The Dream Merchants

by Harold Robbins

  She was smiling back at him. They understood each other.

  11

  The phone on Johnny’s desk began to ring urgently. He picked it up. Jane’s voice came crackling through it. “Vittorio Guido is on the phone, Johnny,” she said.

  Johnny hesitated a moment. What did Vic want? The note wasn’t due for another week. He shrugged his shoulders. Might as well ask for an extension now as then. He wouldn’t have the money anyway until the picture came out and that didn’t look like a possibility for another month and a half. “Okay, put him on,” he said.

  He heard the phone clicking, then Vic’s heavy voice. For a change Vic’s voice was hearty, almost human. “Hello, Johnny?”

  “Hello, Vic,” he replied. “How are you?”

  “Never better,” Vic replied. “And you?”

  “Okay,” Johnny answered. He waited for Vic to come to the point. Suddenly he started. A thought had just come to him. Al. Had something happened to Al? He began to speak again, but Vic’s voice cut him off.

  “I just called to remind you about your note, Johnny,” he said. “It’s due next week, you know.”

  Johnny sank back into his seat. He didn’t know whether to be happy or sorry. He felt a wave of relief sweep over him that there hadn’t been anything the matter with Al. “I know, Vic,” he answered quietly. “I was going to call you on it.”

  There was a strange change in Vic’s voice. A note of anxiety seemed to creep into it. “You have the money to meet it?” he asked.

  “No, Vic,” Johnny answered. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’d like an extension.”

  The anxiety seemed to leave Vic’s voice and again it was genial and hearty. “I’m sorry, Johnny, but I can’t,” he said carefully. “We ran into a rough situation out here lately and the board won’t approve my extensions without additional collateral being offered.”

  “Holy Christ!” Johnny exploded. “How much collateral do they want anyhow? Isn’t one hundred and thirty-three percent good enough for them?”

  “I don’t make the rules, Johnny,” Vic protested mildly. “You know that.”

  “But, Vic, I can’t afford to lose that stock,” Johnny protested. “It’s more important than ever now!”

  “Maybe you can raise the money somewhere else to cover it,” Vic suggested.

  “That’s impossible,” Johnny said. “I haven’t any place to turn for dough like that.”

  “Well, try anyway,” Vic told him. “I’d hate like hell to sell that stock out from under you. Though of course you won’t lose anything by it. If we get anything over the excess of the loan, we just deduct the interest and credit the rest to your account.”

  “That’s not the idea,” Johnny said. “I don’t care about the money, that’s not the important thing. I need the stock.”

  Vic’s voice was hesitant but strong. There was a sound in it that seemed to give it a double meaning. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Johnny,” Vic said. “Keep in touch with me if anything breaks.”

  “Yeanh, Vic,” Johnny said dryly.

  “So long, Johnny,” Vic said. His voice was cheerful.

  “So long, Vic.” Johnny stared at the dead phone in his hand. Vic would see what he could do for him all right. He knew just where he stood with that guy. For a moment he thought of calling Al at the ranch. Then something inside him rebelled at the thought. He couldn’t be running to Al all his life every time he was in trouble. He was old enough to stand on his own feet. He put the phone down. Maybe everything would turn out all right anyway. Mark had said that Ronsen hadn’t picked up anything out at the studio. He hoped Mark was right for once. But deep inside him he knew he was wishing with one hand and reaching for the moon with the other.

  ***

  Vic put down the phone and smiled across his desk at his visitor. “It looks as if you will get that stock, Mr. Ronsen,” he said slowly.

  Ronsen smiled. “I’m glad, Mr. Guido.” He looked right across the desk at Vic. “I must admit that it will be a great relief to me personally when Magnum is once again operating in the manner it should. I can’t stand seeing a business being operated in such a slipshod way.”

  Vic looked at him. “I agree with you perfectly, Mr. Ronsen,” he said. “I feel very much the same way about it. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Santos they wouldn’t have one cent in loans from us.”

