reuben, I don't know how to…First you get me a job at the studio doing something I love doing, then you help me with the market, and now this. I know you get all flustered when someone tries to thank you. You aren't really as tough as you appear. Thank you for being my friend.” She leaned over, her eyes moist, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Maybe someday I'll be able to help you.” She laughed. “That's probably the biggest joke of all time, me helping you.”

Reuben felt drained to the bone. The hell with the studio, he was going home to his family. Shaken and still unnerved by Daniel's bombshell, he forced himself to drive slowly, so slowly that other cars honked their horns at him. At last he pulled to the side, not caring if the blaring horns sounded or not. Should he have warned Sol? If the crash was as imminent as Daniel said, Sol would be wiped out. If Sol was wiped out, he could step in, cover his losses, and take control of the studio….

Reuben hadn't been home during the day in over a year. The Laurel Canyon estate was beautiful, even majestic, and bought and paid for with his own money. Daniel had advised him to pay off the mortgage as soon as he could, and he'd done just that. He'd also socked away enough maintenance money for at least three years so the house couldn't be yanked away for taxes. The money was in a safe in his dressing room behind his shoe rack. Even Bebe didn't know it was there. In that particular safe he had envelopes with notes written in his own hand—one for insurance, one for the house, one for Simon's and Dillon's education, one for walking-around money, and one for investments. He had no idea what the grand total was, but it was substantial. In another safe in the basement he had other money, money enough to see him through five lean years. That had been Daniel's idea, too. Also in that safe were three bulging envelopes bearing Daniel's name. Now it looked like he would have to install a third safe. And it was time at last to hand over Daniel's share of the investments.

He and Daniel had come a long way since meeting in France, he reflected. He was thirty years old and rising in the film industry. Where in the hell had he gotten the moxie…to move in the way he'd done. Guts? Stupidity? Probably a little of both.

The day would come, he knew, when he'd be in total control of Fairmont. To date he hadn't made a wrong decision. He'd come close with his doubts concerning
Moses on the Mount
and
Witches and Ghosts,
but they were proving two of the biggest money-makers of the decade. He was aceing out Warner with sound, something he was still uneasy about, but his gut told him it would work once the fine details were worked out. Sol had vetoed the idea in the beginning, but when he'd consulted his friend Tom Edison in the East, he'd gradually come around to Reuben's way of thinking. Reuben knew that by the close of the year, synchronous sound film would be the universal form of the future. He'd have 116 recording machines, 20 more than Warner had. Half of all his theaters were being wired for sound production. He'd convinced his sound technicians that the system using optical patterns along the edge of the film, rather than the discs Warner Vitaphone used, would provide more reliable synchronization. It was a race now between him and Warner Bros., and he knew he'd win—he had to win, to prove to Sol and the other studio executives that he knew his business. The patents were in his name, and that was all he cared about. One day they would make him a multimillionaire.

And now, all he'd done, all he hoped to do, was in jeopardy if the market crashed as Daniel's friends predicted.

Reuben walked into the house with shoulders slumped and a heavy step. Bebe stood silently behind the dining room door, surprised and unnerved at the look on her husband's face. Simon clung to her skirts. “Shhhh,” she said. “Something's bothering Daddy. Let's get Dillon and go outside in the sunshine. Remember what I told you, Simon, sunshine washes away gloom. Go along now and wait for me on the terrace.”

Bebe tiptoed into Dillon's nursery and picked up the sleeping baby. “It's all right, Mrs. Peabody,” she told the nurse. “My husband is home and we're taking Dillon outside for some fresh air. His buggy is on the terrace. You look like you could use a nap. I'll keep him till dinner.”

Bebe was halfway down the steps when Reuben caught up to her. He'd changed from his business suit to casual slacks and a bright blue pullover sweater. Bebe was amazed at how she could still react to his handsome good looks. “Why are you tiptoeing around, and where are you going with the baby?”

“Why, I…You looked so…fresh air…I didn't want him to cry and…Why are you home at this time of day?”

“Here, give him to me. Why don't you get us some lemonade and we'll have it on the terrace with the children.”

