The Dream Merchants Part 57

"That's too bad," he said aloud. Inside him there was an elation.

Suddenly Doris was staring at him. Her voice was almost a whisper. "It's your fault!" she said accusingly.

Mark looked back at her. "I didn't ask him to do it," he protested defensively.

She moved quickly, impulsively. Her open palm made a cracking sound as it came in contact with his face.

His hand flew to his cheek instinctively. Her slap hadn't hurt, but he could feel his face tingling with shame. He looked at her.

She stared back at him. The tears were rus.h.i.+ng to her eyes. "That's for Johnny," she said fiercely. Her voice began to falter. "He's lost everything he ever had because of you! You-you louse!" She turned from him and fled from the room, a handkerchief pressed close to her eyes.

12.

Peter's face was drawn and tired as he stood by the window looking down in the Plaza. The big Christmas tree was up and glittering with a thousand lights. The ice in the rink had turned a creamy ivory color in the light from the tree, and the few skaters that were on it moved lazily and gracefully. It was almost six o'clock and crowds of people were hurrying homeward.

Another million dollars had gone into the company from Peter's pocket when Danvere had refused to advance him the money. He had to do it. Cash had run perilously low.

Wearily he walked back to his desk and looked down at the Teletype message that lay on it. The final version of United We Stand was at last ready for screening. They were going to sneak preview it at a small theater in the suburbs of Los Angeles tomorrow.

He sat down in his chair and closed his eyes. He wished he were home. It was almost six months since he had been home, but business had kept him in New York. There was so much to do. Thank G.o.d at least that he didn't have to worry about the studio. Mark was a good boy. You could depend on your own flesh and blood where you couldn't on anyone else.

He straightened up in his chair and looked out the window. If it only hadn't been such a rotten winter he would have had Esther join him in New York. It wouldn't seem so bad then. But he couldn't ask her to do it. Her arthritis would have made her miserable.

The door opened and a man stood there smiling. "Mr. Kessler?" he asked, a curious look on his face.

Peter looked at him. He didn't know him. How did he get there without going through his secretary's office? That was his private door. Usually no one entered by it except himself. "Yes," he answered in a tired voice.

The man came into the office and walked toward him. He took a piece of paper from his inside coat pocket and laid it on the desk in front of Peter. A smile flashed across his face and was gone in a moment. "Merry Christmas," he said and, turning, hurried back out the door and closed it behind him.

Peter leaned forward slowly and picked up the paper. He looked after the man. What was the matter with him? He acted as if he were crazy. Peter looked down at the paper in his hand. There was a word printed across the back of it in big black letters: SUMMONS.

The meaning of the word did not penetrate his tired mind at once. He opened it dully and began to read. Suddenly he came to life. His face grew flushed and excited and he sprang from his chair and ran to the door and opened it. He looked out, but the man was nowhere in sight. The hall was empty.

He closed the door and crossed his office into Johnny's. Johnny was dictating a letter to Jane and they looked up at him startled as the door opened. Peter hadn't come in that way in a long time.

Peter's face was almost purple as he angrily stamped his way to Johnny's desk and flung the paper down on it. "Read that," he said in a strangled choking voice, "and see what your friends have done!"

The city outside the window behind Peter was ablaze with electric light. The lawyer sat opposite him and slowly tapped the folded paper with his fingers. He looked at Peter solemnly.

"As I see it, Peter," he said slowly, "the gist of their whole case is this one picture, United We Stand. There are other charges-incompetence, peculation, mismanagement-but they are vague and difficult to substantiate. If this picture turns out to be good they have no real case, because then it becomes a matter of judgment, yours against theirs. If the picture is not, then it's another matter, a more difficult case. Then you have to fight it in the stockholders' meetings. There are many things you can do there to delay and protract matters almost indefinitely. That is, as long as you control enough votes to give you a majority?"

Peter nodded his head. "I got enough votes to do that," he said confidently. Between him and Johnny they had fifty-five percent of the stock.

"Then the only thing we have to worry about is the picture," the lawyer replied. He looked at Peter. "Is it any good?" he asked.

"I don't know," Peter admitted honestly. "I ain't seen it yet."

"It would be a help if we did know," the lawyer said reflectively. "Then we would know just where we stand."

Peter looked at him. "We should know the day after tomorrow. We're sneaking it out in Los Angeles." He paused, struck by a sudden thought. "I'll fly out there and see it myself. We'll know for sure that way."

"That might be a good idea," the lawyer agreed. He looked at his watch. "You'll be on the plane all night."

"So I'll be on the plane all night," Peter said quickly. "But at least this way I'll be ready for the besteds at the next board meeting."

"When is that?" the lawyer asked.

