The Dream Merchants Part 11

"And that should make such a big difference?" Peter asked.

"Sometimes," Johnny said, still smiling.

"Never by me," Peter spoke seriously. "I should have a houseful of servants and still I would act the same."

"Sure," Esther added. "He would still sit around the house in his underwear."

"That proves what I say," Peter came back triumphantly. "Servants or no servants, Peter Kessler is always the same."

Johnny had to admit to himself that Peter was right. Peter hadn't changed in the past few years, but he had. Peter was content with things the way they were, but Johnny wasn't satisfied. There was something more he wanted, something more he had to have, and what it was he didn't really know. Only the sense of dissatisfaction was real. He remembered again what Joe had said that morning. Peter had come a long way from the little hardware store in Rochester; he had gained a measure of security and was content with it. What right did he have to ask Peter to risk all this for an idea? But on the other hand, he reasoned, Peter would not have had even this if it hadn't been for the fact that he had pushed him. Whether this gave him the right to push Peter further, Johnny did not know. He only knew that he could not stop now. The future, no matter how nebulous it seemed, was too much a part of him to give up.

He looked at Peter quizzically. "You mean you're not too big to listen to a good idea?"

"That's what I mean," Peter said. "Always I'm willing to take good advice."

Johnny heaved a mock sigh of relief. "I'm glad to hear that. Some people say you're getting very high-hat since you lived on Riverside Drive."

"Who could say such a thing?" Peter cried indignantly. He turned to Esther and held out his hands. "The minute a man does a little all right, people start knocking him."

Esther smiled sympathetically. Johnny was leading up to something, she was sure of it. She was curious about what he wanted and she felt that it wouldn't be long in forthcoming. "People can't help misunderstandings," she said. "Maybe somebody you gave a reason?"

"Never," Peter protested indignantly. "I'm friendly to everybody like always."

"So then don't worry," she told him rea.s.suringly. She turned to Johnny. "You would like, maybe, some coffee and cake?"

They followed her into the kitchen. When Johnny had finished his second piece of cake he asked Peter casually: "Did you read the World today?"

A sixth sense made Esther turn around and look at him. The question was casual, almost too casual, she thought. There was something in the way he asked it that made her feel this was only the beginning. "Now it comes out," she thought.

"Yeanh," Peter answered.

"Did you read about Bernhardt making a four-reeler? And about Quo Vadis?"

"Sure," Peter replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Remember what I said about bigger pictures?"

"Sure, I remember," Peter answered. "I also remember the serial you cut down."

"That was something else," Johnny said. "I was trying to work something out. But this is different, this proves what I said about making a picture out of The Bandit was right."

"How does it?" Peter asked. "Things are still the same."

"Are they?" Johnny said. "When you get the greatest actress of the time to make a motion picture, when you make a motion picture out of a great novel, are things still the same? Can't you see that moving pictures are growing up? That the two-reel short pants the combine is making them wear is beginning to chafe?"

Peter stood up. "This is nonsense you're talking. Once in a blue moon somebody will make a long picture. You happen to read in the paper about two being made at once and right away you're right.

"Maybe if Sarah Bernhardt would make a picture for Peter Kessler, I would make a long picture, but otherwise who would go to see an hour-long movie without any famous actors in it?"

Johnny looked at him. Peter was right. Without names that were known, it would be difficult to attract people to a picture. When he had been with the carnival, certain acts had been featured by name because it was known that they would attract customers. The stage, too, featured certain actors and actresses for the same reason, but the movies never credited any players. The combine objected to it because it feared that if the players knew of their value they would demand more money.

Yet people were recognizing certain players, and whenever they heard one of their pictures was playing, they would flock to the theater and plunk down their nickels and dimes and pay to see their favorites. Like that little funny-looking tramp who had just made some comedies. What was his name again? Johnny had heard it once, but he had to think twice before he could call it to mind-Chaplin. And that girl who was known as the Biograph girl. Johnny couldn't even remember her name. Still, the customers remembered and would turn out to see the pictures they appeared in even if they didn't particularly want to go to the movies.

He made a mental note to have Joe feature the name of the players on the t.i.tle card of the picture. It would make it easier for the patron to identify the player he liked and would prove of help to the exhibitor in publicizing his attractions.

Peter looked at Johnny strangely. Johnny had been silent for so long that Peter thought he had stumped him. "Stopped you, hah?" he asked triumphantly.

Johnny shook himself out of his reverie. He reached for a cigarette and lit it and looked at Peter through the smoke. "No," he answered, "you didn't. But you just supplied the one thing I needed to guarantee the success of a big picture. A big name. A name that everybody knows. If you get the right actor, you can't object to making a big picture."

"With a big name I could see it," Peter admitted. "But who are you going to get?"

"The actor that plays The Bandit on the stage, now," Johnny answered, "Warren Craig."

"Warren Craig?" Peter cried incredulously. "And why not John Drew while you're at it?" He looked at Johnny sarcastically.

"Warren Craig is good enough," Johnny answered seriously.

