The Love Machine

by Jacqueline Susann

  Robin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. At first he thought it would turn into a gag—that any second Christie’s white tie and tails would turn into a breakaway outfit and the slapstick comedy would begin. But when they stopped for the first commercial he realized the show was in earnest. They were actually trying to do a frothy drawing-room musical. It was so bad it was almost high camp; but unfortunately the girl playing opposite Christie was good enough to make it semiserious.

  Dip went into the kitchen and got a beer. He watched the show casually, and wondered why Robin was suddenly so intent on it. He went into the den and turned on a Western on the small set. Robin would understand: it bugged him to have to watch a television show that consistently turned him down.

  When it was over he returned to the living room. Robin appeared not even to have noticed his absence. He was standing in the middle of the room staring into space.

  “How was it, buddy boy?” Dip asked cheerfully.

  “It was terrible.”

  “Well, maybe it’ll be better next week.” Dip was eager to leave for Danny’s.

  “It was unbelievable.” Robin seemed dazed. “NBC has a great comedy opposite it, CBS has a good action thriller. We had to lose half the audience during the second half—I know we’ll come up lowest in the time period.”

  “Well, let’s go to Danny’s. We can’t erase it, it happened—that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

  “My cookie doesn’t crumble,” Robin said coldly. He picked up his direct line to IBC. “This is Robin Stone. Get me Artie Rylander on the Coast. You have his home number. It’s in Brent-wood.” He lit a cigarette and waited. “I don’t give a damn who the hell is on the tie line. Cut in and tell them to get off.”

  When he reached Artie, his teeth were clamped in cold anger. “All right, Rylander—explain. How the hell did you let him do it? Couldn’t you see it was going to bomb? … Well, then, why didn’t you call me? … I don’t give a damn about Noel Victor! He may be the best lyricist in the business for Tony Newley or Robert Goulet, but not for Christie Lane… . What do you mean, Chris threw out your writers? I know all about Chris owning the package now—but he owns it with IBC. And we’re more than equal partners—we also own the air time… . What ballads? Listen, Artie, there is no such thing as good new music, there’s only good familiar music—the public likes to hear something it knows… . Don’t give me that crap about a Broadway show. Sure, a Broadway show comes up with a new score, and on opening night critics write about it, and the public digs it, after it’s played on albums and on jukeboxes. We don’t have time for that with a once-a-week shot on TV. And Chris Lane is not Rex Harrison! He’s the All-American slob. In tails he looked like a fat blond penguin. You tell him to revamp the show and go right back to the old format. Hire back the plain-Jane girl singer who played in the sketches and the cornball announcer. And what genius dreamed up the line of ballet girls? Don’t you know ballet is lost on a twenty-inch screen? And I’m afraid to look at the below-the-line costs. … I don’t give a damn about Noel Victor’s contract, hire back the old writers… . What do you mean, he won’t? We can force him to… . No, I haven’t looked at the contract, but I will tonight! And I’ll be in touch with you first thing tomorrow.” He slammed down the receiver.

  “Robin-” It was Dip. “We’ll lose the table at Danny’s if we don’t hurry.”

  Robin crossed the room and put on his jacket. “Dinner is the last thing on my mind.” He went to the phone again. “Get me Cliff Dorne at home. It’s in Rye.” He snapped his fingers for Dip to bring his cigarettes. “Cliff? It’s Robin Stone.”

  “Yes, Robin, hold it, will you? I’ll take it in another room.”

  Robin lit a cigarette and waited. Cliff came back on the line. “Sorry, Robin, we’re having a small family party.”

  “What did you think of the Chris Lane show?”

  There was silence.

  “You thought it was that bad, too.” Robin said.

  “Well, to be honest, I didn’t see it. You see?—”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t see it?”

  “Robin, it’s my mother-in-law’s seventieth birthday. We have the family here. We’re at the table.”

  “The show stinks,” Robin said curtly.

  “I’ll look at the tape first thing tomorrow.”

  “Meet me at your office, right away.”

