The Inheritors (17 page)

He left the press open and walked to the front door and looked out. He came back to Sam. “He’s not even on the street yet.” He slammed down the press angrily. “So what are you going to do?” he asked. “You won’t get a job, your old job at the Roxy you don’t want, you won’t come home to live, you’re breaking your mother’s heart. You’re almost forty years old, you’re not a baby anymore, what do you want?”

“I’m tired of working for someone else,” Sam replied. “I’m looking to buy my own theater.”

“Oho, a
fluchenshiesser
!” His father stopped the press and looked at him. “A big shot I got for a son. Tell me, big shot, what are you going to use for money?”

“I’ve got some money saved up,” Sam said.

“You got some money?” the old asked in a doubtful voice. “How much?”

“About ten thousand dollars,” Sam said grudgingly.

“Ten thousand dollars?” The press hung open, spouting steam as the old man forgot to close the value. Sam could see his father was impressed. “Where did you get that much money? You didn’t do anything they’ll put you in jail for?”

“No,” Sam smiled. “I just saved my pay, that’s all.”

“Maybe so stupid you’re not after all,” his father said. He cut off the steam value. “Is that enough to buy a movie house?”

“The kind of theater I have my eye on, it’s enough,” Sam said. “If I need a little more I can always borrow it.”

The old man was silent for a moment as he pressed down on the jacket, then he turned to Sam. “Promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“If you should have to borrow money, you won’t go to strangers. Your mother and father ain’t exactly so poor that they can’t help out their only son if he should need it.”

***

He came out of the theater on Forty-second Street and stood under the marquee looking east across Eighth Avenue toward Broadway. The bright lights of the many marquees sparkled like so many flashing colored gems. He turned and looked back into the theater he had just left. Somehow it seemed small and dingy compared with the others up the block.

The agent came out rubbing his hands against his coat to get the dust from them after locking the door. “All it needs is a coat of paint, Mr. Benjamin, and you’re ready for business.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said doubtfully.

“Everything else is perfect, you can believe me,” the agent said. “The projectors and the sound system is like new. The old owner just had them reconditioned before he dropped dead, poor man.”

“What’s the clearance?” Sam asked.

“Fifth run,” the agent said quickly. “Same as the theaters up the street.”

Sam looked up the block again. Clearance was the system they used in order to determine which houses could play the pictures first. But a lot of good it would do him way down here near Eighth Avenue. The traffic began at Broadway. By the time they reached this theater, the cream would have been skimmed. “No,” he said.

“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Benjamin,” the agent said earnestly. “It’s a hell of a buy. If it weren’t for the unfortunate—”

“It’s not what I’m looking for,” Sam said with finality.

“For the kind of money you want to spend, I suppose you’re looking for something like the Bijou,” the agent said sarcastically.

The Bijou was the only grind house on Broadway. Just off the corner of Forty-second Street, it always had done a great business at the box office. But its operating costs were too high for its size. It had also bankrupted quite a few theater operators. Right now, it was dark again.

“That’s more like it,” Sam said. “What can you do for me on that?”

“Nothing for the kind of money you’re talking about,” the agent said.

“How much would it take?” Sam asked.

“Serious?”

“Serious.”

“The rent alone is five thousand a month. That’s ten thousand deposit for the first and last month, add five thousand for the second month, seven thousand for union bonds and deposits, three thousand for the electricity come to twenty-five thousand already. The furnishings and equipment is mortgaged at forty thousand and there’s about fifteen thousand left in the chattel. I figure it will take about fifty thousand to move in.”

Sam studied the agent and at the same time mentally checked his balances. With everything, he could put together about fifteen thousand dollars.

“Don’t forget, the weekly payroll will run you about fourteen hundred, and because you’re on Broadway all the distributors want top dollar and percentages,” the agent added.

Sam nodded. “Let’s go over and look at it.”

“Do you think you can swing it?” the agent asked.

Sam looked at him. “You never know until you try.”

