Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  “That sounds fine, Mr. Rosen. We’ll both be here. For now, though, I’d like a pass to go about the studio lot. Strictly as an observer.”

  Sol winced. There was nothing he could do but issue the pass and usher the ganef out of his office. His stomach rumbled ominously as he closed the door. So now he was going to have an office assistant and a legal department. But things could be worse. A lot worse, he consoled himself. How the hell could this scheming little snotnose save him money, he wondered. And how long would it be until his report went out to Mickey Fonsard? He pushed the thought out of his mind. What he would do now was go home to Benedict Canyon, pack up his ledgers and the studio contracts, and bring them back so Tarz’s pal would have something to look at. How much savvy could a green kid like Bishop have? He wasn’t even in law school yet. All he had to remember was that this was his company, and he ran it the only way he knew how. Maybe Tarz wasn’t a spy after all. “And they get ice water in hell,” he muttered as he struggled back into his jacket.

  Reuben meandered around the studio lot, stopping along the way to introduce himself. His bone-crushing handshake made more than one department head flinch. And when he announced his name and title, he saw fear in every face. Or was it apprehension? Reuben decided he liked the feeling of power he was arousing. How much was due to his image and how much to his title?

  So far he’d been to five departments—prop, carpentry, electrical, camera, and editing. Lunch was being served in the dining hall via a caterer when he arrived and introduced himself. He glanced at the silver serving dishes and fine china, then picked up the menu to see what was being served. Mongole soup, steak, lyonnaise potatoes, stewed tomatoes, garden salad, and floating island for dessert. The reverse side read simply hamburgers and weiners, obviously for everyone else.

  “Who pays for this?” Reuben asked curiously.

  John Carlyle, the head director, looked up. He was a small man, round from his neck to his ankles. “The…the studio,” he said. Reuben thought he could see the man’s hair bristling at the question.

  “Who eats the hamburgers and weiners?”

  Carlyle shrugged. “My helpers, the cast, anyone who wants them.”

  “Who pays for them?”

  Carlyle lowered his fork onto his plate. “They do.” Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore. He smiled uncomfortably, waiting for the next question.

  “Is there a personnel folder on you in the office, John?” The man nodded numbly. Reuben smiled, a cat with a mouthful of feathers. “Good…. Enjoy your lunch, John. It’s all right to call you John, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, sure. Is it okay to call you Reuben?”

  “No.” Reuben said, and sauntered off, his hands still in his trouser pockets. By nightfall, he knew, every department head would be storming Sol’s office. He laughed, a deep, rich sound that made scurrying actors and actresses turn for a second look.

  The casting, art, and costume departments took up the rest of Reuben’s afternoon. When he walked out of the studio at five-thirty, he had a working knowledge of what was going on. He itched to dive in with both hands and feet.

  Max Gould’s plastered-down eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch when Reuben walked through the door at six ten and straddled a chair next to the bar. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “It’s yours,” Max said, puzzled. He jerked his head at the bartender, who immediately set out a cup of coffee. Max hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “You looking for a run tonight?”

  “No, I just came for coffee. It’s good,” he said, surprised.

  “We grind it fresh every day. It’s good you aren’t looking for a run because I don’t have one today. Tomorrow I will, okay?” Reuben nodded. “You get a job? You look like one of those guys that strolls around on a golf course on his day off.”

  Reuben listened for disapproval but heard only genuine interest in Max’s voice. “I start tomorrow. I’ll be Sol Rosen’s assistant at Fairmont Studios.”

  “That’s not too shabby. Are they paying you decent money?”

  “Pretty decent.”

  “So how long you think it’ll take you to start running things or even taking over the place?” Max laughed.

  Reuben thought about the question before he answered. “A year, give or take a month or so. You want to lay a bet on the time or what? Good coffee,” Reuben said, tossing a dime on the bar.

  Again Max laughed, but this time he stopped when he saw Reuben’s eyes. “I’m not laughing at you, Tarz, I’m laughing with you. You take over that place and I’ll clean up. Sure, I’ll make book on it. Why the hell not?”

