Love of the Last Tycoon: The Authorized Text (No Series)

by Fitzgerald, F. Scott

  “I think she was a very new secretary,” repeated Stahr. “Any other messages?”

  “Mr. Robinson called in,” Miss Doolan said, as he started for the commissary. “One of the women told him her name, but he’s forgotten it—he thinks it was Smith or Brown or Jones.”

  “That’s a great help.”

  “And he remembers she says she just moved to Los Angeles.”

  “I remember she had a silver belt,” Stahr said, “with stars cut out of it.”

  “I’m still trying to find out more about Pete Zavras. I talked to his wife.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Oh, they’ve had an awful time—given up their house—she’s been sick—–”

  “Is the eye-trouble hopeless?”

  “She didn’t seem to know anything about the state of his eyes. She didn’t even know he was going blind.”

  “That’s funny.”

  He thought about it on the way to luncheon, but it was as confusing as the actor’s trouble this morning. Troubles about people’s health didn’t seem within his range—he gave no thought to his own. In the lane beside the commissary he stepped back as an open electric truck crammed with girls in the bright costumes of the Regency came rolling in from the back lot. The dresses were fluttering in the wind, the young painted faces looked at him curiously, and he smiled as it went by.

  Eleven men and their guest, Prince Agge, sat at lunch in the private dining room of the studio commissary. They were the money men—they were the rulers; and unless there was a guest, they ate in broken silence, sometimes asking questions about each other’s wives and children, sometimes discharging a single absorption from the forefront of their consciousness. Eight out of the ten were Jews—five of the ten were foreign-born, including a Greek and an Englishman; and they had all known each other for a long time: there was a rating in the group, from old Marcus down to old Leanbaum, who had bought the most fortunate block of stock in the business and never was allowed to spend over a million a year producing.

  Old Marcus still managed to function with disquieting resilience. Some never-atrophying instinct warned him of danger, of gangings up against him—he was never so dangerous himself as when others considered him surrounded. His grey face had attained such immobility that even those who were accustomed to watch the reflex of the inner corner of his eye could no longer see it. Nature had grown a little white whisker there to conceal it; his armor was complete.

  As he was the oldest, Stahr was the youngest of the group—not by many years at this date, though he had first sat with most of these men when he was a boy wonder of twenty-two. Then, more than now, he had been a money man among money men. Then he had been able to figure costs in his head with a speed and accuracy that dazzled them—for they were not wizards or even experts in that regard, despite the popular conception of Jews in finance. Most of them owed their success to different and incompatible qualities. But in a group a tradition carries along the less adept, and they were content to look at Stahr for the sublimated auditing, and experience a sort of glow as if they had done it themselves, like rooters at a football game.

  Stahr, as will presently be seen, had grown away from that particular gift, though it was always there.

  Prince Agge sat between Stahr and Mort Fleishacker, the company lawyer, and across from Joe Popolos the theatre owner. He was hostile to Jews in a vague general way that he tried to cure himself of. As a turbulent man, serving his time in the Foreign Legion, he thought that Jews were too fond of their own skins. But he was willing to concede that they might be different in America under different circumstances, and certainly he found Stahr was much of a man in every way. For the rest—he thought most business men were dull dogs—for final reference he reverted always to the blood of Bernadotte in his veins.

  My father—I will call him Mr. Brady, as Prince Agge did when he told me of this luncheon—was worried about a picture, and when Leanbaum went out early, he came up and took his chair opposite.

  “How about the South America picture idea, Monroe?” he asked.

  Prince Agge noticed a blink of attention toward them as distinct as if a dozen pairs of eyelashes had made the sound of batting wings. Then silence again.

  “We’re going ahead with it,” said Stahr.

  “With that same budget?” Brady asked.

  Stahr nodded.

  “It’s out of proportion,” said Brady. “There won’t be any miracle in these bad times—no Hell’s Angels or Ben Hur, when you throw it away and get it back.”

  Probably the attack was planned, for Popolos, the Greek, took up the matter in a sort of double talk.

  “It’s not adoptable, Monroe, in as we wish adopt to this times in as it changes. It what could be done as we run the gamut of prosperity is scarcely conceptuable now.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Marcus?” asked Stahr.

  All eyes followed his down the table, but, as if forewarned, Mr. Marcus had already signalled his private waiter behind him that he wished to rise, and was even now in a basket-like position in the waiter’s arms. He looked at them with such helplessness that it was hard to realize that in the evenings he sometimes went dancing with his young Canadian girl.

  “Monroe is our production genuis,” he said. “I count upon Monroe and lean heavily upon him. I have not seen the flood myself.”

  There was a moment of silence as he moved from the room.

  “There’s not a two million dollar gross in the country now,” said Brady.

  “Is not,” agreed Popolos. “Even as if so you could grab them by the head and push them by and in, is not.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Stahr. He paused as if to make sure that all were listening. “I think we can count on a million and a quarter from the road-show. Perhaps a million and a half altogether. And a quarter of a million abroad.”

  Again there was silence—this time puzzled, a little confused. Over his shoulder Stahr asked the waiter to be connected with his office on the phone.