  “You can rest assured, Mr. Guido,” Ronsen said, getting to his feet, “that under proper auspices Magnum will again be in a position to discharge its obligations to you. I will see to that myself.”

  Vic lumbered from his chair. “I will be in touch with you next week, then,” he said.

  Ronsen nodded. “That’s right. Next week.”

  Vic walked to the door with him. Maybe now Al would believe him when he said that Johnny wasn’t such pumpkins.

  ***

  Johnny stared up into the night. He couldn’t sleep. His talk with Vic had disturbed him more than he had realized. He sat up in bed and switched on the light. He looked at the phone.

  The call went through quickly. In a few seconds Doris’s voice was answering. “Johnny!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you called!”

  He smiled at the happy note in her voice. “I had to cry on somebody’s shoulder, sweetheart, and I figured it might as well be yours,” he said wryly.

  A note of concern leaped into her voice. “Why, darling, what’s wrong?”

  He told of his conversation with Vic.

  “Does that mean he will sell the stock away from you?” she asked.

  “That’s just what it means, sweetheart,” he replied.

  “Why, that’s wicked!” she cried. “If he’ll only wait, he’ll get his filthy money back!”

  “I think Vic knows that as well as we do,” Johnny said, his voice bitter. “But he just wants to make things as tough for me as he possibly can.”

  “The beast!” she exclaimed. “I have a good mind to call him up and tell him off!”

  He almost laughed at the fierce note that seemed to leap into her voice. Unaccountably he began to feel better. There was no real reason for him to do so, nothing had changed. She seemed to be very close to him suddenly, almost as if she were in the room with him. “You’d better not, sweetheart,” he said to her. “It wouldn’t help anyway. All we can do is wait and see what happens.”

  “Johnny, I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded perilously close to tears.

  Now he was reassuring her. “Don’t worry about it, sugar,” he said consolingly. “It’s not your fault.”

  “But, Johnny,” she wailed unhappily, “everything’s going wrong. Papa’s mad at you. Vic won’t give you back the stock. The business is in trouble.” She sniffed into the phone.

  “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said consolingly. “Everything will turn out all right.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Do you really think so, Johnny?” she asked in a small, doubtful voice.

  “Sure I do,” he lied magnificently. His voice rang with assurance he did not feel.

  Her voice perked up. “Then as soon as Papa gets over being mad at you,” she said, “we can get married!”

  He smiled into the phone. “Sooner if you like, sweetheart,” he replied.

  ***

  The telegram lay on his desk when he got back from lunch. He picked it up and tore it open. He sank into a chair as he read it. A chill seemed to be running through him. It was over. Vic had sold him out. He clenched his fist suddenly. The bastard! He didn’t believe he would do it. But he did, damn him!

  He read the telegram again:

  DEAR JOHNNY, REGRET NECESSITY FOR DOING SO BUT HAVE SOLD COLLATERAL TODAY FOR ONE MILLION DOLLARS PLUS ACCRUED INTEREST ON YOUR NOTE. BALANCE OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND PLACED TO YOUR ACCOUNT. AWAIT YOUR ORDERS AS TO DISPOSITION OF SAME. REGARDS, VIC.

  He crumpled the telegram angrily in his fist and threw it into the basket under his desk. Await his orders as to disposition. He knew what he would tell hi
m to do with it if he could. He could take the God-damn dough and shove it. One dollar at a time.

  ***

  Mark came into the room just as Doris folded the letter. He looked down at her, smiling. “From the boyfriend?” he asked pleasantly.

  She looked up as if she was seeing him for the first time. “Yes,” she answered in a dull voice.

  “What’s he got to say?” he asked curiously.

  She looked away from him. “Vic Guido sold him out yesterday,” she said in the same toneless voice.

  “He did?” Mark’s voice was filled with surprise.

  She nodded her head.

  “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 rushing 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 God 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 lustrous 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. “Hello, 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.

&n
bsp; “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 class. She didn’t know of anyone who had any real respect for him. Behind his back they continually snickered and tore him apart.