I found out Mitzi had left her mother and taken a small apartment with two other girls from the dramatic school. That she had a rather wide dimple in her chin. That her mother really didn’t know beans about acting, and at first wanted her to take a course with Kosloff and become a dancer. That her middle finger was longer than her forefinger. That she thought Mitzi was a stupid name for a girl but excellent for a small, properly housebroken poodle. That she had two very minute freckles on the bridge of her nose. That she had enjoyed her lunch but had to get back to the studio now just in case Mr. Harker did come in. That I was even more in love with her.
Driving back, I asked the inevitable question. “When can I see you again?”
“Why, you’ll be seeing me every day. You’re working on the picture, aren’t you?”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it. How about tonight?”
“I can’t. I promised to see Mama.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know. There’s so much to do. Mr. Harker has laid out a complete schedule. There’s wardrobe fittings and you know what that means. And all those interviews they’ve arranged for me. Tom, do you know what they’re making me do? They’re making me learn a script for interviews, and Mr. Riley from Publicity is rehearsing me on what to say.”
“I still want to see you.”
“Yes. I want to see you, too.” She colored (or was I imagining things, just as I was imagining what it would be like to kiss that agonizing O?) and continued. “I’ll need help, lots of help.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll help in any way I can.”
As we approached the studio she put her hand on my arm. “Let me off here, please. I want to stop at the drug store.”
“I’ll wait.”
“No, don’t bother. You go ahead.” She smiled. “Please.”
“All right.”
Then she was gone, and I drove on through the gates alone. I knew why she got out, of course; so no one would see us together. So Harker wouldn’t see us together. Met at a party, was that the story? The whole thing was crazy. Yes, and I was crazy if I believed her. But she’d also said, I had to go through with it, our last chance. If that part was true, it made a difference.
But it didn’t relieve the tightness in my throat; the tightness that came when I thought of her, when I thought of her and him together.
That tightness remained when I called Harker’s house, late that afternoon. I had to call, had to know if he was there, if she was there—
The butler answered, of course.
“This is Mr. Post,” I said. “Could I speak to Mr. Harker?”
“One moment. I’ll see if he’s in.”
It was a long moment, for me. And then I heard the familiar voice. “Yes?”
“Tom Post. About the script—”
“Didn’t my office call you this morning? I won’t be in for several days, I’m afraid.”
I was afraid too. “I understand, Mr. Harker. I was just anxious to get started.”
“So am I.” There was a pause. “Perhaps you could arrange to stop by and pick up a copy. Some time after dinner, if you’re free.”
“I’ll be there.”
And I was there, arriving so early that I forced myself to sit in the car until twilight hovered over the house on the hillside. Then I went up to the door.
Rogers opened and ushered. “Good evening, Mr. Post. This way, please. Mr. Harker is in the study.”
This way was down a long hall, leading to a paneled door. I opened, entered, halted, and stared.
This was the study. A study in ebony and onyx. The wall-to-wall carpeting was black, the matching drapes hung on all sides, and I was lost in the night.
I looked up and saw the stars.
They burned down at me from the simulation of space that was the ceiling. And in their faint reflection I noted the wall hangings were not entirely black; within their folds I glimpsed the glitter of silver symbols. Here were the signs of the zodiac—Taurus and Gemini and Aries surrounded me in the eternal depths between the wheeling worlds.
Theodore Harker was sitting behind a round, velvet-covered table in the center of the room. With his sable suit drowned in darkness, he was just a disembodied face; a face and two hands that now fluttered over candles. The tapers flared up and I could see more distinctly. Harker was smiling.
“Please sit down. I’ve been working and meditating here all afternoon.”
I took a seat across from him, noting the couch in the corner, the telltale bases of bookshelves protruding from beneath the drawn drapery.
Harker shrugged. “I seldom receive visitors here. Most of them would find my tastes too theatrical.”
“It’s very unusual,” I said. “Quite impressive.”
He nodded. “I like to work here. I find it stimulating to commune with the stars.”
“Afraid I’m lost when it comes to astrology,” I told him.
“Odd. I’d thought perhaps that—but no matter, another time, perhaps. You wanted to see this.”
There was a drawer in the table. From it Harker took a sheaf of manuscript. “I hope you can read my handwriting. You can return it to me on Monday. I’ll be back at the studio then, definitely, for our conference.”
I hesitated. “Couldn’t go over it together now, perhaps?”
“Sorry. I have plans for the evening.”
He extended the manuscript, carefully separating a larger sheet from the bottom and placing it on the table before him.
“Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to talk when we meet. Taylor and Lozoff will join us too, of course.” Harker rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
As I stood up I glanced down at the single sheet resting on the tabletop. It was covered with designs and figures—a horoscope chart, of course.
“Good night,” Harker murmured. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t see you to the door.”
“That’s all right. I know the way.”
I did know the way, and I found it. But everything seemed oddly blurred. There was only one thing clear before my eyes—the name I’d seen at the top of the horoscope in Harker’s study.
Dawn Powers.
