Dotty was in pale yellow chiffon, looking appealingly summery, but neither chiffon nor a pinafore could disguise her essential and basic attraction.
Sex surged from her appraising eyes, her sinuous movements, her sultry voice. She was no brain, but before settling down with Harry she had attracted some of the gentlemen who passed for brains in this superficial town. She had been squired, also, by old, young and medium-aged male stars whose choice was wide and opportunities endless.
She had a reputation as a girl who truly enjoyed the bed, a rarity among those who used their bodies to aspire to high places. What she lacked in intellect, she more than made up in cunning.
Harry said, “Stop staring at my wife, Steve, and name your poison.” He patted a portable bar, complete with mechanical refrigeration. “Dotty’s anniversary present to me.”
“I had no idea it’s been a year,” Marcia said.
“It hasn’t,” Harry said. “Six months, it’s been.” He winked at Steve. “That’s kind of a record for me.”
Genial opening touch, Steve thought. At least we’re starting as friends. He asked casually, “Where’s our writer?”
“He’ll be along,” Harry answered. “I wanted to talk to you first, Steve. You see, Dave’s young and kind of artistic and we’re going to have to go easy on him.”
“A Princeton boy,” Dotty put in. “You know how it is with Princeton boys …”
Marcia said sweetly, “No. Tell us how it is, Dotty, with Princeton boys?”
For a moment Steve stood rigidly, shocked and frightened.
Then Harry’s guffaw broke the tension. “That Marcia! She kills me. Oh man, Steve, you’ve got one there!”
Steve looked at his wife appraisingly. He had one there, remarks for all occasions, personalities for all gatherings, an astute and daring darling.
“She kills me, too, at times,” he admitted and began to breathe again.
They talked about David Louis Sidney then and it was standard enough. David was still conscious of Princeton. He had published a few short stories and one slim novel before coming to work in Hollywood.
Harry said, “He admires you, Steve. I think it would be better, maybe, if you brought him around to our way of thinking. I’m just his dumb uncle, to him.”
Steve nodded. He paused before saying, “Harry, how much leeway do I get with this picture?”
Bergdahl looked at his wife and back at Steve. He licked his lips. “I phoned you, didn’t I? I know how independent you can be, but I called you. What can I promise? I never had a lemon, Steve; you got to remember that.”
“I remember it. And I’m aware that there are a lot of directors currently unemployed. But if we’re at cross-purposes, Harry, nothing good can come out of this for either of us.”
Bergdahl’s smile was purely facial. “You figure me for a dumb uncle, too, huh?”
Steve shook his head. “I find it hard to say what has to be said, Harry. I — want us to understand each other.”
Dotty smiled vapidly. Marcia watched them intently. Bergdahl inclined his head back and his big jaw came up almost defiantly. “I can say it. You’re the artist. I’m the cornball. That’s where I built my reputation, on corn. Maybe today the market ain’t so good for corn. Maybe I even need you more than you need me. But I raised the money and I’m still the producer. I’ll give a lot of thought to every change you want and respect it. But I will still be the producer.”
There was a static moment all around before Steve smiled and said, “Harry, I would be extremely uncomfortable any time I sensed that you weren’t being all producer. I think we’re going to get along.”
“Sure we are,” Bergdahl said jovially. “Hell, yes. Here, let me mix you a drink.”
After that, the problem of David Louis Sidney turned out to be no problem at all. He was young and impressionable, and he was a Steven Leander fan. Every suggestion Steve made for a script change was eagerly agreed to by Sidney.
And then, to cap the evening, he told Steve, as he and Marcia were leaving, “I want to say that I consider it a great privilege to be able to work with you, Mr. Leander.”
Steve smiled and winked at Harry. He said, “Dave, your uncle will agree with me, I’m sure, when I tell you it is a great privilege to be able to work at all in the industry today.”
Harry laughed and Dotty giggled and the Leanders left them laughing.
In the car Marcia said, “You do have the cleverest exit lines. You soaped everyone with that last line, didn’t you?”
“It was a bone for Harry. It was a winner’s gesture, dear.”
“I see. Did Harry tell you he had insured this Hart Jameson’s life for a quarter of a million dollars?”
“Harry didn’t tell me, but I knew he was trying to. The investigator for the insurance company came to see me this morning.”
“Why? Why should he come to see you?”
“Because,” Steve answered smugly, “he wanted to be sure I’d be connected with the picture. That way, he’d know there’d be no financial shenanigans. On account of my integrity, as he explained.”
“Brother …!” Marcia said. “Aren’t we something!” She took a deep breath. “Steve, you did come out on top, didn’t you?”
“Temporarily.”
“Is there any hope of making it a — worth-while picture?”
“More now than there was three hours ago. But, as I said, my dominance is only temporary.” He paused. “Young Sidney told me that his friends at Princeton considered me one of the three great directors out here.”
Marcia yawned. “Maybe he didn’t have many friends at Princeton. Don’t get smug. Young David may be a fan of yours — but he’s Harry’s nephew.”
“I’ll never be able to get smug,” he assured her. “Not while I’m married to you.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. At home, as the garage door opened and he drove into the lighted garage, Marcia said softly, “We could have saved money, couldn’t we? We could be fat and solvent right now if we were different people.”