"Next week," Peter replied. "Wednesday." There wouldn't be time to let Esther know he was on his way home, but it didn't make much difference anyway. He would be there late in the afternoon.

Dulcie's voice was merry on the phone. "Of course I'm coming to the preview, Mark." She laughed. "I wouldn't miss it for anything!"

He smiled into the phone. "I'll pick you up at six thirty?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "We'll have dinner at my place and then go right to the show."

"That's fine," he said, still smiling, "just fine." He hung up the phone and wheeled around in his chair, whistling. Maybe now that the picture was finished she would listen to reason.

13.

Peter burst into the house just as they were sitting down to dinner. He stood there in the entrance to the dining room, his face flushed with the exertion of running up the steps to the house. He had landed in Los Angeles less than an hour ago.

Esther rose from the table quickly with a welcoming cry. In a moment she was in his arms. She kissed him. "Peter, you're home! I can't believe it!"

A suspicious moisture came to his eyes as he looked down at her. Her head was against his breast; her hair was still rich and darkly l.u.s.trous despite the gray in it. "Nu, Mama," he said gruffly, "you see I'm home."

Doris was on the other side of him. She kissed his cheek. "h.e.l.lo, Papa," she whispered against his ear. "I had a hunch you'd be home for the holidays."

With his arm still around Esther he walked to the table. It was good to be home. Sometimes he wondered whether the business was worth all it took out of you. Your time was never your own. And he had been away more than six months. He looked around the room. "Where's Mark?" he asked in a puzzled voice.

"He's having dinner out," Doris answered.

He looked at her as if he had not understood her. "Out?" he repeated questioningly.

Esther looked up at him and nodded her head. "He said he had some important business to attend to."

He looked down at her questioningly. Whenever they planned to sneak a picture the whole family would have dinner and then go to the preview together. "Ain't you going to the preview?" he asked.

Esther looked up at him, her face uncomprehending. "What preview?" she asked.

"The preview," he said impatiently. He drew away from her. "The preview of United We Stand."

"We didn't know anything about it," Doris interposed. "When are they holding it?"

He turned to her. "Tonight. At eight thirty. At the Rivoli."

"It's news to us," Doris told him.

He looked at Esther. "Sometimes I can't understand that boy," he said in an exasperated voice. "Why didn't he tell you about it? He knows the family goes to previews together."

Esther looked at him. "Maybe he was busy and he forgot." She offered the excuse gently.

"He shouldn't forget," Peter said impatiently.

She took his hand and smiled. "So why get excited over it?" she asked quietly. "You're home and we'll go together and nothing is lost. After all, Papa, the boy has been working very hard. Sometimes he can forget too." She drew him toward the table gently. "So sit down now quietly and eat your dinner. You must be tired from your trip."

Mark was already at the lisping stage. His face was flushed and there were small beads of sweat across his upper lip. His hands waved excitedly in the air. "And after the picture, we'll go out and thelebrate. We'll do the whole town. Then everybody will know who I am."

Dulcie looked at him with an amused smile. Hollywood already knew what he was. They had an instinct that told them who was going to be successful out there and who was not. Success acted as a magnet that drew people. You could always tell how successful a person would be by the people with whom he was close. If you were a real success, the biggest people in Hollywood were your friends. If you weren't, you drew a crowd of spongers and opportunists who were only trying to promote themselves at your expense. All Mark's friends were of the latter cla.s.s. She didn't know of anyone who had any real respect for him. Behind his back they continually snickered and tore him apart.

It wasn't that she really wanted to see the picture. She knew it would be bad. The word had already seeped through town. But she did want to see how bad it was. She couldn't let this last moment of triumph escape her. Then when she came home she would get rid of him. This time for good.

She looked at her watch. "It's getting late, Mark," she said. "We'd better be leaving."

He looked at her owlishly. "There'th lots of time," he replied.

She smiled at him. "Come now," she murmured. "You wouldn't want to be late to a preview of your own picture, would you?"

He looked at her seriously. "That's right," he nodded sagely. "It wouldn't look good, would it?"

Hollywood sneak previews were conducted with all the privacy of a circus. The original idea was to slip the picture, unannounced, into some small local theater in order to get the reaction of a typical audience to it. Postcards were then distributed to the audience on the back of which they were invited to write their opinion of the picture they had just seen. These cards were addressed to the studio that made the picture, and in that manner the producer was supposed to learn whether his picture was good or not.

In time, however, the element of surprising the audience with the picture had been lost. Almost mysteriously when a sneak was planned the word would get around that such and such a picture was going to be shown at the Blank Theater that night and a crowd would form a line outside it. The attraction was twofold. One was to be able to say snidely to your neighbor: "Oh, that picture? We saw it at a preview before it came out. It's not so much." The other attraction was that very often the preview would be attended by the important members of the cast, and the crowd would gather to look at the celebrities.