  “What?”

  “Right away! You have the keys to the contract files, haven’t you?”

  “Robin—can’t it keep until tomorrow? My wife’s mother is here.”

  “I couldn’t care if Whistler’s mother was there—get into town as fast as you can.”

  “Robin, if it was my mother, I’d do it. But my wife will never believe this was necessary. I’m not too crazy about her mother as it is. For thirty years we’ve had an armed truce. If I walk out now—”

  “You support her?”

  “No, she’s a garage mechanic. Of course I support her! I even bought her a mink stole for the occasion. Kind of silly to put such an investment into a lady of seventy, but if I know my mother-in-law she’ll outlive the mink.”

  “Then stop shooting the breeze up my ass about sentiment. Get down to the office!”

  “Robin, I’m afraid it will have to keep until tomorrow.”

  “If it does, there will be a new boy in your place.”

  There was a slight pause. Cliff’s voice was cold when he answered. “I’ll be there. But, Robin, I think you’d better also read over my contract. I don’t work for you or under you. I’m head of the legal department at IBC. I am not a boy who can be replaced.”

  “If you’re in the office within half an hour, your mother-in-law might be eligible for another stole next year. If not, you’d better take it back in the morning. I’m running IBC now, and there is no one who can’t be replaced. We have a top show that’s about to go down the drain if we don’t do something fast. I want to find out if we can. And not tomorrow—right now.”

  “All right, Robin.”

  “And, Cliff, if you don’t feel you can work with me you can clear out your desk while you’re there tonight.”

  “Oh, I’ll work with you, Robin,” Cliff answered, “until Gregory returns. Then I think maybe we’d all better have a little talk.”

  “As you like. Meanwhile, blow out the candles, sing happy birthday, and get your ass over to IBC.” He clicked the receiver and walked to the window and stared at the lights on the river.

  Dip laughed. “Like I once said in a cornball movie, ‘New York, I’ll get you yet!’ “

  Robin turned. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a cliché. The big daddy of them all. But that’s how you looked—the giant who is going to rule Madison Avenue, bend buildings, kill, kill-!”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “What about Danny’s?”

  “I haven’t time.”

  “Robin, the man’s coming down from Rye. He can’t make it in half an hour. You can at least make an appearance with me at Danny’s… .”

  “I couldn’t eat. I don’t want to drink. We’ll make it another night.”

  “But I happen to know some big agents are going to be there tonight. I even arranged to get the table next to them.”

  “Go to Danny’s. Tell everyone I’ll be there. Say I’m in your pocket, if you like—I hear that’s what you say anyhow. Put in a call to me loud and clear from the table, call this number. There won’t be any answer. Then you can say, ‘Okay, Robin, I’ll meet you.’ That will cover you.” He reached into his pocket and threw a fifty-dollar bill on the couch. “Use this to pay for the meal.” He started for the door.

  Dip picked up the money and followed him.

  As Robin left in the cab, Dip called, “If you get through in time, pal, come over. I won’t make the call for an hour.”

  It was four o’clock in the morning when Robin and Cliff finished poring over the contract. “Go home, Cliff,” Robin said weakly. “
We’ve gone through every clause, every word. We’re in a bind.”

  Cliff put on his coat and straightened his tie. “When we gave him co-ownership of the package, we kept the right of talent approval, but we gave Christie artistic and creative control.”

  Robin lit his last cigarette and crumpled the empty pack. “Who was the genius who came up with that ambiguous language? Why do we have cast approval if we have no artistic control?”

  “It’s an old hangover from the Red Channels days. That’s the only reason it’s still in. Gives the agency or network the chance to knock out an actor who might be offensive to the sponsor and his image.”

  Robin looked thoughtful. “Couldn’t we disapprove of his entire cast? Keep saying no, until he goes back to the old stock company idea?”

  “We’d have to give a valid reason. We’d have to claim it went against the sponsor image. And from what you tell me, the show was an unmitigated bore, but done in impeccable taste. So we can’t reject the talent, or we’d be infringing on Christie’s control.”

