The Dream Merchants Part 60

I looked at Al. I didn't know he knew Konstantinov. I wondered what he was going to do. What could he do? This was Sunday and Konstantinov was in Boston. Besides, Konstantinov was supposed to be a very important guy who listened to no one in connection with his business affairs. He was rumored to be of the richest men in the country even though n.o.body had heard much about him before the Greater Boston Investment Corporation began to lend money to the picture business back in '27.

"What good will it do to talk to him, Al?" I asked. "He won't listen to you."

Al smiled back at me confidently. "He'll listen to me," he said quietly. There was something in the tone of his voice that suddenly made me feel he knew what he was talking about.

Vic turned from the phone. "Constantin is on, Al," he said.

Al got out of his seat and took the phone from Vic's hand. He smiled a moment at us before he began to speak into it. "h.e.l.lo, Constantin," he said. "How are you?"

I could hear the crackle of a voice in the receiver he held loosely against his ear.

"I'm pretty good for an old man," Al said easily in reply to a question. Again the crackle of the voice in the receiver. When it stopped, Al began to speak again.

"I wanted to talk to you on that situation over at Magnum," he said quietly. "I'm a little disturbed over what's going on there." He waited a moment while the voice buzzed again. "I think we ought to clarity our position in connection with that affair. My own feeling is that Farber will only bring confusion and be a highly annoying element in the company."

The voice in the phone crackled excitedly into Al's ear. He listened patiently. At last he spoke again. His voice was quiet, with authority. "I don't care what Ronsen told you," he said flatly. "Farber will only create a conflict within the company and perhaps even stop its progress back to a sound position. I want you to inform Ronsen that the loan will not be renegotiated if Farber is allowed to come into Magnum."

The voice spoke again in the phone, only this time it sounded quiet and subdued. "That's right," Al said when the voice had stopped. "Tell him that under no circ.u.mstances will we agree to allow the operating management of the company to be interfered with."

The voice spoke quietly again. "Right, Constantin," Al said into the mouthpiece. "I'll talk to you again, later in the week maybe." He looked over at me and smiled, then turned back to the phone. "Good-by, Constantin."

He put down the phone and walked back to me and looked down at us. He stood there quietly for a second before he spoke. "That's settled now, Johnny," he said slowly. "I guess you won't have any further trouble from them."

I looked up at him, my mouth almost open. "How could you tell him what to do?" I almost gasped.

Al smiled at me. I could see he was laughing at my amazement. "Very simple." He shrugged his shoulders. "You see, I own the Greater Boston Investment Corporation."

Then he told me something else that surprised me even more.

I was very quiet in the car going back. The little brown-faced, wrinkled old man in the faded blue denim shirt and the shiny blue overalls that I had left back there on a ranch was actually the most powerful man in the picture business. He controlled its money, no matter where it came from, East or West.

Now that I knew, I could see how simple it really was. Again I marveled at the brilliance of the little man who always thought of himself as a carny guy. He was smart enough to see there would come a time when the industry would outgrow its picture-by-picture method of financing, so back in '25, when the companies started making calf eyes at Wall Street, he opened a little office in the East. On the plate-gla.s.s door were painted the words: "Greater Boston Investment Corp."

Inside this office were two rooms: a reception room and a private office. The lettering on the door of this inner office read simply: "Constantin Konstantinov, Executive Vice-President-Loan and Collateral Department." Until that time Konstantinov had been a clerk in Vic's office.

In two short and hectic years as picture company after picture company turned Eastward for their financing, the office grew, and in 1927 it occupied a whole floor in a staid office building in the heart of Boston's conservative business section.

I smiled to myself as I thought about it. Loans, wholesale or retail. Finance one picture at a time? See the Bank of Independence in Los Angeles. Finance a whole picture company for forty pictures at a time? See the Greater Boston Investment Corporation. I smiled again as I thought of many of the men in the other companies that I knew who had prided themselves on getting out of Santos's clutches and never knew or would know that they were only doing business with him under another name.

I began to wonder how much Al was really worth. Fifty million? More? Suddenly it didn't matter. I was satisfied. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

It was near ten o'clock when we got back to the house. We went into the library and Doris got some cubes from the kitchen and we made a couple of highb.a.l.l.s. We were just toasting each other when the nurse came into the room.

"Mr. Kessler would like to see me right away," I asked.

She nodded. "He wouldn't go to sleep until he saw you," she said disapprovingly. "So be as brief as you can. He's had a pretty uncomfortable day and he must get some rest." We put down our drinks untouched and hurried up the stairs to his room. Esther was sitting by the bed holding his hand as we came in. "h.e.l.lo, kinder," she said to us.

Doris went over to her and kissed her, then she kissed her father. "How are you feeling?" she asked them.

Maybe it was the light in the room-there was only one small lamp turned on-but I thought he looked rather wan and drawn. "All right," he said to her; then he raised his head and looked at me. "Nu?" he asked.

I smiled at him. "You were right, boss," I said. "He did help us. Everything is going to be all right now."