  Reuben smiled. “Why the hell not,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Max. Good night.”

  Max snapped his suspenders, making a loud noise just as Eli Rosen walked through the door. The young man’s face was a splotchy red. He was trying to grow a mustache and constantly caressed the nubby hairs with his index finger. “I thought I told you to use the back door,” Max growled. “Are you trying to give this place a bad name?”

  “You got nothing but a mud hole out back. And garbage,” Eli whined. “You want to know how much I paid for these shoes? I ain’t ruining them even for you, Max. How about a drink and something to eat?”

  “Did Daddy give you your allowance today?” Max hated this kid with a passion, but he did bring in business. Compared with Reuben Tarz, Eli was nothing—a pimple on the ass of life. “I see your old man hired on an assistant. Does this mean he’s finally going big time?”

  Eli ignored him. Max knew Sol Rosen never confided in his son—the question was just one way of giving him a hard time. “So whatcha got for me tonight, Maxie baby?”

  Max wanted to tell Eli he had a king-size package of gift-wrapped horseshit, but he didn’t. There were times, like now, when he needed this slimy, greasy little weasel. He motioned in the direction of his table in the back.

  Eli calmly slid off the stool and followed Max. News traveled fast. If he was patient, by the end of the night he’d have the scoop on his father’s new assistant, whoever he was. If Max weren’t waiting for him, and he didn’t have what he thought was a tough-guy image to protect, he would have run outside and kicked the building and punched his fist through a window. How many times had he begged to work in the front office of the studios? Christ, he’d actually groveled to his father—but the bastard had only laughed at him. Now he felt like crying as he sauntered back to Max’s private table.

  Reuben decided to sit on one of the green-striped benches while he waited for the bus. His leg was aching, and he hadn’t eaten since that morning. All things considered, though, he was pleased with the way the day had gone. Later in the evening, after a long, hot bath, he would work on his schedule for tomorrow. His head was buzzing with ideas. Relaxed now, almost sleepy, he closed his eyes against the soft twilight—and a moment later he felt rather than saw a man sit down next to him.

  “Beautiful evening,” said a distinct voice. “That’s one of the things I like about California. Damian Farrell here.”

  Reuben stirred and turned. “Reuben Tarz,” he said, offering his hand. “It is a beautiful night. New York was never like this, even in the summer. I’m getting used to this weather real fast.”

  “You look familiar,” Farrell said.

  “I was going to say the same thing about you. Have we met?”

  “I work at Fairmont Studios. I’m an actor, maybe you saw one of my films.” His voice sounded apologetic.

  “I haven’t seen many films lately. I’ve been in France and just got back. Maybe I saw you at the studio today. I start work there tomorrow myself.”

  Farrell snapped his fingers. “You’re right. You’re the guy that gave Jack Carlyle heart palpitations. That man is the worst director I’ve ever worked with.”

  Reuben nodded slightly. You always learn more when you listen, Mickey had said. He listened.

  “I’ve worked under a few, some worse, some better. Carlyle is Rosen’s wife’s nephew—was,
actually, she’s dead now. Most of the studios have this nepotism thing. If they’d only hire people that know what the hell they’re doing, things would pick up. I’m thinking of moving on since my contract will be up in another two months. I want to do something…important. I’ve got some great ideas, but no one in the front office will listen. I can’t get past Carlyle. Say, what kind of contract did they offer you?”

  Reuben laughed. “I’m not an actor. I’m going to be Rosen’s assistant. Tell me more about your ideas.”

  Neither man paid attention as bus after bus pulled to the curb and then glided away. Lavender faded to charcoal as night fell, and still the men talked, quietly at first, then excitedly. The moon crept behind its cloud cover and sailed across the spangled sky, and still the men made no move to leave. When Reuben finally looked at his pocket watch it was ten-thirty. “I think we missed the last bus,” he said, grinning. The two men stood and shook hands, with Reuben promising to put Farrell’s ideas into the works. The chance meeting was the beginning of a friendship that was to last all their lives.

  The small kitchen in the apartment was fragrant with the smell of fried onions and peppers, Daniel’s favorite. One end of the table was set for Reuben while at the other end Daniel pored over one of the law books that had been Mickey’s gift to him.