The lobby of the theater was crowded when Peter got there with Esther and Doris. The studio publicity man standing at the door near the ticket-taker recognized him. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Kessler," he said deferentially. "This picture's just going on now. I'll find you some seats."

They followed him into the theater and down the aisle. The theater was dark and their eyes could make out the shapes of people sitting expectantly in their seats only vaguely. In the center of the theater several aisles had been roped off for the studio representatives. Quietly they moved into the last row of the section.

Peter sat down and looked around him. His eyes were rapidly getting used to the dark and he recognized several people there. An atmosphere of tension hung over this section that was evident nowhere else in the theater. These were the people who would rise or fall by the picture on the screen. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead. It wasn't that the theater was warm, he always felt like that at a preview.

His hand reached out for Esther. When he found her hand, his own was already moist. She smiled to him in the dark. "Nervous?" she whispered.

He nodded to her. "More than for my own pictures," he whispered back.

She shook her head understandingly. She knew how he felt, how important it was to him. Besides, it was their son who had made it. In some ways they were more anxious for him than they were for themselves.

Peter looked around for Mark. He heard his voice directly in front of him. Mark was talking to a girl in the seat next to him. There was a vaguely familiar look about her profile as she turned to answer Mark, but in the dark Peter couldn't recognize her. He was just leaning forward to tap Mark on the shoulder and let him know he was there when the sound of the Magnum theme music hit his ears. He leaned back in his seat and smiled to himself. He would surprise Mark after the picture was over. He looked up at the screen expectantly.

There was a dark blue light on the screen. In the lower right-hand corner there was a glowing green bottle with a small gold label on it. Swiftly the bottle moved toward the center of the screen, looming larger and larger, until the red-lettered words on the label could be read: "A Magnum Picture."

Suddenly there was a sharp popping sound and the cork flew from the bottle. The golden sparkling liquid came gus.h.i.+ng from its neck. A man's hand reached from out of nowhere and picked the bottle up. A woman's hand holding a crystal-clear goblet moved toward it. Slowly the bottle tilted and the liquid poured into the goblet, overflowing the rim. The bottle and the gla.s.s began to recede to the back of the screen, and words began to appear, superimposed over the scene in majestic gothic lettering.

Mark G. Kessler, Vice-president in Charge of Production

Presents

UNITED WE STAND.

Peter turned to Esther excitedly. "What's this Mark G. business?" he whispered. "What does this 'G.' mean?"

She looked at him bewildered for a moment. Then a light of comprehension came into her eyes. "It must be for Greenberg," she guessed, "my maiden name."

A hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around. A voice from the seat behind him whispered fiercely: "Just because you people got in for free, you don't have to make so much noise!"

"Pardon me," he apologized, and turned his face back to the screen. The man was right. He had no business antagonizing the paying customers.

Something inside Peter turned sick as the picture wore on. Within a few minutes he knew it was a stinker. He didn't have to look at the screen to know that. He could tell from the comments in the audience behind him, from the sounds of restless s.h.i.+fting and the coughs that rang out desultorily, from the laughter in the wrong places. A misery seemed to sweep over him and he shrank back into his seat, growling smaller and smaller.

For the first time it all became clear to him. The whole thing. You had to see someone else make the same mistakes you so confidently made all along, thinking you were right, before you could tell how wrong you had been. That was the way it was with Peter. When he saw Mark's picture on the screen he first began to see his own mistakes. It was then perhaps that a sense of failure came over him. It was then that he realized that the business had outgrown him, that he never had really understood the use of sound in his pictures.

He looked up at the screen. Johnny was right all along about Gordon. He should have listened to him. He looked at Esther; her eyes were miserable. He looked back at the screen. He felt an anger sweep through him. Even if he had been right about Gordon, Johnny should never have insisted on pus.h.i.+ng this picture through.

In front of him Mark's head bent toward the girl. He could see him whispering something to her. He could hear her quiet laugh. There was such a familiar ring about it. Suddenly he wanted to hear what Mark was saying. He leaned forward in his seat, hunching himself behind them.

He could hear Mark's voice whispering to the girl. Suddenly he seemed to freeze to his seat. What was it that Mark was saying? He was joking about how he had put it over on everybody. The old man was even blaming Johnny for it. Was he smart, baby, or was he smart? The girl laughed with him and slipped her arm through his; she seemed to be pleased at what he was saying.

Peter shrank back into his seat. He was trembling. He couldn't tell what the rest of the picture was about. He didn't see it. His eyes had filled with burning, blinding tears. Time lost all its meaning for him. His own son. His own flesh and blood. If they could do this to him, who in the world was there that a man could trust?