The Inheritors (29 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

“I’m a one-man studio,” Sam bragged uninhibitedly. “When
Look, Mama
,
the Fat Clown’s Crying
starts shooting tomorrow, it will make the seventh picture I have in production this year. Not bad for a guy his second year in Hollywood, is it?”

Steve watched him across the table. Sam’s enthusiasm was contagious. “Not bad,” he agreed.

Sam looked around the crowded studio commissary and leaned toward Steve, lowering his voice. “You know when I came out here you could shoot clay pigeons in this restaurant. Now it’s packed with people. Most of them working on my pictures.” His voice lowered still further. “You know they say Rory Craddock would have been out of here if he hadn’t made the deal with me. I’m supporting the whole fucking place.”

Steve laughed. “But what do you have to do to get a drink around here?”

Sam’s face fell. “Damn, that’s one thing I should have thought of before we left my office. All you can get here is wine or beer. But I didn’t want to be late. Marilu is joining us on her lunch break.”

“Can I get a beer?”

Sam signaled the waitress. “Beer for Mr. Gaunt.” He turned back to Steve. “I’m glad you called me. I wanted you to get to know Marilu. She’s a wonderful girl besides being a great actress.”

The waitress put the beer in front of Steve. “How’s her picture going?”

“Fantastic,” Sam said. “The rushes are unbelievable. When Coop couldn’t do the picture because of a conflict, I thought we were heading for the crapper. But then I came up with Jack Claw and he’s great. But it’s Marilu who makes the big difference. She puts the class into it, so that it’s not just another Western.”

“I’m glad,” Steve said. He looked across the table at Sam. “How are Denise and the children?”

“Denise is just fine,” Sam said. “And they’re right about this place. It’s the greatest in the world to bring up children. You should see them. They love it out here.”

“I’d like to see them,” Steve said.

“Sure thing,” Sam said, “I’ll fix it up one night. You’ll come over the house for dinner. I’ll get Denise to send over to the kosher butcher on Fairfax for some of that favorite
brust flanken
of yours.”

“Just let me know,” Steve said. “My mouth’s watering already.”

A hum of noise came from the entrance. Steve did not have to look to know that Marilu had arrived. She paused there, signing autographs for the visitors, and then came down the aisle toward their table. They rose.

Sam stepped out into the aisle to make room for her between them on the banquette. He kissed her cheek. “You look marvelous, dear.”

“This makeup is terrible,” she said. “But you’re kind.” She turned to Steve. “So nice to see you again, Mr. Gaunt.”

He took her outstretched hand. “My pleasure, Miss Barzini.”

“We’re so formal it’s not American,” she said. “Please call me Marilu.”

“If you call me Steve.”

She looked at his glass. “Is that beer?”

He nodded.

“I’m so thirsty, do you mind?” She picked it up and drank from it. She put it down with a sigh. “We were on the back lot all morning and the sun was so hot.”

Sam called the waitress. “Two more beers. Aah, the hell with it. Make it three beers. I’ve had enough of this diet-drink crap.”

The waitress nodded. She stood there. “The usual for lunch, Mr. Benjamin?”

“Yes,” he said. He looked at Steve. “The food isn’t bad. You can order almost anything without being poisoned.”

Marilu didn’t eat, she pushed the food around while Sam picked the French fries off her plate. Steve finished his steak and sat back with his coffee.

“Do you spend much time out here, Steve?” Marilu asked.

“Quite a bit,” he said. “Almost half my time. I’m wondering if it isn’t a good idea to move my offices out here.”

“Sooner or later, you’ll have to,” Sam said. “This is where the action is.”

The waitress came to the table. “Your office is on the phone, Mr. Benjamin. Shall I bring the phone to the table?”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t bother. I’ll be quicker if I take it at the desk.”

They watched him go down the aisle and pick up the telephone. He began to talk rapidly into it.

“He works too hard,” Marilu said. “He never stops.”

Steve looked at her without answering.

She returned his gaze evenly. “Do you work like that also?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes and no.”

“That’s a very European answer,” she said.