“We’re what we are,” he said. “You were born rich and I was born hungry.”
They walked quietly through the kitchen, through the entry hall and down the hall that led past the children’s empty bedrooms. The children were at summer camp.
At their bedroom door, Steve said, “I’m going to sit up for a while. I want to go over that story again.”
“Kiss me good night then.” He kissed her.
She said, “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it, all in all?”
“Pretty good.”
“Then why am I frightened?”
“I don’t know. Everybody is. Everybody. Go to sleep now. Forget about tomorrow.”
In his study, he sat for a while without looking at the script, vaguely disturbed. It couldn’t be only his temporary insolvency that nagged at him; despite his income through the good years they had always ridden the precarious edge of insolvency. It was a part of the local pattern.
Was there some threat beyond the financial, something in his now almost firm alliance with Harry Bergdahl? Harry was only a man trying to survive and he needed Steven Leander for that. Steve picked up the script and began to read.
He didn’t get to bed until two o’clock. And there he had a long and involved dream of searching a mammoth parking lot for his Bentley and not being able to remember where he had parked it. Finally, in his dream, he found the battered, rusty Model T Ford that had been his father’s pride for years.
THREE
Hart Jameson’s signing for the new picture was mentioned in Hedda Hopper’s column next morning. Hedda didn’t bite on the promotional gimmick of the insurance policy, but the paper’s local cinema columnist gave it a paragraph. In this account Jameson was identified as “that exciting newcomer who caused such a sensation in Sunburst Alley.”
Across the breakfast table from him, Marcia said, “You’re happy again. You’re never happy when you’re not functioning, are you?”
“I’m happy,” he agreed. “I’m going to take my coffee into the study. Send Dave in when he comes.”
Dave Sidney arrived at ten o’clock and they spent the next two hours on the story changes and projected screenplay. Steve had no reason to complain about the young man’s willingness to rewrite. What disturbed him was his doubt about Dave’s ability to produce credible dialogue. With luck, that could be corrected off the cuff and on the set. With luck — and coöperation from Harry Bergdahl. Some producers could be hard-nosed about sticking to the final shooting script.
He said to Dave, “Lines that look good in print often don’t come over when voiced. I hope Harry won’t be difficult about any impromptu changes.”
David Louis Sidney smiled knowingly. “My uncle isn’t going to interfere with you, Steve. Don’t give it another thought.”
“What made you say that? How can you be sure?”
“I explained it all to Uncle Harry. About your four years of screen writing and my hope I could learn the trade under you. I have his promise that he won’t interfere with us.”
“Well,” Steve said. “Well, thank you! You’ve earned yourself a free lunch. We’ve done enough for one morning.”
Everything was working out. There would be some friction, he knew, but the basic conflicts he had anticipated were not developing. The enthusiasm he needed came back.
He viewed some film on Hart Jameson that afternoon. The youth was photogenic and intense. His technique showed a gaucherie that careful direction could eliminate.
Steve came home to his dinner well pleased with his day. His agent had battled to an advantageous contract with Harry, and he knew his star was going to work out.
He came home to his dinner and a phone call from Laura Spain. She had been the star of his first picture, and the box-office magic of her name had been an important part of the picture’s success. She had required masterful make-up to play an ingénue even then; she cherished the illusion that she still could.
She said brightly, “I’m looking for work, Steve, and I heard you were casting a Harry Bergdahl picture.”
“All the good parts are cast, Laura,” he lied.
A silence and then she said quietly, “I’m not looking for a good part. I’m looking for work, Steve. I mean any kind of work.”
Embarrassment touched him. “Don’t talk like that. Your name has value only as long as you think it has.”
“I’m not thinking of my name these days,” she said. “I’m really broke.”
His embarrassment deepened but he kept his voice casual. “In that case, let’s talk about it. Why don’t you come over and have dinner with us? We’d love to see you again. We’ll be eating in about an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” she promised, “with last year’s bells on. I’m serious about needing work, Steve.”
“We’ll talk about it,” he said.
Marcia was out at the pool. Steve went out to tell her Laura was coming for dinner.
“She phoned twice this afternoon,” Marcia told him. “I hope you’re not soft enough to give her a job in that picture.”
He stared at his wife. “Why the sudden animosity? I thought you liked Laura.”
“I do. But she is perhaps the world’s third worst actress, as both of us know.”
“She’s a star,” Steve explained, “not an actress. Often, that’s more important. Anyone can learn to act. Stars are born.”
“Loyal, loyal Steve,” Marcia teased. “Mix me a martini.”
• • •
Laura came before they had finished their drinks. She was still fashionably slim and her face still held the delicate bone structure that had been her fortune.
She kissed Marcia and held Steve’s hand for a long time. Steve asked, “Drink?”
She shook her head sadly. “No, thank you. Not an ounce for eleven months. It was — becoming — a problem.” Her smile was falsely bright. “That’s just between us, of course.”
Steve felt the same empathic embarrassment he had felt while talking with her on the phone. Now, in sudden decision, he said, “I’ve been thinking of you since we talked, Laura. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could handle the mother in this epic. Are you ready for mothers?”