  Reuben entered the kitchen like a whirlwind. Daniel looked up and blinked. His friend exuded excitement, an excitement he obviously couldn’t wait to share. Daniel closed his mouth as Reuben sat down, his plate full.

  “Wait till you hear this, Dan’l,” he said between mouthfuls of food. “I met this guy, Damian Farrell, who’s one of Fairmont’s biggest actors. He was just sitting there waiting for the bus like me. We got to talking, and he said his contract was up in two months and he’s thinking about moving on.

  “He has an idea,” Reuben continued enthusiastically, “and if Fairmont won’t go with it, he’s going to take it somewhere else. You aren’t going to believe this, I swear, but I told him the studio would develop his idea. I actually said that! Picture this now. Farrell as Red Ruby, bungling, bumbling jewel thief, and his foil will be Lester Kramer, who will play the part of Whitey Diamond, the cop who is just as bungling, and just as bumbling. Red Ruby occasionally pulls off a heist and stashes his loot, but can never fence it because Whitey Diamond is always on his tail. A serial, or a series, Daniel. Jesus, the public will go crazy for something like this! I guarantee the box office will quadruple in six months. He also said he’d want double what he’s getting paid now. I told him…I gave him my word we’d make it a deal. It felt right, Dan’l. You have a whole book on contracts. I want one for Farrell and Lester Kramer that is absolutely foolproof. A series like this could run for years!”

  Daniel winced at the word contract as Bebe’s face flashed before him. “Jesus Christ, Reuben, you got balls! You haven’t started working yet and you’re already making deals. Did you shake hands on it?”

  “Damn right, and a bone-crushing grip it was. We sealed the deal,” Reuben said proudly. “You have to think positively and you have to believe. Believe in me, Daniel! Think of the potential. Think about the money! Think, for God’s sake!”

  “I am thinking…about Sol Rosen, the legalities of something like this, and the fact that tomorrow will be your first day on the job,” Daniel grumbled. “I’m no aficionado of films, but it does sound damn interesting. I’d like to know how you’re going to pull this off with Sol Rosen.”

  “I’m not going to ‘pull it off,’ as you say. I’m going to present the idea, project revenue, and then scare the hell out of Rosen and tell him Farrell has an offer for twice the amount I’m willing to give him. He’d be a fool to turn it down. If I was in his place, I sure as hell wouldn’t. Ideas are what make this business. Something new, untried. I already figured out that a studio is only as good as the people who work there, and by that I mean the actors and actresses. Farrell doesn’t like his director, John Carlyle. I met him today….” Reuben went on to tell Daniel about his conversation with Carlyle. “Farrell wants a different director for the Red Ruby flick. I asked him if he had one in mind, and he said there’s a guy at Fox he’d like to work with. I said I’d put him on the payroll.”

  “You what?” Daniel exploded.

  Reuben roared with laughter at the expression on his friend’s face. “Look at it this way: This new director, Mike Avery, is a necessary ingredient in this little stew I’m cooking up. Without him it won’t work. Fairmont can buy out his contract and give him a bonus to switch over. The guy likes Farrell, so that’s going to help. Look, pal, I’m not going to do this tomorrow first thing.”

  Daniel sighed. “That’s a relief.”

  “I’ll wait a couple of days,” Reuben said, laughing.

  “You’re moving pretty fast, pal,” Daniel cautioned.

  Reuben turned serious. “I have to, or I’ll start to think, and right now memories are the one thing I can’t afford. I was hoping you’d go along with me on all of this.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. I think it’s a swell idea, and I do believe you have a money-maker here. I’m studying these law books, but that doesn’t make me a lawyer. Let me read up on everything and promise me you won’t do anything till I research it.”

  “It’s a deal…. What’s that?” Reuben asked curiously.

  “A letter I wrote to Mickey. I didn’t seal it yet in case you want to put in one of your own.”