Peter lapsed into Yiddish: "Zehr nicht a nahr!" he said. He noted the blank look on Johnny's face and he repeated: "Don't be a fool! You know they all look down on the movies. You can't get them."

"Maybe now that Bernhardt is making a picture, they won't be so hard to get," Johnny said.

"Maybe you could get me John Jacob Astor's money to pay them while you're at it," Peter said sarcastically.

Johnny paid no attention to Peter's last remark. He got to his feet excitedly, his cigarette forgotten in his hand. "I can see it now as it comes on the screen. 'Peter Kessler presents... Warren Craig... in the famous Broadway stage success... The Bandit... a Magnum Picture.'" He stopped, his hand pointing dramatically toward Peter.

Peter looked at him. Unconsciously he had been leaning forward in his chair as Johnny spoke, trying to visualize what Johnny was saying. Now the spell was broken and he leaned back. "And I can see it now," he said, trying to cover his previous display of interest, "'Peter Kessler files pet.i.tion in bankruptcy!'"

Esther watched the two of them. First one, then the other, a vague surprise running through her mind. "Peter really wants to do it," she thought.

Peter got to his feet and faced Johnny. He spoke with finality. "Nothing doing, Johnny, we can't take a chance like that. There are too many risks involved. The combine won't like it, and if they take away our license, we're out of business. We haven't enough money to take a chance like that."

Johnny eyed him speculatively, a tiny pulse hammering in his temple. He looked at Esther, she was watching Peter. He looked through the door into the living room. Mark was playing on the floor with some blocks. As he watched, Mark scattered them over the floor with one hand, and Doris put down the book she was reading and went to help him pick them up.

Slowly Johnny turned back to Peter. The words came out evenly; no trace of inner struggle showed in his voice. His mind was made up.

"You producers are all alike! You're all afraid of the combine! You bellyache all the time, you cry they're not letting you live, they're starving you out. But what are you doing about it? Nothing! You're all willing to hang around the edges of their table and feed on the crumbs and sc.r.a.ps they throw you. And crumbs is what you get. Nothing more. Do you know how much money they made last year? Twenty million dollars! Do you know how much all you independents made last year? Four hundred thousand dollars between forty of you. That's about ten thousand apiece on an average. Yet during that time you independents paid the combine more than eight million dollars to stay in business. Eight million dollars! Money you made and couldn't keep! Twenty times as much as you kept for yourselves. And there's only one reason for it! You're all afraid to buck the combine!"

His cigarette burned his fingers. He put it out in the tray on the table and went on without paying any attention to it. His voice had grown hard and intense. It was dramatic; the emotion he called on came into his voice as it was needed, and quickly was supplanted by another when its time had gone.

"Why don't you guys get wise to yourselves? This is your business as well as theirs. You made the money. Why don't you keep it? Sooner or later you'll have to fight 'em; why don't you fight 'em now? Fight 'em with better pictures. They know you can make 'em, that's why they limit what you can do. They run the business that way because they're afraid of what you will do if you ever move out on your own. Get together. Maybe you can fight them in the courts. Maybe what they're doing is against the new anti-trust laws. I don't know. But the stakes are worth the fight.

"Back in Rochester I wanted you to get into this business, remember? I had a reason then, a good one. I could have gone to work for Borden or maybe one of the others, but I wanted you. Because I felt you were the man, the only man with courage enough to fight when the time came. There were times since that I've been offered jobs elsewhere, but I stuck with you. For the same reason. And now I got to know whether I was right or wrong. Because now is the time. You either fight now, or soon the combine will put you all out of business!"

He stood there looking at Peter, trying to gauge the effect of his words. Peter's face told him nothing, but there were other things Johnny saw that made him feel the fight was won. Peter's hands were clenched like a man's about to go into battle.

Peter was silent for a long while. He didn't argue with Johnny. He couldn't. He had long felt that what Johnny had said was right. In the last year he had paid the combine one hundred and forty thousand dollars while keeping about eight for himself. But Johnny was young and too ready to tilt at the windmill. Maybe when he was a little older he would realize that sometimes a man had to have patience.

He turned away from Johnny, walked over to the sink, and drew a gla.s.s of water. He sipped it slowly. Still, there was something in what Johnny had said. If all the independents got together, they could fight the combine and maybe they would win the fight. Sometimes fighting was better than waiting; maybe Johnny was right. Maybe this was the time. He put the tumbler back on the sink and turned to Johnny.

"How much did you say it would cost to make a picture like that?" he asked.

"About twenty-five thousand dollars," Johnny replied. "That is, if you wanted Warren Craig to play the lead."

Peter nodded his head. Twenty-five thousand dollars-a lot of money for one moving picture. Still, if it went over, there was a fortune to be made. "If we made a picture like that," he said, "we must have Warren Craig to play the lead. We can't afford to take any extra chances."

Johnny pounced on his opportunity. "You won't actually need twenty-five thousand of your own," he said eagerly. "Joe and I can put up five thousand between us, you put up eight, and we can borrow the rest. I was thinking some of the exhibitors would take a chance on a thing like that. They're always crying for something different. If we can give it to them, maybe we can get the dough from them."