  “But your budget?” said Fleishacker. “Your budget is seventeen hundred and fifty thousand, I understand. And your expectations only add up to that without profit.”

  “Those aren’t my expectations,” said Stahr. “We’re not sure of more than a million and a half.”

  The room had grown so motionless that Prince Agge could hear a grey chunk of ash fall from a cigar in midair. Fleishacker started to speak, his face fixed with amazement, but a phone had been handed over Stahr’s shoulder.

  “Your office, Mr. Stahr.”

  “Oh, yes—oh, hello, Miss Doolan. I’ve figured it out about Zavras. It’s one of these lousy rumors—I’ll bet my shirt on it…. Oh, you did. Good…. good. Now here’s what to do: send him to my oculist this afternoon—Dr. John Kennedy—and have him get a report and have it photostated—you understand?”

  He hung up—turned with a touch of passion to the table at large.

  “Did any of you ever hear a story that Pete Zavras was going blind?”

  There were a couple of nods. But most of those present were poised breathlessly on whether Stahr had slipped on his figures a minute before.

  “It’s pure bunk. He says he’s never even been to an oculist—never knew why the studios turned against him,” said Stahr. “Somebody didn’t like him or somebody talked too much, and he’s been out of work for a year.”

  There was a conventional murmur of sympathy. Stahr signed the check and made as though to get up.

  “Excuse me, Monroe,” said Fleishacker persistently, while Brady and Popolos watched. “I’m fairly new here, and perhaps I fail to comprehend implicitly and explicitly.” He was talking fast, but the veins on his forehead bulged with pride at the big words from N. Y. U. “Do I understand you to say you expect to gross a quarter million short of your budget?”

  “It’s a quality picture,” said Stahr with assumed innocence.

  It had dawned on them all now, but they still felt there was a trick in it. Stahr really tho
ught it would make money. No one in his senses—–

  “For two years we’ve played safe,” said Stahr. “It’s time we made a picture that’ll lose some money. Write it off as good will—this’ll bring in new customers.”

  Some of them still thought he meant it was a flyer and a favorable one, but he left them in no doubt.

  “It’ll lose money,” he said as he stood up, his jaw just slightly out and his eyes smiling and shining. “It would be a bigger miracle than Hell’s Angels if it broke even. But we have a certain duty to the public, as Pat Brady has said at Academy dinners. It’s a good thing for the production schedule to slip in a picture that’ll lose money.”

  He nodded at Prince Agge. As the latter made his bows quickly, he tried to take in with a last glance the general effect of what Stahr said, but he could tell nothing. The eyes, not so much downcast as fixed upon an indefinite distance just above the table, were all blinking quickly now, but there was not a whisper in the room.

  Coming out of the private dining room, they passed through a corner of the commissary proper. Prince Agge drank it in—eagerly. It was gay with gypsies and with citizens and soldiers, with the sideburns and braided coats of the First Empire. From a little distance they were men who lived and walked a hundred years ago, and Agge wondered how he and the men of his time would look as extras in some future costume picture.

  Then he saw Abraham Lincoln, and his whole feeling suddenly changed. He had been brought up in the dawn of Scandinavian socialism when Nicolay’s biography was much read. He had been told Lincoln was a great man whom he should admire, and he hated him instead, because he was forced upon him. But now seeing him sitting here, his legs crossed, his kindly face fixed on a forty-cent dinner, including dessert, his shawl wrapped around him as if to protect himself from the erratic air-cooling—now Prince Agge, who was in America at last, stared as a tourist at the mummy of Lenin in the Kremlin. This, then, was Lincoln. Stahr had walked on far ahead of him, turned waiting for him—but still Agge stared.

  This, then, he thought, was what they all meant to be.

  Lincoln suddenly raised a triangle of pie and jammed it in his mouth, and, a little frightened, Prince Agge hurried to join Stahr.

  “I hope you’re getting what you want,” said Stahr, feeling he had neglected him. “We’ll have some rushes in half an hour and then you can go on to as many sets as you want.”

  “I should rather stay with you,” said Prince Agge.

  “I’ll see what there is for me,” said Stahr. “Then we’ll go on together.”

  There was the Japanese consul on the release of a spy story which might offend the national sensibilities of Japan. There were phone calls and telegrams. There was some further information from Robby.

  “Now he remembers the name of the woman. He’s sure it was Smith,” said Miss Doolan. “He asked her if she wanted to come on the lot and get some dry shoes, and she said no—so she can’t sue.”

  “That’s pretty bad for a total recall—‘Smith.’ That’s a great help.” He thought a moment: “Ask the phone company for a list of Smiths that have taken new phones here in the last month. Call them all.”

  “All right.”

  Chapter IV

  “How are you, Monroe,” said Red Ridingwood. “I’m glad you came down.”

  Stahr walked past him, heading across the great stage toward the set of a brilliant room that would be used tomorrow. Director Ridingwood followed, realizing after a moment that, however fast he walked, Stahr managed to be a step or two ahead. He recognized the indication of displeasure—he had used it himself. He had had his own studio once and he had used everything. There was no stop Stahr could pull that would surprise him. His task was the delivery of situations, and Stahr by effective business could not outplay him on his own grounds. Goldwyn had once interfered with him, and Ridingwood had led Goldwyn into trying to act out a part in front of fifty people—with the result that he had anticipated: his own authority had been restored.

