The Dream Merchants Part 43

"Twelve percent was cheap enough when that was the only place we could get money," Peter retorted. He looked at Borden shrewdly. "How much stock are they keeping for themselves?" he asked.

"Only five percent," Borden answered.

Peter shook his head. "That five percent is enough to make plenty trouble when things go wrong."

"What can go wrong?" Borden asked. He answered his own question. "Nothing. Look at the stock market. It's never been so high and it's climbing higher every day. The country is booming, I tell you, booming. Besides, you don't know these men. They're gentlemen. With them everything's open and aboveboard. They're not the kind of people we got in this business. They got so much money they don't have to screw anybody to get along. All they want to do is make things easy for us."

Peter looked at him cannily. "And since when are you such an expert on them? What do you know about them?"

Borden laughed easily. "I know them all right," he replied confidently. "Last year when I bought that property in Long Island, it was right in the middle of where they lived. I was the first Jew ever to buy property out there and at first I was worried whether I'd get along with them. But I didn't have anything to worry about. They invited me to join their clubs and to their houses and made me feel right at home, they were so nice. They never once reminded me I was Jewish." There was a proud look on his face.

Peter looked glum. "Because of that you think they're all right?" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It would be a good thing maybe if they reminded you you were Jewish. Maybe you're forgetting you come from a dirty cold-water flat on Rivington Street with rats running in the back yard and toilets in the hall."

Borden looked a little angry. "I'm not forgetting nothing," he retorted hotly. "But I'm not such a fool to blame them for where I come from. What counts is that they take me for what I am now."

Peter could see that Borden was growing a little angry, but he couldn't resist one more gibe. "Maybe next year," he said with a smile, "I'll be finding your name in the Blue Book."

Borden rose to his feet and looked down at Peter. "And what's wrong with that? This is America. Anything is possible. I'm no sn.o.b. If they want to put my name in the Blue Book, I say let them!"

Peter stared up at him; his mouth almost hung open. Borden was really interested in getting into the Blue Book. He half shook his head wonderingly. Little Willie Bordanov of Rivington Street with the pushcarts in the Blue Book. He raised a hand placatingly. "Don't be a fool, Willie," he said in Yiddish. "I'm only talking for your own good. Be careful, that's all I'm telling you."

Borden relaxed slowly. "Don't worry, Peter," he replied with a smile. "I'm careful. n.o.body is putting anything over on Willie Borden!"

Peter put his shoes on and got to his feet heavily. "I guess we'd better be going back inside before Esther starts looking for me."

Sam Sharpe looked at them. They were a lot alike in many ways, he thought: life had not been gentle with either of them. They had to fight for everything they got. That was not the only trouble they faced, either. He could sense the basic insecurity of each, no matter what they had. In the back of their mind they would always worry whether they would be accepted because they were Jews. Maybe that was why they fought so hard for what they wanted.

He followed them slowly to the door. When the door opened he could see the mask with which they met the world settle on their faces. It was an intangible mask made up of nothing you could really say you saw. A brightness of the eyes, a tightening of the lips, a tilting of the head. For a moment he felt sorry for them. "It was tough to be a Jew," he thought; "I'm glad I'm not one of them."

3.

He stood there alone for a moment, with a drink in his hand as the woman approached him. He watched her absently, knowing she was going to speak to him, but he was thinking of what Dulcie had said out on the veranda.

He had tried to kiss her, but she had evaded his grasp. She laughed at him. "Why, Warren," she had said with a teasing sound in her voice as she looked up at him, "so soon?"

He had reached for her again, and again she had slipped away from him. She stood there with one eyebrow raised, a mocking look in her eye.

"Dulcie," he had said, "you don't know what it's been like without you. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't do anything. Why do you think I finally called Johnny up and told him I was ready to make a picture for him?"

She had laughed again. It was a sure laugh, filled with confidence in herself. She came close to him. He put his arms around her waist. He could feel the warmth of her body against him through her thin evening gown. He was sure she would kiss him now. He smiled down at her as he bent his head toward her.

She did not speak until their lips had almost met. Her voice was soft and carried only to his ear. "Remember what I said that night, the last time I saw you?"

He smiled again. "You were beautiful. I never saw you so beautiful before," he whispered. "And angry. I remember."

She closed her eyes, and her body seemed to cling to him. He could feel the heat rising in him. He moved his lips closer to her when suddenly her eyes opened. For a second they glared at him with a venom that frightened him. Then the words came from her lips in a cold angry rush. Her voice was still soft, still controlled, however. "I meant it then," she had said, "and I mean it now. Anybody that I want can have it for the asking-except you!"

His arms had fallen from her and the cold of the night seemed to run through him. He stared at her.