“I try not to. But I get caught sometimes.”

“You are like all Americans,” she said. “Business comes first. Then if there is any time left over and you are not too tired, there are other things.”

He smiled, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “I’m not biting.”

She returned his smile but also without amusement. “You do not like me.” It was more a statement than a question.

“I didn’t say that.”

“My English is not that good. Perhaps I say it better like this. You do not approve of me.”

“I don’t think it matters. It is none of my affair.”

“You are very American. So correct,” she said. “But you are his friend and you think I am not good for him.”

“Are you?”

“I think so,” she said. “In many ways. For his career, for his, what do you say, ego?”

He didn’t answer.

“Sometime in every man’s life there should be a woman like me,” she said. “I am better for him than some cheap little starlet who will try to take him for everything. I give him as much as he gives me. With me he is a man.”

“He always was a man,” Steve said.

Sam came back to the table, his face flushed and angry. “Goddamn idiots!” he said, sitting down. He looked at Marilu. “I’m sorry but I have to break our dinner date. The director and the writers are in a hassle over the script and I have to meet with them tonight to settle it. We begin shooting in the morning.”

“Oh,” said Marilu. “And I’ve made plans. I was cooking pasta myself tonight.”

Sam looked at her, then at Steve. “I have an idea. Why don’t you have dinner with her? And if I get through early enough I’ll join you afterward.”

“Perhaps Steve has another engagement?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice.

“I don’t.”

“Good,” Sam smiled. “You’ve never really tasted pasta until you’ve eaten it the way she makes it.”

“I’m looking forward to it already. What time and where?”

“Eight o’clock. Bungalow three, Beverly Hills Hotel,” she said.

“That makes it easy. I’m staying there too.”

She got to her feet. “I’m due back on the set.”

They watched her leave and Sam turned back to Steve. “I’m so glad you didn’t turn her down,” he said. “Do you know, the poor kid thought you didn’t like her?”

***

He came from the cool dark of the air-conditioned Polo Lounge and stepped out the side doors into the heat of the fading day. He blinked for a moment and then walked along the flower-scented path. Bungalow three was just past the accounting offices. He climbed the steps and pressed the bell.

After a moment, the door opened. A dark-haired middle-aged woman in a maid’s black dress answered the door. “
Signore
,” she curtsied.

It was only slightly cooler inside. He glanced toward the windows. They were wide open.

Marilu came into the room as he turned back from the windows. “You can’t eat pasta in an air-conditioned room,” she said. “It does something to it.”

“Yes,” he said. “It makes it cold.”

She looked at him not knowing whether he was being sarcastic. “Yes,” she said, hesitating.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “It was just a wisecrack.”

She smiled. “I do not understand American humor quite good yet.”

“You will,” he said. “It just takes time.”

“Let me take your jacket.”

He suddenly noticed she was wearing an ordinary cotton housedress that couldn’t have cost more than three dollars at the Broadway stores, and no makeup. He took a deep breath. It made no difference what she wore. She was a for-real woman.

She took his jacket and placed it in a closet. “There are drinks on the bar,” she said. “Help yourself. You can also take off your tie. I have to go back into the kitchen.”

He watched her leave the room. It was all there under the housedress. Nothing but her. He was sure of that from the way it clung damply to her body. He pulled his tie loose and went over to the bar.

He was in the midst of pouring himself a large Scotch when her voice came from the kitchen. “Don’t take too large a drink. I don’t want you to lose your taste.”

“Don’t worry, Italian Girl,” he said. “I’m just beginning to acquire one.”

CHAPTER SIX

The meal was simplicity itself. First the antipasto, with the celery and the lettuce crisp, the radishes and scallions firm and crunchy, garnished with a chilled can of tuna, thin slices of Genoa salami, black and green olives, and tiny red and green peppers. Then the pasta.
Lasagna al forno. Al dente
with a delicious sauce and folded with layers of meat and pieces of Italian sausage. The
Chianti classico
was chilled just enough, and for dessert there was
zabaglione
which she beat at the table herself. Black, strong espresso from a little machine placed in the center of the table and that was the end of it.