  Stahr reached the brilliant set and stopped.

  “It’s no good,” said Ridingwood. “No imagination. I don’t care how you light it—–”

  “Why did you call me about it?” Stahr asked, standing close to him. “Why didn’t you take it up with Art?”

  “I didn’t ask you to come down, Monroe.”

  “You wanted to be your own supervisor.”

  “I’m sorry, Monroe,” said Ridingwood patiently, “but I didn’t ask you to come down.”

  Stahr turned suddenly and walked back toward the camera set-up. The eyes and open mouths of a group of visitors moved momentarily off the heroine of the picture, took in Stahr, and then moved vacantly back to the heroine again. They were Knights of Columbus. They had seen the host carried in procession, but this was the dream made flesh.

  Stahr stopped beside her chair. She wore a low gown which displayed the bright eczema of her chest and back. Before each take, the blemished surface was plastered over with an emollient, which was removed immediately after the take. Her hair was of the color and viscosity of drying blood, but there was starlight that actually photographed in her eyes.

  Before Stahr could speak, he heard a helpful voice behind him:

  “She’s radiunt. Absolutely radiunt.”

  It was an assistant director, and the intention was delicate compliment. The actress was being complimented so that she did not have to strain her poor skin to bend and hear. Stahr was being complimented for having her under contract. Ridingwood was being remotely complimented.

  “Everything all right?” Stahr asked her pleasantly.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” she agreed, “—except for the—–ing publicity men.”

  He winked at her gently.

  “We’ll keep them away,” he said.

  Her name had become currently synonymous with the expression “bitch.” Presumably she had modelled herself after one of those queens in the Tarzan comics who rule mysteriously over a nation of blacks. She regarded the rest of the world as black. She was a necessary evil, borrowed for a single picture.

  Ridingwood walked with Stahr toward the door of the stage.

  “Everything’s all right,” the director said. “She’s as good as she can be.”

  They were out of hearing range, and Stahr stopped suddenly and looked at Red with blazing eyes.

  “You’ve been photographing crap,” he said. “Do you know what she reminds me of in the rushes—‘Miss Foodstuffs.’”

  “I’m trying to get the best performance—–”

  “Come along with me,” said Stahr abruptly.

  “With you? Shall I tell them to rest?”

  “Leave it as it is,” said Stahr, pushing the padded outer door.

  His car and chauffeur waited outside. Minutes were precious most days.

  “Get in,” said Stahr.

  Red knew now it was serious. He even knew all at once what was the matter. The girl had got the whip hand on him the first day with her cold lashing tongue. He was a peace-loving man and he had let her walk through her part cold rather than cause trouble.

  Stahr spoke into his thoughts.

  “You can’t handle her,” he said. “I told you what I wanted. I wanted her mean—and she comes out bored. I’m afraid we’ll have to call it off, Red.”

  “The picture?”

  “No. I’m putting Harley on it.”

  “All right, Monroe.”

  “I’m sorry, Red. We’ll try something else another time.”

  The car drew up in front of Stahr’s office.

  “Shall I finish this take?” said Red.

  “It’s being done now,” said Stahr grimly. “Harley’s in there.”

  “What the hell—–”

  “He went in when we came out. I had him read the script last night.”

  “Now listen, Monroe—–”

  “It’s my busy day, Red,” said Stahr, tersely. “You lost interest about three days ago.”

  It was a sorry mess, Ri
dingwood thought. It meant he would have slight, very slight loss of position—it probably meant that he could not have a third wife just now as he had planned. There wasn’t even the satisfaction of raising a row about it—if you disagreed with Stahr, you did not advertise it. Stahr was his world’s great customer, who was always—almost always—right.

  “How about my coat?” he asked suddenly. “I left it over a chair on the set.”

  “I know you did,” said Stahr. “Here it is.”

  He was trying so hard to be charitable about Ridingwood’s lapse that he had forgotten that he had it in his hand.

  “Mr. Stahr’s Projection Room” was a miniature picture theatre with four rows of overstuffed chairs. In front of the front row ran long tables with dim lamps, buzzers and telephones. Against the wall was an upright piano, left there since the early days of sound. The room had been redecorated and reupholstered only a year before, but already it was ragged again with work and hours.

  Here Stahr sat at two-thirty and again at six-thirty watching the lengths of film taken during the day. There was often a savage tensity about the occasion—he was dealing with faits accomplis—the net result of months of buying, planning, writing and rewriting, casting, constructing, lighting, rehearsing and shooting—the fruit of brilliant hunches or of counsels of despair, of lethargy, conspiracy and sweat. At this point the tortuous manœuvre was staged and in suspension—these were reports from the battle-line.

  Besides Stahr, there were present the representatives of all technical departments, together with the supervisors and unit managers of the pictures concerned. The directors did not appear at these showings—officially because their work was considered done, actually because few punches were pulled here as money ran out in silver spools. There had evolved a delicate staying away.