Suddenly she smiled sweetly and took his arm. "Shall we join the party, Warren?" she had asked as if nothing had happened.

In a daze he had come back into the room with her, but he was too much an actor to show how he felt. The minute he stepped across the threshold of the room and felt the eyes upon him, his face was as bright and smiling as hers had been.

"Mr. Craig," the woman was saying, "I've been simply dying all night to meet you, but I wanted to meet you without a crowd of people around so that we could really talk. I mean really have a chat."

He smiled at her politely and bowed a little. "I'm honored, ma'am," he said, managing to look both pleased and inquiring at the same time.

The woman smiled at him brightly. "I do love your voice, Mr. Craig, it is so-so trained. Most actors out here don't know how to speak at all." She finished her sentence triumphantly.

"Thank you again, Miss-uh, Miss-" He paused pointedly.

She put a hand to her hair and patted it unconsciously. Craig's voice was known to have that kind of effect on some women. "How silly of me!" she cried, laughing gaily. "I forgot you were new out here and couldn't know who I am." She paused for an impressive moment and held out her hand. "I'm Marian Andrews."

He raised one eyebrow and looked politely amazed. "Not the Marian Andrews," he said, taking her hand and bowing over it. "I'm honored indeed," he said, "as well as surprised."

The woman laughed. "Surprised at what, Mr. Craig?"

"You are much younger than I thought possible for a world-famous reporter to be," he replied. He had heard somewhere that she liked to be called a reporter.

"You are charming and most tactful," she said shrewdly. "But as I am most susceptible to flattery I will accept your kindness at its face value, Warren." She looked at him. "That is, if I may call you Warren," she added. "We Westerners are not as formal as the people back East. You call me Marian."

He smiled again. "Formalities have their place, Marian," he said. "But not if people are to become really close friends."

Her voice became lighter. "I've just been talking to Johnny Edge. He's so happy that you finally agreed to do Rendezvous at Dawn for him. It must be exciting for you too, to be playing opposite your lovely cousin, Dulcie."

He laughed. "It is, Marian," he replied. "You don't know how exciting it can be. I've thought about doing a picture for a long time, but I never could make up my mind until one day just a few weeks ago. Then I couldn't wait until I got out here. Johnny has been after me for years."

"I know," she said, returning his smile. "I think it's so romantic too, how Johnny and Dulcie met. Is it true that they met in your dressing room?"

He nodded his head. "That's how it happened."

There was a calculating look in her eyes. "And how does your charming wife feel about it?" she asked. "She's not making the picture with you, is she?"

He looked at her swiftly. "That's the one bad thing about it, Marian," he answered. "Cynthia has to return to New York to start rehearsals in a new play." He looked up. Cynthia was approaching. He looked back at Marian. "But wait a minute," he said. "Here's Cynthia now. You can ask her how she feels yourself."

Cynthia came up to them. "Cyn," he said, smiling, "I'd like you to meet Marian Andrews. She wants to know how you feel about the movies."

Cynthia smiled at her. "The movies, Warren?" she asked with a quizzical look on her face.

"Isn't it too exciting for words to have your husband making his first picture with his cousin playing opposite him?" Marian gushed.

Cynthia looked at Warren and smiled, then turned back to Marian. "It certainly is exciting," she answered in a sweetly sarcastic voice. "But not for some of the words I know, Marian."

Marian liked her at once. She had a deep-seated respect for honesty, and the one who did not kowtow to the power of her pen was a rare person indeed. Her smile was genuine. "Cynthia," she said, "I know just what you mean." She held out her hand. "I think we'll be friends."

Laurence G. Ronsen was leaving his first Hollywood party. He felt vaguely disappointed; he had rather expected it to be a gay baccha.n.a.lian revel, complete with houris and dancing girls. He looked at Bill Borden, talking excitedly in the foyer. He would be glad when their business was completed and he could go back home.

4.

Peter sank into a chair with a sigh and looked up at Esther. "I'm glad it's over," he said.

She looked down at him and smiled. "You're glad?" she asked. "Maybe I'm not? Who does all the work when you play big-shot and give a party like this?"

A glint of humor came into his eyes. "You do, Mamma," he said pacifyingly. He leaned forward and began to unlace his shoes. "But my feet were killing me all night." He slipped his feet out of the shoes and into a pair of slippers. He stood up and began to take off his tie. "You know, I've been thinking about building a bigger house. This place is getting too small for us."

She paused in the middle of taking off her dress. "What's the matter with this house, I would like to know," she asked.

He turned to her. "Nothing's the matter with it. It's just small and old-fashioned, that's all. Don't forget we built it before the war." He waved his arm vaguely around him. "I got my eye on a nice roomy place out in Beverly Hills. We can build a swimming pool and tennis court and still have room to spare."