The figure was closer to thirty-five thousand. That still left Sam short twenty thousand dollars.

He sat in the chair behind the counter in his father’s store and together they watched the big Negro presser work the machine.

“You told me not to go to strangers,” he said. “So I came to you first.”

“How much do you need?” his father asked.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” he said.

“You think it’s a good investment?”

“I’m putting every penny I have into it,” he said. “That’s fifteen thousand dollars.”

His father was silent for a moment. Then he went behind the counter and opened a drawer. He took a checkbook from it and opened it up. He turned and looked back at Sam. “How do you want I should make out the check?”

***

He almost lost it all before he opened. The guarantees asked by the major distributors for their films guaranteed only one thing. If he grossed maximum box office he would be bankrupt in twenty weeks, anything less speeded up the process.

He sat despondent in the little office just behind the lobby studying the sheets of figures in front of him. He would have to make up his mind. It was only ten days to the first of the month and if he was not open by then he blew it all.

There was a knock at the open door and he looked up. A tall, good-looking blond man stood there. “Mr. Benjamin?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

The man entered the office, taking his card from his pocket and placing it on the desk. “Here is my card.” There was a faint accent.

Sam looked down at it. Erling Solveg,
Svenska Filmindustri
. “Yes, Mr. Solveg, what can I do for you?”

“I represent the Swedish film industry,” he said. “We are looking for a Broadway showcase for our pictures. We have several films that are worthy of your consideration.”

Sam looked down at the card, then back at the man. By this time he was near the desperation point, almost ready to try anything. “Are they dubbed?” he asked.

“No,” the man answered. “Some are subtitled.”

“Won’t do,” Sam said shortly. “No one will sit for it in this house.”

“But Burstyn and Mayer are doing all right across the street in the Rialto with Italian pictures,” Mr. Solveg said.

“
Open City
got great reviews,” Sam said.

“We believe our films are just as important.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “But if they’re not dubbed we haven’t a chance.”

Solveg thought. “There is one. It has two American soldiers in it. They speak English all the way through the picture. The rest of the cast speaks Swedish and German though.”

“The Americans have big parts?”

“They’re the leads. You see, they play two soldiers escaping from the Nazis. They find sanctuary in a nudist camp. It’s really very funny. And the color is quite good too.”

“Nudist camp?” Sam was interested.

“Yes,” Solveg said quickly. “But in very good taste. Nothing lewd in it. I would like it if you could find time to screen the picture.”

“Has it got a state censor board seal?”

“We screened it for them,” the man replied. “They approved it with a few small cuts that we have already made. It doesn’t affect the picture at all. We’re prepared to make you quite a good deal on it, if you like it.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“We’ll contribute five thousand dollars a week to the advertising for ten weeks on a guaranteed run. Film rental will be twenty percent of the gross after house breakeven, nothing below that.

“Who’s the distributor?” Sam asked.

“No one,” Solveg said. “We haven’t set that yet.”

“You have now,” Sam said, without hesitation. “You give me American distribution rights and you got a deal for your picture.

“Wouldn’t you like to see the film first?” Solveg was puzzled.

“Not unless we have a deal,” Sam said. “There just isn’t that much time to waste if we’re going to open in ten days.

Opening night, Sam sat with his mother and father in the back of the theater. By the time the two soldiers got to the nudist camp the audience was roaring with laughter. His mother hid her eyes behind her hands and peeked out at the screen between parted fingers. “But they’re all
nacketaheit
, Sam,” she said.

“Look, Mama, don’t talk so much,” his father said testily. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“What’s to learn?” his mother asked. “They’re
alle goyim
.”

Sam slipped out of his seat and walked back to the lobby. The crowds were already lined up into the street and they were jammed around the box office.

Sam looked at the sign over the window.

ADMISSION FOR THIS PERFORMANCE: $1.25.

He went back into his little office and picked up the telephone that connected him with the cashier. “For the nine o’clock show put the price up to one seventy-five,” he said into it. Then he put his face in his hands and began to cry.