  Robin crushed out his cigarette. “Well, there goes one of our top shows down the drain.”

  “Was it really that bad?” Cliff asked.

  “You’ll see the tape later today. And I can just bet on the overnight rating.” He waved Cliff off wearily.

  It was beginning to get light when he walked down Madison Avenue. He knew what had to be done. No use crying over The Chris Lane Show. That was a sure cancelation by the end of June. He had to go after new shows—more comedy shows and more violence. He would call a full-scale meeting in the morning, send out a rush call for every new pilot around, hire writers who would develop pilots and shows for IBC.

  In January, Robin made television headlines when he announced that The Christie Lane Show would go off the air the end of June. He told Jerry to remain calm—he’d come up with a winner for the new time period and Jerry’s sponsors would have first refusal.

  Christie’s cancelation caused headlines in all the trades as well as the television columns of the Times and Tribune. Two days after the announcement, Christie was offered shows by NBC and CBS for the following season.

  Although Christie’s ratings had fallen, he continued with the sleek format. His publicity was tremendous. Christie and Ethel attended all the right parties. In hiring Cully and Hayes and Noel Victor, Ethel had gotten into the Alfie set. Alfie confided in her, adored her—and Ethel went everywhere to act as a “beard” to cover whatever boy he was romancing. The threesome made all the openings together while Christie worked on his show.

  Chris did have firm offers from NBC and CBS, but he held off signing. The shows they offered gave him little opportunity to do more than act as a glorified master of ceremonies. He came to New York in February in one last attempt to straighten things out with Robin and remain with IBC. He told the Johnson-Harris office to tell Robin he was willing to go back to the old format.

  The “new” format had been Ethel’s idea, so she could get in with Alfie’s set. Noel Victor was one of Alfie’s best friends. Well, they were in! Hell, Ethel was so in now that he never saw her. He wanted to go back to the old show—it was a lot easier singing songs he knew than memorizing a new score each week.

  When he arrived he was stunned to learn that his agent had not been able to arrange an appointment with Robin. “Once he says no,” the agent explained, “that’s it. He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, beg or plead.”

  Chris tried to reach Robin himself. Each time he was informed that Mr. Stone was “in a meeting.”

  He called Danton Miller. Dan was delighted to hear from him and suggested they meet at “21”. It was four o’clock and the restaurant was almost empty. They sat at a front table at the bar area and for the first hour they tore Robin Stone to shreds. Chris began to feel better.

  “At least you’ve got offers from the other networks. Now there’s a guy who is a real loser.” They both watched as Dip Nelson entered and ambled over to the bar.

  Dan smiled. “He’s been coming here almost every day, alone.”

  “Why?”

  Dan shrugged. “What else can a guy do when his wife is a star and he has no job?”

  “How are things going with you?” Chris asked.

  “Well, let’s put it this way: it is now survival time. And that blond ox standing at the bar may be my lifeline.”

  “Dip Nelson?”

  “I think he’s lonely enough. And I have a property …”

  “Dip Nelson is finished. Go after his wife.”

  “His wife hasn’t got Robin Stone in her back pocket. For some incredible reason, Dip has.”

  “Yeah.” Christie seemed thoughtful. “In California, everyone is talking about it. They even hint there’s something funny going on between them—you know: Queersville.”

  “I don’t care if they’re secretly married. I just want to get this property on the air.”

  “You mean you’d go back as a producer?”

  “Producer and packager,” Dan stated. “There’s nothing about this business I don’t know—but I want to be at IBC. I want to be there when the great Love Machine explodes. Then I’ll step back where I belong, bigger and stronger than before.”

  Chris nodded. “At least you’ve got your future planned.”

  Dan laughed. “Christie—you’ve got it made. A big home in California, all the money you’ll ever need—and you run with the Alfie pack. You’ve got a great life.”

  “Ethel has the great life,” Christie sighed. “She’s got what she always wanted. But I don’t fit. Every night I come home and we either have a date with Alfie or we’re going to a party. I don’t even have Eddie and Kenny now. They like New York. They got a job with that new variety show on CBS.”