His head sank back against the pillow weakly and he closed his eyes. For a moment he lay there quietly, then he opened them. Again I thought it might be the light in the room, but his eyes seemed dull and shadowed to me. He seemed to have difficulty in focusing them. But his voice was strong enough and there was a note of satisfaction in it. "Now you'll be getting married soon?"

I started. It was the second time that day I had heard that. Again it was Doris who answered. She leaned over her father and kissed him lightly. I could see her mother squeeze her hand. "As soon as you're well enough to give the bride away, Papa," she said.

He smiled up at her. I thought I saw the tears come to his eyes, but he shut them quickly. "Don't wait too long, kinder," he said slowly. "I want to see yet grandchildren on my knee."

Doris looked at me and smiled. I came close to the edge of the bed and looked down at him. "Don't worry about that, Peter," I said, taking Doris's hand. "You will."

He smiled again, but didn't answer, just turned his head wearily on the pillow.

The nurse shooed us from the room then. "Good night, Peter," I said.

His voice was light and faint. "Good night, Johnny."

Doris kissed him again and turned to her mother. "Coming, Mamma?" she asked.

Esther shook her head. "I'll stay here until he falls asleep."

I remember looking back as we left the room. Esther was still sitting in the chair next to the bed. Peter's hand lay outstretched along the cover and, while I was looking, Esther covered it with hers. She smiled after us as I closed the door behind me.

Silently we went downstairs, back into the library. Once inside the room, Doris turned to me. Her eyes were wide and suddenly frightened. She shivered as if a sudden chill had come over her. "Johnny," she said in a small voice, "Johnny, I'm afraid."

I took her in my arms. "Afraid of what, sweetheart?" I asked gently.

She shook her head. "I don't know," she said vaguely, "I don't know, but I've a feeling something is wrong. Something terrible is going to happen." Her eyes began to fill with helpless, frightened tears.

I put a hand under her chin and raised her face toward me. "Don't worry, sweetheart," I rea.s.sured her confidently, "it's only your reaction to everything that has happened in the past week. And don't forget you've had a tough day today, too. You've been driving almost twelve hours. Everything will be all right."

She looked up at me, her face luminous, her eyes wide and trusting. "Do you really think so, Johnny?" she asked hopefully.

I smiled down at her. "I know so," I said positively.

But I was wrong. This had been the last time I saw Peter alive.

I got down to the office early. I wanted to be there when the boys got the sad news. It was a bright, cheerful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and I was whistling as I walked past the studio gates.

The gateman came out of his little cubbyhole and stood there looking at me. "Beautiful day, isn't it, Mr. Edge?" He smiled.

I stopped and smiled back at him. "Swell day, fella," I said. It was too.

He grinned again at me and I walked on. My heels echoed on the concrete walk. Crowds of people were coming through the gate. They were going to work. All kinds of people: actors, actresses, extras; directors and their a.s.sistants, producers and their a.s.sistants, cameramen and their a.s.sistants; prop men, grips men, electricians; bookkeepers, secretaries, typists, and clerks; messenger boys and the cute little girls just out of high school who worked in the steno pool. They were going to work. All kinds of people. My kind of people. Picture people.

I walked into my office briskly. Gordon was there already. He looked up at me questioningly. "What you so chipper about, Papa?" he asked.

I smiled as I threw my hat on the couch and went to my chair. I waved my hand expansively. "It's a beautiful day outside," I said to him, "so what have I got to feel blue about?" I looked at him. "Good morning, Robert." I grinned. "You're mighty dapper this a.m. in that sky-blue pink tie."

He looked at me as if I were crazy. Maybe I was a little tetched that morning, but I didn't care. If this was being nuts, I never wanted to be sane again. It felt too good.

I sat there looking at him owlishly until he began to smile. He got out of his chair and came over to me sheepishly. "You're plastered!" he said accusingly.

I raised my right hand. "S' help me," I swore, "I didn't touch a drop!"

He looked at me skeptically for a moment. Then he grinned again. "Well then," he said, "let me in on the secret. Where did you bury the son of a b.i.t.c.h?"

I laughed aloud. "Why, Bob, how can you talk like that about our eminent chairman of the board?" I asked reproachfully.

He put his hands in his pockets and stared down at me. "When I spoke to you Friday night, you sounded as if you had been hit over the head with a sledge hammer. Yet when I see you this morning, you're as bright and cheerful as a pup. That leaves me with only one conclusion. If you're not drunk, then you've murdered him." He smiled down at me gently. "Now come on, Johnny, let me in on it. Maybe we can bury the body together."

I looked up at him. "I told you I had a plan," I said.

"That you did." He nodded.

"Well, it's really very simple," I said. I made snake-dance motions with my hands and gave him a fast sample of fancy double talk. "You franisan the sanifran an' the first thing you know the old boy gets a call from his bankers in New York and phfft! Farber flies out the window with his bright little nephew along with him!"

"Honest, Johnny?" he asked, smiling suddenly.

I stood up at my desk and looked him right in the eye. "Do you doubt the word of Honest John Edge, the fairest dealer this side of Las Vegas?" I asked in a mock-heavy voice.