Bebe's face brightened. “Like a real family. That'll be nice, Reuben. Simon is on the terrace waiting.”

Simon looked up from the puzzle he was putting together on the wrought-iron table. “Hello, Daddy,” he said in a reed-thin voice.

The child was as thin as his voice, Reuben thought. He was a fussy, picky eater, preferring water and soda pop to milk. He gagged on vegetables and refused to chew meat. Most of the time Bebe cajoled, bribed, and spoon-fed him. If the boy had any endearing qualities, Reuben had yet to find them. Simon went back to his puzzle, his thin fingers picking through the mound of pieces that represented a blue sky. Reuben hugged Dillon to his chest. This bundle in his arms was normal in every way.

These days he was giving Bebe an A for effort but wondering how long she'd stay on her good behavior. Knowing his wife, he took it one day at a time.

“I added some cookies,” Bebe said gaily, but Reuben detected a nervousness in her voice. Obviously, he'd upset the daily routine by coming home early.

It was a pleasant interlude, he thought later, sitting with his family in the late afternoon sunshine, the scent of the garden all about him. Simon had giggled once when his mother tried to draw him out. Reuben thought it a strange, alien sound. Dillon continued to sleep in the crook of his arm.

Bebe struggled to keep the rare time alive by talking of inane things, household matters and Dillon's
bris.
Reuben responded in kind, smiling and gazing down at the sleeping infant. His wife pretended not to see the worry in his eyes. “We're having turkey for dinner even though it isn't Thanksgiving,” she blurted out. “I know how much you like turkey…cranberry sauce, too. You'll like that, Simon, it's sweet. And for you, Dillon, a nice warm bottle.”

Reuben shook his head. “I'm sorry, Bebe, I won't be here for dinner. I've some urgent business to attend to. I'll catch a bite somewhere along the way.”

Bebe's heart fluttered in her chest. If only she could steal this moment, preserve it somehow. Suddenly she felt bereft when she looked at her husband, who was saying words that meant nothing. She wanted to cry out, to reach for him and hold him close; but she couldn't. It was the same feeling she'd had so many times before when she'd wanted to reach out to her firstborn, John Paul. So much of her life had simply passed her by, and what was left was slipping away from her even as they sat together as a family.

The sun was starting to set when Reuben handed Dillon over to Bebe. “Well, I've got to shower and change. Don't wait up for me, Bebe.” He bent over to plant a kiss on top of his wife's head. He patted Dillon's blanket and smiled at Simon, who ignored him.

Bebe continued to sit on the terrace until the cook called her to dinner. Somehow she knew that this was the last of what she called her family moments.

Bebe Rosen started to grieve then, the way she'd grieved when she'd made the decision to give up John Paul.

Three weeks later, the stock market crashed; it was the blackest day Americans had ever seen. Believing, yet disbelieving, Reuben tried to go about his normal business at the studio, but it was impossible. Instead of feeling smug that he'd gotten out in time, he felt depressed with what he was reading in the papers and seeing all about him. And even though he'd acted quickly on Daniel's advice, he'd still lost twenty-five cents on every investment dollar. Fortunately, Jane's small fortune was intact, and Max…Max accepted his fortune without a whimper.

Inside a week, Sol Rosen turned into a haggard, white-faced caricature of himself. His eyes were bitter, his mouth a grim line as he worked the columns of figures that spelled disaster for the studio. He'd borrowed heavily when the price of his stocks was inflated, and he'd paid off Mickey. Now Philippe Bouchet could come in and wipe him out completely. If not Philippe, then that devil Tarz. The very real possibility that he would be out in the street with Fairmont falling into other hands was a fact he couldn't dispute.

Things couldn't be bleaker; friends, acquaintances, and even relatives were jumping out of windows left and right as their livelihood slipped away from them. Every day it seemed he was attending a funeral, the mourners' faces as dead as that of the person being lowered into the ground.

A month after the market crash Sol trudged into Reuben's office and slapped a sheaf of papers onto his desk. “I can't meet these payments. The banks are going to call in my stock. I'm wiped out.”