TWELVE
PROMPTLY at nine on Monday morning I walked into Theodore Harker’s office. Arch Taylor and Lozoff followed behind me.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling.
Harker looked up, returning the smile and the greeting, waving us into the chairs grouped before his desk and watching us settle into them.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said. “Post here tells me that you’ve all had a chance to read Daydreams.”
We nodded in unison.
Harker noted the manuscript in my hand and his smile broadened. “I see you had it typed up over the weekend.”
“Yes.” I took a deep breath. “With a few changes.”
“Changes?” The smile narrowed, disappeared. “There has been no discussion of the story yet. Unless you held a private meeting—”
“Nothing like that,” I assured him. “I merely let Mr. Taylor and Mr. Lozoff read your version after I’d finished with it. On separate occasions, I might add. And it was my impression that the story line could be strengthened. Neither of them has seen my rewrite.”
“Rewrite? Who asked you for a rewrite?”
“Please, Mr. Harker—I think if you’ll read what I’ve done here—”
The smile was back on Harker’s face, and now I realized that during its absence it had taken a trip to the North Pole.
“Before I do, might I be permitted to ask a few questions?” He glanced at Lozoff. “You read my script. What did you think of it?”
“I like the theme,” Lozoff said. “The blind violinist and the deaf girl singer—two street musicians leading an enchanted life in their dreams. It’s just that the dream sequences seem stilted.”
Harker started to open his mouth, but Lozoff hurried on. “The Napoleonic scenes with the uniforms and all—they’re like an old-fashio
ned operetta. They are not the dreams of little people come to life.”
“What’s come over you?” Theodore Harker leaned forward. “I advise you to confine your theories to acting.”
Lozoff ran his hand along the single silver streak in his hair. “You were an actor at one time. Now you are a director. Some day I hope to follow suit.”
Harker sat back again. “Very well. But I must remind you that I am still functioning in a directorial capacity on this picture. And it will be a Harker picture—not a Lozoff production.” His eyes went to Arch Taylor. “What is your opinion?”
Taylor crossed his legs casually and studied the crease in his trousers. “I’m a little worried about the girl. You’ve given her a lot of footage.”
“She’s the star,” Harker said.
“I know. But she’s had no experience. You can’t expect her to carry a part like that alone—”
“She won’t be alone.” Harker brought his hand down on the desk sharply. “You seem to forget that Dawn Powers is my discovery. I created this part expressly for her. I know her potential, and you needn’t worry about her ability to handle the role. Unless, of course, you no longer have confidence in me.” He paused. “In that case, I presume you would rather not be associated with the production.”
Taylor didn’t look at the director. I was trying to catch his eye, but he wasn’t looking at me, either. He kept studying that crease in his trousers. It was very sharp.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I can see where Post isn’t too happy with the story. But I agree with you. Your direction will solve that.”
Harker nodded. I glanced quickly at Lozoff, but Harker had already claimed his attention.
“And what is your final verdict, Mr. Lozoff?”
The little foreigner’s eyes flickered past my face, then away. “You are the director,” he answered.
“Good.” Theodore Harker faced me. “And now, Mr. Post, may I see this revision you wrote?”
I handed it to him.
“Thank you.” He cradled the sheaf of paper in his palm and his words came very slowly and very distinctly. “I am much obliged to you for your effort, and I’m sure you turned out a creditable piece of work. But in view of the unanimous opinion just expressed here, you will pardon me if I do not read it.”
Lifting the manuscript casually, Harker tore it in two and dropped the pieces in his wastebasket.
I stood up quickly. “Now wait a minute—”
“Please, Mr. Post.” His smile was quite gentle now. “No need to get upset. I can see where you might be angry, yes, because you had this all planned, didn’t you? But you forget that I am capable of making plans, too. I might tell you I actually anticipated something like this. There were indications of a coming clash.”
My voice shook. “What did you do, read my horoscope? I suppose you’ll be shooting the picture according to astrology, holding up production again because of what you see in the stars—”
He wouldn’t let me finish. “My apologies, Mr. Post. I know it is rude to destroy the creative work of another man. But I must ask you to remember that you have just made a similar, if less dramatic attempt. And failed.”
The smile froze again. “As to my personal beliefs, they needn’t cause you any further worry. I intend to see to it that you will not be connected with the production.” He turned away. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I want to discuss my picture with Mr. Lozoff and Mr. Taylor.”
Nobody looked at me as I went out.
Nobody looked at me as I crept into my own office. I sat there for a long time, all alone. Gradually self-pity faded into self-determination.
All right, I’d lost that round, but there was still a way. I could help Dawn by coaching her, suggest bits to slip into scenes that would remove some of the cloying sentimentality Harker had injected. He would probably take suggestions, coming from her. Oh, I wasn’t licked yet. Not by a long shot. Or a medium shot or a close-up, either—
I looked up as the office door opened. Arch Taylor strolled in.
“You bastard!” I said. “Get out of here before I throw you out!”
He sat down calmly, puffing serenely on his pipe.