"I can't believe it," he said wonderingly. "How did you pull it off, Johnny?"

"Trade secret, son," I said to him, still in that heavy voice. "Some day when you're old enough, Papa John will tell you about the birds and bees. But right now-" I paused impressively and pointed to his door. "To work! Your duty calls you, Robert, and I will not have you shirk it!"

He walked smiling to his door and opened it. He bowed low in the doorway to me, his hands extended before him. "Your slave, O master," he said.

I laughed and he closed the door behind him. I wheeled around in the chair and looked out the window. What a day! It was the kind of day you saw on those vacation posters. A pretty girl in make-up walked in front of my window. It fitted right into the picture. There was always a pretty girl somewhere on those posters that read: "Come to California." I got out of my chair and went to the window sill and sat down on it. I whistled after the girl.

She turned and looked back at me. She saw who I was and smiled prettily and waved her hand to me. I waved back at her. I could hear her voice floating back to me on the morning breeze. "h.e.l.lo, Johnny." I watched her practiced walk until she was out of sight. She was cute. One of the kids who had beat her way up from the extra cla.s.s. She had guts. She was one of my kind of people. Picture people.

I went back to my chair and sat down. I lit a cigarette. I never felt so good in my life.

It was almost ten o'clock when the intercom on my desk buzzed. I pressed the lever down and spoke into it. The indicator told me who it was. "Yes, Larry," I said.

His voice was puzzled and worried. "Will you be in your office the next few minutes?" he asked, almost abjectly for him. "I want to come down there and see you."

I smiled at the sound of his voice. "Come on down, Larry," I said genially. "I'm always in to you!"

His face was a picture of bewilderment when he came into my office. It was worried too. All I had to do was look at him to know what had happened. He had heard from Konstantinov.

"Johnny, there's been a terrible mistake!" were the first words out of his mouth. He couldn't even wait to reach my desk before he spoke.

I played dumb. I raised an eyebrow and looked at him inquiringly. "Mistake?" I repeated in a voice smooth as silk. "About what?"

He stopped short and looked at me in surprise. "You saw the papers over the week-end?" he asked.

I nodded my head without answering. I could see the sweat standing out on his forehead, all three million dollars of it.

"The board got their wires crossed," he said quickly. "They weren't supposed to approve Farber and Roth until they had your okay."

I didn't answer right away. I enjoyed watching him flounder around. I liked seeing him crawl. On him it looked good. It did something for my ego. Then I piled it on. "That's too bad," I said slowly.

The worried look on his face deepened. "What do you mean?"

"Remember what I said yesterday? 'If they come in, I go out,'" I hesitated just a second to make it look good. "Well, I'm out!"

For a moment I was willing to swear he was going to faint. His face turned a white ashen hue, his mouth opened as if gasping for air. I almost laughed in his face.

"But, Johnny"-his voice was weak-"I told you it was all a mistake. The wires got crossed!"

"Double-crossed!" I muttered under my breath. Only it had boomeranged back at him instead of me. I was sick and tired of all this flimflam. Why didn't he talk straight and say he had tried to shiv me and let it go at that? That he was very sorry only because he missed. Then we could talk plainly to each other. We were no babies. We knew we were married by a shotgun.

But of course you can't talk like that. That's being honest, and there's an unwritten law in the picture business that being honest doesn't pay. It simply isn't done.

I looked at him. My voice was patient. I sounded almost bored. "Which way is it then?" I asked.

He stared back at me for a long moment. The color began to return to his face. "I've already sent a note to the papers denying the story," he said, a faint note of hope coming back into his voice. He leaned toward me. "I'm sorry this happened, Johnny." His voice was earnest.

I believed him, too. I knew how sorry he really was. A guy like him doesn't like to be caught off base. I stood up. "Okay, Larry," I said easily, "mistakes will happen. Let's forget it." I could afford to be magnanimous. I smiled at him.

At first his answering smile was tentative, then it broadened as relief swept across his face. I could see the three million-dollar worry disappear from his eyes. When he left the office, he was almost back to normal and I was hungry. It was time for lunch.

I was tired and lazy when I got back from lunch. I had had a few drinks to celebrate, and the excitement of the morning had worn off. But I still felt good. It was still a beautiful day.

There was a note on my desk. I picked it up and read it. "Call Miss Kessler at home," it read. I picked up the phone and told the operator to get her.

I hummed to myself as I waited for her to answer the phone. I heard the receiver come off the hook. Her voice sounded oddly tired to me. "h.e.l.lo," she said.

"h.e.l.lo, sweetheart," I said into the phone. "What's on your mind?"

"Johnny," she said slowly, her voice seeming to echo in the phone. "Papa is dead."

I could feel the cold running through me. I felt as though I was in an icebox for a second. Then I found my voice. "Baby, I'm sorry," I said. "When did it happen?"

"An hour ago," she said dully.

"I'll be out there in a little while," I told her. An afterthought struck me. "How is Mamma taking it?"

"She's upstairs with him now," she answered. She began to cry into the phone.

"Get a hold of yourself, sweetheart," I said to her. "Peter wouldn't like that at all."