  Reuben thought about it for a moment. He had so much to tell Mickey, but he couldn’t dash off a note in a few minutes. Writing to Mickey would take…well, he simply wasn’t ready to pour out his heart. “Send her my love and tell her I’ll write soon when I have something important to say. And be sure to enclose our payment. You’re keeping a record, right?”

  “Down to the penny. Is there anything you don’t want me to mention in my letter? I told her to give Bebe our address if she’s in touch with her. I miss Bebe,” Daniel said carefully.

  “Don’t look at me like that. It’s all right for you to miss her.” Reuben stood up. “I guess I’ll clean up since you cooked. Then it’s a nice hot bath so I can soak my leg. You go ahead to bed. I’m going to go over some of the things I learned today. I’ll make notes and then turn them over to you. By the way, we report at eight tomorrow. Congratulations, Daniel, we’re employed.”

  Daniel wondered why he didn’t feel as enthusiastic as Reuben. He imagined he could smell the problems that were going to erupt with this new employment. Still, another part of him couldn’t wait to put his feet under a desk filled with graphs and charts, pencils and pens: his need to do something for himself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A light snow was falling, dusting the French château in feathery whiteness, creating a soft blanket of silence. Smoke from the chimney spiraled upward in lazy patterns as a southerly wind began to whip through the trees at the back of the château. Inside, it was just as quiet and hushed; the baby known as Philippe Bouchet slept. He had two birth certificates, this sleeping child. One said he was Philippe Bouchet, French citizen, the name Bouchet having been Mickey Fonsard’s maiden name. The second read Philip Tarz, American citizen. The sleeping child held dual citizenship.

  Mickey Fonsard stood over the baby’s cradle, a beatific look on her face. How she loved this small, tenderly wrapped bundle. He slept in her room at the side of the bed where she had once made love with his father. The cradle the infant slept in had once belonged to her husband’s family. Yvette had helped her clean and polish it until she proclaimed it fit for her angel. He was a good baby, staying awake only to eat and have his bath. Everything Mickey did for the child she did lovingly. She had much love to lavish on him, and she rocked him for hours, crooning and singing lullabies she made up as she went along, often calling him her “plump little pigeon.” Once in a while he smiled, either from gas or pure pleasure, when she made baby sounds or sang her made-up songs.

  Each day the little one took on a new characteristic all his own. T
he likeness to both Bebe and Reuben could not be denied. He had Reuben’s dark hair, Bebe’s mouth. It was too soon to say whose eyes he had, but Mickey thought they would be Reuben’s. Now they were tiny little slashes in his plump, rosy face and didn’t stay open long enough for her to decide. His feet were large…but then, his father had large feet. “Whose disposition will you have, chéri?” Mickey whispered.

  Yvette poked her head in the door. “And what is our bundle from heaven doing this afternoon?” She leaned over the cradle. “Mon Dieu, this child is beautiful! He will grow to be as handsome as his father, is that not so, Mickey?” she cooed in whispers over the crib.

  “Yes, as handsome as his father,” Mickey echoed.

  “You have heard nothing?”

  “It is too soon. Perhaps I will never hear anything. I can accept that, for I have this priceless treasure,” Mickey said, a catch in her voice.

  “So you have decided…you aren’t going to…It isn’t fair, Mickey.”

  “Never!” Mickey said forcefully.

  “Ah, old friend, never is a very long time. What are you afraid of? He has a right to know.”

  “No, Yvette. It would confuse things, and I am confused enough as it is. I cannot handle more at this time. The circumstances of his birth are no longer important. The day I brought this child here I figured out what had really happened. Bebe instigated, led Reuben on, enticed him. He was angry with me, and he fell into her trap. And it was a trap. Nothing will ever convince me otherwise. When you love someone the way I loved Reuben, you know things like this. Perhaps she meant only to tease and flirt with him, and when things went beyond that, she grew frightened and fought him. A man, a man like Reuben…would do just what he did. Bebe must have reacted violently, hence the pitchfork. It took me a while to realize she would have said something, blamed Reuben 100 percent and played out her part if she’d truly been an innocent…victim. She chose to remain silent. And Reuben called it an accident to spare me, of course. I’ve come to terms with it,” Mickey said sadly.