I was on my feet. “I told you what I was going to say. You promised you’d back me up, don’t deny it. But when the chips were down, you chickened out.”
He exhaled slowly, deliberately. I circled him.
“Lozoff I can understand. He had something at stake. But not you. You’re just a two-faced, double-crossing, cheap son of a bitch—”
“Go ahead,” he nodded. “Give it to me. You’ll feel better.”
I hesitated. “Why, Arch. Why?”
Taylor reached into his coat, pulled out his wallet, extracted a piece of pink paper and dropped it on my desktop.
“Here’s your answer,” he said. “Go ahead, take a look at it. This week’s salary check. Seven hundred bucks.”
He stared down at the desk, smiling. “I’ve been getting a check like this every week for a long time. I expect to get one for a long time to come. And you know why I get it? Not because I’m a writer. Writers are a dime a dozen out here, anybody can tell you that. I get paid because I learned one simple lesson at the start. Always play the winning side. That’s the side your bread is buttered on.”
I shook my head. “Quit trying to talk your way out of this, Arch. You showed what you are—just another yes-man.”
“It wouldn’t have done any good to object. Harker wasn’t in the mood for arguments.”
“So you sold me out, just like that. Because you’re yellow, because money is more important.”
He grinned. “So now I’m Judas, eh? And I suppose that makes you Jesus H. Christ?”
“Get out of here,” I said. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
“I know you don’t. But you’re going to listen, Tom. I’ve tried to help you in the past, you know that.”
“I do. But I also know you’re a phoney, like all the rest of them. Anything for a buck.”
“Anything?” He wasn’t smiling now. “Everything.” His voice was hoarse, low. “I’ve listened to your sob story about being an orphan, but I’ve never told you mine.” He picked up the check, twisted it between his fingers.
“I wasn’t an orphan, Tom. I had parents—parents anyone could be proud of. Poor but honest. That’s what my old man always used to say, poor but honest. He was still saying it when he died, coughing up his guts with cancer because he couldn’t afford to quit work and see a doctor until it was too late. The county buried him and my mother took a day off from the lampshade factory—yes, that’s where she worked, in a dirty upstairs loft in a stinking tenement, and my sister, too, until she wised up and took another kind of job where she didn’t have to be on her feet any more.” He put the check away. “Right then and there I learned the value of a buck. And I’ve never forgotten the lesson.
“I spent nine years getting where I am in this business. Nine years. And all I need to say is one wrong word and I’d be out on my can. Blacklisted. Washed up. Through.”
I sat down again. “Where’s your violin? This is America, Arch. Harker can’t fire you for disagreeing with him.”
“Of course he can’t,” Taylor nodded. “Because I don’t disagree. But that’s why I came here now. He’s fired you.”
“What?”
“You heard me. What do you think he meant when he said you wouldn’t be connected with his production. You’re finished.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Kind of changes things, doesn’t it? Maybe now you can see a little more reason for my own attitude. I know what Harker’s like.”
“Then why didn’t you warn me beforehand?”
He gestured with his pipe. “Because I know what you’re like, too. When you came to me over the weekend I saw it wouldn’t do any good, no matter what I said. You’d made up your mind to change that script, come hell or high water.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
&
nbsp; “And I think I know why. It’s because of the girl, isn’t it?”
I felt the flush creeping over my face.
“You needn’t answer that.” Taylor rose, went over to the window and talked to the trees outside.
“Maybe I am a Judas after all,” he told them. “Sometimes I think Judas was just an ordinary guy who got himself in a bad spot. He didn’t really want to betray anyone—he just liked to play it safe and keep everybody happy. And when he realized Christ was willing to be a martyr, he went along with it.”
The trees nodded in agreement.
“In a way I envy you, Tom. You’ll never be Jesus Christ, not by a long shot, but at least you’ll go down trying. You had the guts to face Harker.” He paused. “From now on you won’t be needing my advice. I think you’ve outgrown it. You’re ready to be your own boss.”
“My own boss,” I said. “That’s right. I’ve been fired.” I hesitated, but couldn’t resist the final thrust. “Don’t suppose you objected when Harker told you?”
Taylor turned, nodded. “Of course not. You know me better than that. But like I said, Judas and me, we try to keep everybody happy. So when I got the news I slipped around to see Herb Weichmann.”
“Weichmann?”
“I told him Harker didn’t need you on Daydreams because he’d done his own script. Asked him if he was planning anything. And it turns out he is. Wants you to join his unit for the next Karl Druse picture. You’d better stop in and see him after lunch—he’s expecting you.”
I blinked. “But if Harker hears about it—”
“To hell with Harker.” Taylor put his pipe in his pocket. “He had his big scene this morning. By the time he hears you’re still on the lot, working for Weichmann, he’ll calm down again. I intend to see Morris this afternoon and do a little private explaining, anyway. There won’t be any trouble, believe me.”
“So you stuck your neck out after all,” I said. “Thanks, Arch. I’m sorry.” I held out my hand and was surprised to see that it was shaking a little.