He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t believe it,” he said, “I ate so much.”

“Not as much as I.”

“I don’t know where you put it.” It was true.

She had eaten like it was going out of style. She laughed. “I have more experience than you.”

The maid came and began clearing the table. Marilu got to her feet. “Let’s go back into the living room.”

The telephone rang. She went to the small desk and picked it up. “Hello.” It was Sam.

She listened to him speak for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Yes, tomorrow then.” She looked over at Steve. “Sam would like to talk with you.”

Steve took the telephone from her hand. Sam’s voice was in his ear. “I’m hung up here, I can’t get over. Was I right about the pasta?”

“You were right.”

“How long you going to be in town? I want to get together with you. I have some ideas.”

“A few days.”

“Tomorrow will be rough,” Sam said. “But the day after?”

“Good for me,” Steve said. “Just have your girl call my office with the time.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “Thanks.”

Steve was surprised. “For what?”

“For being nice to my girl. I appreciate that.”

He rang off and Steve put down the telephone. Marilu was standing at the bar. She turned to him with two glasses of
Fior d’Alpi
in her hands. He felt the trembling in her fingers when he took his glass from her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

“You must be exhausted,” he said. “Working all day in that heat, then coming back here and cooking. I’d better go and let you get some rest.”

“No,” she said tightly. “Don’t go.”

“You’ll feel better if you get into bed.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I didn’t cook that meal. I had it catered. Billy Karin’s Casa d’Oro on Santa Monica Boulevard. He’s the only one that cooks it like we do at home.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You look shocked,” she said. “Why should you be? This is Hollywood. Nothing is what it seems, nothing is real.”

He didn’t speak.

“I can’t cook,” she said. “I never learned. When I was fourteen years old in Marsala, a film director who came to our town with his company saw me. I was big even then. Two weeks later I went to Rome with him. My father was glad. He had seven other mouths to feed.”

She turned away suddenly. “You see, Sicilians aren’t quite as tight about their honor as they would have you think. It’s amazing how far ten thousand lire went then.”

Ten thousand lire was less than twenty dollars. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

“Why should you be?” she said with her back to him. “I learned something from my father. That everything has its price. Even honor. And I’ve done well with that lesson.

“After the director, there were others. There was always someone. And now it’s Sam.” She turned around. “So you were right about me.”

He saw the tears standing in her eyes. “Not entirely,” he said. “Are you in love with him?”

She met his gaze. “No. Not in the sense you mean it. But I do love him in my own way. I respect him.”

“Then why?” he asked. “You don’t have to do it anymore. You’re a star now.”

“I say that to myself. But I don’t believe it,” she answered. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I don’t have someone I will fail.”

“It’s not true,” he said. “Whatever you are, no one did it for you. You did it yourself. You were there in front of the camera. You, alone. Not someone, but you. Up there on the screen in front of the whole world. You.”

She raised her glass to him. “You’re a very kind man, Stephen Gaunt. Thank you.”

“You’re a very beautiful woman, Italian Girl, and whether you cooked it or not, it’s still the best pasta I ever tasted.”

“And what about you?” she asked. “You don’t talk much about yourself.”

“There’s not much to talk about.”

“None of them have anything to talk about. But they manage. They never stop. But I have seen you twice now and each time you just listen. They are all busy telling how great they are. But not you. Are you great?”

“I’m the best there is.”

She looked at him seriously. “I believe that. Are you married?”

“No,” he said. “I was.”

“Divorce?”

“She died.”

“Oh.” A look of sympathy came to her face. “Did you love her?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “I never knew how much though until it was too late.”

She nodded. “That is the way it is. We never really have appreciation for the things we have.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock. I’d better go if you want to look good tomorrow morning in front of that camera.”

“I am not working tomorrow.”

He was curious. “What do you do on your days off?”

“Tomorrow I have some fittings in the morning. Then I come back here and wait for Sam to call. If he can, we will have dinner together.”

“And if he can’t?”