He had his first hit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The call came from the ticket taker in the front lobby. “There’s a Mrs. Marxman here to see you, Mr. Benjamin.”

“
Mrs. Who?
”

“Mrs. Marxman,” the ticker taker repeated. “She says she has a ten o’clock appointment with you.”

“Oh, yes.” Suddenly he remembered. “Send her up.” He put down the telephone and began straightening the papers on his desk. This was the girl his father wanted him to see when he had mentioned at dinner last Friday night he had been searching for a good secretary.

His father had wiped his face with a napkin and looked at him. “What kind of secretary do you want?”

“You know,” Sam said. “A girl who could do things without you having to tell her twice. One with a little
tsechel
for a change.”

“I got just the girl for you,” his father said.

“You have?” Sam as suspicious.

“Yes,” his father said. “You remember Cohen, the chicken flicker?”

“No.” Sam shook his head.

“During the war he became the biggest chicken black marketer in the Bronx.”

“She’s a very nice girl,” his mother said, coming back to the table. “A fine person. Educated too.”

“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “All I’m looking for is a secretary. I’m not looking to get married.”

“Neither is she,” his father said quickly. “She has a little child, a girl.”

“Then she is married?”

“Not exactly,” his father answered. “She’s a widow. Her husband was killed in the war. I heard she’s thinking of going back to work.”

“How did you hear?”

“From her brother, Roger. He comes every month to collect the rent for the store. Cohen owned the building and when he dropped dead, they found so much property he owned that his son, Roger, went into the real estate business. He’s doing very well.”

“Then why doesn’t he give her a job?” Sam asked.

“You know how it is. Family. Besides she doesn’t really need the money. Cohen left both his children well fixed.”

“Then why does she want to go to work?”

“She’s getting bored hanging around the house,” his father said. “You’re looking for a secretary? So, see her. Maybe you’ll like her, maybe you won’t. Besides I promised her mother I would arrange an appointment.”

“She’s a lively girl,” his mother said. “Tall, too. Here, have some more soup.”

Sam watched her refill his plate. It was a trap and he knew it. But there was no way within reason he could escape it. He would have to see the girl. But that was all. If they thought he was going to hire her they were crazy. He didn’t manage to get this far by being stupid.

“Okay, I’ll see her,” he said. “Have her come to the theater ten o’clock Monday morning.”

His parents were right about one thing, he thought. She was attractive, about an inch taller than he, dark brown hair and blue eyes. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating the chair in front of his desk.

“Thank you,” she said. But she remained standing.

Suddenly he realized the chair was piled with papers that he had been planning to go through. “Excuse me,” he said. He went around the desk and took the papers from the chair. He stood there looking around the office for a place to put them.

She smiled. “At least my brother wasn’t lying. He said you really did need a secretary.”

“I really do,” he said. He still held the papers. “What made you think your brother was lying?”

“You know Jewish families,” she said. “They think I should run right out and get married again.”

He stared at her. “I know what you mean.” He finally gave up searching for a place to put the papers and dumped them on a corner of his desk. He went back and sat down behind it. “I get the same thing from my parents.”

“To tell the truth,” she said, “I thought it was just another trick on Roger’s part. I didn’t want to come down and see you.”

He laughed. “I thought my folks were pulling the same gag on me. I already figured out how to tell you you weren’t right for the job.

She laughed with him. He liked her laugh. It was warm without being self-conscious. She sat down in the chair. Now her voice was businesslike. “Just what duties would be involved in the job, Mr. Benjamin?”

He looked around helplessly. “You know. The usual. Typing, filing, keeping track of things generally. I need a girl with brains, more than just a secretary. Sort of run things while I’m out of the office.”

“It sounds very interesting,” she said.

“It is. I got big plans. I’m not going to stop here. It’s more than just one theater. I’m going into the distribution business. I’m going to sell films all over the world.”