"But we got to get Warren Craig," Peter said.

"Leave that to me," Johnny answered confidently. "I'll get him."

"Then I can put up ten thousand," Peter said.

"You mean you're going to do it?" Johnny asked, the pulse now hammering wildly in his forehead.

Peter hesitated a moment. He turned to Esther and looked at her. The words came out very slowly. "I'm not saying I'm going to do it and I'm not saying I ain't. What I'm saying is that I'll think about it."

4.

Peter waited for Borden to come out of the synagogue. The synagogue on lower Broadway was the morning meeting-place for many of the important independent picture men. He fell into step with him as he walked down the street.

"Morning, Willie," he said.

Borden looked over at him, "Peter," he said, smiling, "how's geschaft?"

"No complaints," Peter answered. "I want to talk to you. Got time for a cup of coffee?"

Borden took out his watch and looked at it importantly. "Sure," he said. "What's on your mind?"

"You read yesterday's papers?" Peter asked as they sat down at a table in a near-by restaurant.

"Sure," Borden answered. "To what are you referring?"

"Specifically," Peter said, "the Bernhardt picture and Quo Vadis?"

"Yeah, I saw it." Borden was wondering what Peter wanted.

"You think bigger pictures are coming?" Peter asked.

"Could be," Borden answered cautiously.

Peter was silent while the waitress put down the coffee and left. "Johnny wants me to make a six-reeler."

Borden was interested. "A six-reeler, huh? About what?"

"He wants me to buy a play and make a picture out of it and hire the leading man to play in it."

"Buy a play?" Borden laughed. "That's silly. Who ever heard of such a thing? You can get all the stories you want for nothing."

"I know," Peter said, sipping at his coffee, "but Johnny says the play's name means customers at the boxoffice."

Borden could see the sense in that. His interest quickened. "How will you get around the combine's regulations?"

"Johnny says we should save enough film to make the picture and then do it secretly. They won't know about it until the picture comes out."

"If they find out they can put you out of business."

"Maybe," Peter said. "Maybe they will and maybe they won't. But somewhere we got to draw the line and fight them. Otherwise we'll still be making two-reelers when the rest of the world is making bigger pictures. Then the foreign producers will come in and take over our market. When that happens we'll suffer more than the combine. We've been feeding on the crumbs from their table long enough. It's time we independents got together to fight them."

Borden thought that over. What Peter had said was the common sentiment of all the independent producers, but none of them had the desire to buck the combine. Even he would not want to take a chance on a venture as risky as this promised to be. But if Peter was willing to do it, he could see the benefits that would accrue to him if Peter should succeed. "How much would a picture like that cost?" he asked.

"About twenty-five thousand."

Borden finished his coffee. He was trying to figure out just how much money Peter had. After a few moments of silent calculation he arrived at the conclusion that Peter had about ten thousand dollars. That meant he would have to borrow the rest. He put a quarter on the table and stood up. "You going to make the picture?" he asked when they reached the street.

"I'm thinking about it," Peter replied, "but I ain't got enough money. Maybe if I could see my way clear on that, I might take a chance."

"How much you got?"

"About fifteen thousand," Peter answered.

Borden was surprised. Peter must have been doing better than he had figured. He looked at him with a new respect. "I can let you have about twenty-five hundred," he said impulsively. It was a small amount for him to risk on a venture that might lead to as much opportunity for him as this promised. He felt very smug about it. It would be better for him if Peter took the chance.

Peter looked at him appraisingly. This was what Peter wanted to know-whether Borden liked the idea enough to risk his money on it. The small amount that Borden had offered made no impression on Peter; the fact that Borden could advance him the balance of the money needed if he wanted to was lost to him. "I haven't made up my mind yet," he said. "I'll let you know if I decide to do it."

Now Borden wanted Peter to do it. "That's right," he said slyly. "If you don't do it, let me know. Maybe I'll do it. The more I think about it, the more I like it."

"I don't know yet," Peter answered quickly. "Like I said, I got to make up my mind. But I'll let you know."

Johnny looked at the door. The lettering on the gla.s.s read: "Samuel Sharpe," and underneath it in smaller letters: "Theatrical Representative." He turned the k.n.o.b and went in.

The room he entered was a small one. Its walls were covered with pictures, all of them inscribed to "Dear Sam." Johnny looked closely at them. They all seemed to be in the same handwriting. He smiled to himself.

A girl came into the room from another door and sat down at a desk near the wall. "What can we do for you, sir?" she asked.

Johnny walked over to her. She was pretty. This Sharpe could pick them. He threw a card down on the desk in front of her. "Mr. Edge to see Mr. Sharpe," he said.

The girl picked up the card and looked at it. It was a simple card, carefully engraved. "John Edge, Vice-President-Magnum Pictures." She looked up at Johnny with a quick respect. "Won't you take a seat, sir?" she said. "I'll see if Mr. Sharpe is free."