  “Maybe you’ve outgrown them, Chris. You’ve gone up in the world.”

  “You call it going up in the world to sit around and laugh at Alfie’s jokes and watch him make calf eyes at some actor he’s in love with? We all have to do whatever Alfie says. Ethel gets mad when I call her ‘doll.’ I’m supposed to call everyone ‘luv.’ You like that? A group I’m traveling with where men call each other ‘luv’?”

  Suddenly Christie’s homely face crinkled into a forced smile. “Listen, I shouldn’t kick. Like you said, I got all the money I’ll ever need. But most of all, I got my son, Christie Lane, Jr.” He drew out an accordion folder filled with smiling pictures of a plump little baby. “Look, if Ethel never does another thing, I’m still ahead. She gave me my baby and that’s all that matters. I live for that kid—it’s like getting an extra dividend in life.” Then he looked at his watch. “Say, I got to be getting back to the hotel. The Plaza, yet. Alfie says that’s where I should stay. You should see my suite, I think Lincoln was laid out in it. But Ethel is calling me at six thirty; she holds the baby to the phone and sometimes he gurgles or coos—what a kid!”

  Dan watched him leave. He ordered another martini. Then he sent a note to Dip, who was still at the bar. Dip read it and walked over.

  “No use both of us drinking alone,” Dan said. “Thought we might sit together.”

  “Why should I?” Dip asked. “You’re the character who raised hell when Robin put me on the Chris Lane show.”

  “Only because it prevented me from preparing a decent setup for you. I assure you, had I been given a few weeks’ time, your notices would have been different.”

  Dip sat down. “People are always out to kill a movie star. They have to start out thinking he’s a no-talent bum. But when I sing—especially to a live audience—pal, there’s no one who can touch me.”

  “Let me buy you a drink,” Dan said.

  “Ah … I’m waiting for a call from Robin. I’m only nursing a ginger ale until he calls, see—then Robin and I will really go out and tie one on.”

  “You and Robin are still very close?”

  “Like that.” Dip entwined his fingers.

  “Why doesn’t he do something for you if you’re so close?” Dan asked
. “The word is out that you’re really just his messenger boy.”

  Dip’s eyes flashed in fury. “Don’t you ever use a word like that about me! Robin relies on me for everything. As a matter of fact, it was I who told Robin he had to cancel Chris Lane! Yeah, and you want to know something? Robin was willing to let him go on next season, but I don’t forget—Chris Lane treated me and Pauli like shit when we came on his show, and I got a long memory. I sit back and wait, buddy, then I send in the shiv!”

  “How much longer does your wife’s show run?”

  “Until June in New York. Then it goes on the road for a year. I’m going too. They’re building up the part of the brother. I’ll play it.”

  “Why would you take a small role?” Dan asked.

  “To be with Pauli. She needs me.”

  “She needs you like she needs extra teeth,” Dan said.

  “You looking to be slugged right here at ‘21’?”

  “I’m looking to put some sense in your head.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that you’re sitting around every night with the biggest power on television. No one in the business has the autonomy of Robin Stone. And you should latch on to it while it lasts. Because eventually it has to blow up in his face. I’ve been watching him. The way he acts, I feel he almost has a death wish—he seems to delight in making enemies. It’s almost as if he’s testing—seeing how far he can go, how far he can push everyone. There’s some kind of a sickness behind his arrogance and drive. So if you’re smart, you’ll sit back and listen to me.”

  “I don’t need advice from a has-been.” Dip’s voice was ugly.

  Dan shot his old Cheshire-cat grin. “Perhaps two has-beens make for more strength than one. How would you like to be co-owner of a package?”

  “I don’t know about packages.”

  “What are you doing for dinner?” Dan asked.

  “Nothing—that is, I’m supposed to check with Robin.”

  “Can you get out of it tonight?”

  Dip smiled. “I can do anything I want.”