Reuben thumbed through the papers, and his eyebrows shot up at the amount Sol owed. “I know this is none of my business, but what do you do with your money? You made a fortune in the commodities market. Who the hell is Philippe Bouchet, and what's this…what does the Morgan Guaranty Bank have to do with Fairmont?”

Sol's eyes turned mean and calculating. “As if you didn't know…. I'll say this much: when Bouchet comes to takeover this place, you ain't going to be here. That's my personal guarantee. I've been waiting a long time to see you fall on your face.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Sol.” Reuben's pen flew down the pages, ticking off amounts of money as though they were items on a grocery list. “I can bail you out,” he said when he was through.

“Bail me out! Just like that!” Sol said. “And what do you get in return? The chance to suck my blood, dance on my grave?”

“Your stock, what else? You can stay on here doing exactly what you've been doing. No one needs to know but you and me. I can have Daniel Bishop do the legal work. Fairmont will belong to me…on paper.”

Sol laughed bitterly. “You goddamn son of a bitch! You got out in time! You're heeled now. You are a fucking ghoul, Tarz. I'm your goddamn father-in-law! It would have been the decent thing to do to give me a little warning before the crash. I've been real good to you, and you turn around and stab me in the back. Well, your back is out in the open now, and I hope to God Philippe Bouchet stabs you. You'll own 49 percent of Fairmont, not the whole ball of wax. What do you think of that!”

Reuben's face turned white then red. “What the hell are you talking about? I asked you before about Philippe Bouchet. Now, who the hell is he and what's with this 49 percent?”

Sol rocked back on his heels. “You poor slob, you really don't know, do you? Well. Bouchet is the bird that owns 51 percent of this studio. Here's the ownership certificate; actually it's a copy. You can call Morgan Guaranty in New York, but they won't tell you any more than they told me. Keep busting your ass, Tarz, for Mr. Philippe Bouchet,” Sol snarled. It never once occurred to him to mention Mickey or the fact that she had transferred her ownership of the studio. He assumed Reuben knew all about it.

Stunned by Sol's bitter outburst, Reuben reacted predictably. “I don't owe you a thing! I've given this studio everything that's in me to give. I cleaned up your slime, saved your daughter from death and disgrace. I gave you two grandsons, what the hell more do you want from me? And don't think for one goddamn minute that I won't call this damn bank. Another thing, I turned you on to the commodities market and I know you made a fortune. I did that because you gave me a job and I returned the favor. Now, I said I'll have Daniel draw up a contract giving you a lifetime position with the studio in return for your shares of stock. I'll deal with this Bouchet when it's time to deal with him. I want that stock you own turned over to me in three weeks' time. I'll pay off your debts and pay you five-hundred dollars a week for the rest of your life. Take it or leave it!”

“I'll take it because I have no other choice. But I hope you rot in hell!” Sol stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Immediately Reuben called Daniel and barked out what he wanted done. “And call that goddamn bank and find out what's going on,” he added.

After he'd hung up the phone, he sat for a long time staring at the wall. Sol would honor his agreement; of that he had no doubt.

 

Daniel Bishop stared long and hard at his law degree hanging on the wall across from where he sat. Something was bothering him, something he couldn't quite nail down. An hour later he was still staring at the diploma.

At nine o'clock that evening he called Reuben in his office. “This is the way I see it, Reuben. Sol's stock certificates are to be turned over to you as soon as the bank gives permission for depositors to clean out their safety deposit boxes. I spoke to the bank president and learned that Sol told me the truth when I spoke to him earlier today…. He was not in a good mood, Reuben.”

“I didn't think he would be,” Reuben said tightly.

“Philippe Bouchet does own 51 percent of the stock in Fairmont Studios. He's owned it since 1921. But that's all they would tell me. I'm not going up against that crowd, so we go with what information we have. In short, you'll own Sol's shares, which amounts to 49 percent. Morgan more or less indicated that Bouchet is content to let things go on as before. Why not? He collects his percentage regardless. I tell you, this is one of the nicest, slickest pieces of legal work I've ever seen, and that's why I don't want to tangle with it.”