She turned her back to him. "Unlace my corset," she said. He bent behind her and fumbled with the laces. "We need a swimming pool?" she asked. "You can swim, maybe? Or a tennis court? In your old age you are becoming a athlete?"

His voice was m.u.f.fled behind her. "It's not for me, Esther. It's for the children. How do you think they feel with everybody having a swimming pool and they haven't?"

"I ain't heard them complaining," Esther said, turning around and facing him. "Maybe you feel we should have a bigger house, not them?"

He looked at her sheepishly and began to smile. He advanced toward her and put his arms around her. "There's no fooling you, Mamma, is there?"

She pushed him away with a smile. "Act your age, Peter," she said.

He stood there, a foolish grin on his face, watching her. "I'm not so old yet," he said.

She smiled at him. "You can't be if you want a swimming pool and don't know how to swim."

"But, Mamma," he protested, "I'm the owner of a big company and I live in a smaller house than half the people who work for me." He walked across the room unb.u.t.toning his shirt. "It's ridiculous, that's what it is. People must think I'm a miser."

She turned away to hide her smile. Sometimes he acted more like a child than the children ever had. "Nu," she said, "so build a bigger house. Who said no?"

"It's all right, Mamma?" he asked, crossing the room quickly to her.

She looked at him and nodded her head.

The sound of an automobile in the driveway came through the open windows. He walked over and looked out. Two headlights were coming up the driveway. "I wonder who that is," he said.

"It must be Mark," she answered lightly. "Doris told me he went over to Georgie Polan's."

He pulled out his watch and looked at it. "It's after three o'clock," he announced. "I'll have to speak to him in the morning. I don't like for him to be out so late."

"Don't worry so," she said with a mother's pride, "Mark is a good boy."

"I still don't like it," he said, standing by the window and shaking his head.

She looked at him. "Come away from the open window before you catch cold," she told him.

Doris lay on her bed and looked out the window. The stars were bright outside and the moon threw a bright shadow across the window sill. The night was quiet and in the distance she could hear the sounds of field crickets calling to one another. She drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment in her lungs before she slowly expelled it. A lazy, contented feeling was slowly stealing through her. It had been a long time since she had been able to feel like that.

"Go and talk to Johnny," her mother had urged. "He won't bite you."

Hesitantly she had done as her mother had told her. At first she had felt strained and awkward. She wondered if he realized she had been deliberately avoiding him every time he came out. Then she grew gay and confident as she saw he didn't have the faintest conception of what she had been doing.

Her mother had been right. There was really nothing to be afraid of. She had been running away from shadows.

Suddenly she felt the warm tears trembling on her eyelids. She put her hands wonderingly up to her eyes. They came away wet. She blinked her eyelids quickly. It was good not to be afraid and have to run away any more. She marveled at her mother's understanding. How long would it be before she would know as much?

Maybe never, she thought. But it really didn't matter now. For the first time in a long while she fell into a deep, contented, dreamless slumber.

Mark was tired as he climbed the stairs to his room. He wondered whether his parents were still awake. Pop wouldn't like his staying out so late. But what the h.e.l.l, you were young only once. He could feel the blood running through his veins as he thought of the night. Suddenly a chill of fear swept over him. What if the girl was sick? He had heard of lots of fellows who had picked up a clap from extra girls. As quickly as the fear had come to him it left him. Not this girl, she was too clean. He was the first, she had said.

He went into his room and undressed quickly in the dark. He put on his pajamas and went to his pocket and took out a little tube. Holding the tube in his hand, he groped his way to the bathroom in the dark. All the same, he wasn't taking any chances.

Johnny looked down at Dulcie's head lying on his shoulder. The perfume from her hair came up to his nostrils. He rubbed his cheek against its silky softness. "Dulcie, are you awake?" he asked in a lazy, contented voice.

She shifted within the circle of his arms like a cat. "Uh-hunh," she murmured.

He smiled in the dark. "Marian Andrews was trying to warn me about you," he said.

She sat upright, suddenly wide awake. She tried to read his face in the dark. "She did?" she asked, a sudden fright in her voice. "What did she say?"

He looked at her. "Nothing to get excited about," he replied, pulling her head back on his shoulder. "She just said that many people were jealous of you and I shouldn't believe any stories I might hear."

Her breath rushed out of her and she felt limp and drawn. "That's nice," she said in a weak voice, "but I don't know of anyone who would want to carry tales about me."

He looked over her head in the dark. A wise and knowing smile was on his lips. She was too young to know how mean people in this town could be. It was a good thing for both of them that he knew. "You know how it is," he said gently. "People like to talk."

Her voice was sleepy again. "Unh-hunh," she said. "People like to talk."