“I’m ready for maids,” she said. “I’m strapped, honey.”
“Well, don’t admit it to Harry Bergdahl,” he advised her. “I’m going to phone him right now.”
Harry wasn’t home. Dotty told Steve that he was out on the town with his Texans, and heaven only knew when he would be home.
“Would you have him call me, honey, if he gets in before midnight? I’ve just had an inspirational idea for casting the mother in our masterpiece.”
“I’ll tell him, sweet,” Dotty answered. A pause. “Give my love to Marcia — if she’s listening.”
Steve hung up and smiled at his wife. “Dotty sends her love. If you’re listening.”
Marcia sniffed. “And what was the ‘honey’ for? That’s not Leander terminology.”
“Dotty isn’t standard,” Steve explained. He looked at Laura. “Right, Miss Spain?”
“I’ll say she isn’t,” Laura agreed. “That’s how Harry is able to sign up these young actors so cheaply. They all come over to sniff around Dotty. That’s how he hooked Hart Jameson. And Brad Amherst — for that last horror picture of his.”
Steve finished his drink and said, “You’re an incurable gossip, Laura. Let’s get to the food.”
It was an enjoyable dinner, spiced by the reminiscences of Laura’s classic and multitudinous feuds, warmed by nostalgia for a better time.
At eleven-thirty Bergdahl returned his call. Steve said, “I think I can get Laura Spain for the mother. How does that sound to you, Harry?”
“Expensive,” Bergdahl answered. “Look, I’m a little drunko right now. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
Steve hung up and faced the anxious gaze of Laura. He said, “Harry’s too drunk to think tonight. He did say he thought you might be expensive.”
“But he’s interested?”
“I’m sure he is. Now don’t fret about it. You get a good night’s sleep, and Harry will probably phone your agent in the morning.”
She leaned over to kiss him. “Bless you, Steve. You’re one of the anointed.”
• • •
In the dark and quiet house Steve lay awake, planning. He thought of the children, away at summer camp; he thought of his Sue, aged nine, away from home for the first year, sleeping so far from him.
He thought of Harry Bergdahl and John Abbot and Laura and Dotty. He fell asleep thinking about Dotty and was glad that Marcia couldn’t read his mind.
In the morning he had another session with Dave Sidney that went well. Dave’s ineptness was due to lack of experience, not lack of discernment, and Steve no longer worried about their ability to work together.
He phoned Harry right after lunch and Harry told him, “I was talking to Dotty about Laura Spain. Dotty thinks she’s poison for a picture.”
Steve kept his voice casual. “I see. And what do you think about her, Harry?”
A pause. “I don’t know. Have her come in and talk to me, huh? Maybe, if she’s cheap enough …”
“I’ll call her agent,” Steve said. “Everything else going all right, Harry?”
Another pause. “You heard something different?”
“Not a thing,” Steve said lightly. “Should I have heard something different?”
“I’m having a little trouble with one of my pigeons. I worked on him four hours last night. Could you raise some quick money, Steve?”
Was this a test, a gauge of Steve’s need? He said easily, “I couldn’t even raise any slow money, Harry. Uncle Sam is living in my pocket.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” Harry said. “Well, don’t worry. Half of it is solid, and the other boy is beginning to soften. You get together with Dave and get that script straightened around. Okay?”
“Right,” Steve said.
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Then he went into Hollywood to have lunch with his agent, and learned he was lucky to be working. All the live drama shows on TV were being dropped; the filmed shows already under the control of various studio hacks. Hollywood exhibitor production was down forty percent from the corresponding period of last year, and last year hadn’t been a world-beater.
This picture had to be made and it had to be successful. Viewing it as objectively as possible, Steve knew it could easily be the most important crisis in his career.
FOUR
They began shooting on a Monday, and the first straw in the wind was the nonappearance of Hart Jameson. Steve had talked with Jameson Friday and learned he had signed his contract. The lad had made no mention of not being able to make the Monday call.
At ten o’clock Bergdahl told Steve to go ahead with the scenes that didn’t include Jameson. Steve had spent the day working with Laura and the other principals.
He was working with a cast of highly receptive professionals and a cameraman who knew his trade. Things went as well as anyone could expect for a first day’s shooting.
Tuesday and Wednesday they were on location in Santa Barbara, and five more days of shooting had been planned for that city. Hart Jameson had not appeared.
Wednesday evening Laura came back from Santa Barbara in Steve’s car. It had been a grueling day, hot and full of retakes, and Laura was unusually quiet.
As they came into Ventura, Steve said, “You’re doing very well, trouper. Was I rough on you today?”
“No. Even when you are, you always make sense to me. I was thinking about Jameson, wondering about him. Aren’t you?”
“Yes. But no gossip now. It’s been a hot day.”
“All right,” she said wearily. “All right!”
They were past Ventura and approaching Oxnard when Steve said, “Okay, let’s have it.”
Laura took a breath. “Well, first, you know he had a criminal record, of course?”
“Not quite a criminal record. A juvenile delinquency record a few years back, yes.”
Death Out of Focus Page 2
