The picture was wrapped up by the first of March; on the twenty-first the editing was completed, my titles were in, and we sat there in Projection Two and watched a miracle unreel into reality.
I’d seen it in the making, but couldn’t comprehend it at the time. Now I witnessed what my script and Lozoff’s imagination had done to the utterly lovely, utterly untrained automaton that was Dawn Powers.
I came prepared to suffer the vapid smile, the faltering gestures, the awkward mannerisms I’d seen when we ran Harker’s rushes. And I sweated through the opening moments until she made her first appearance.
On the screen, the vapid smile became an ethereal invitation to enchantment. The flat, faltering gestures evoked a suggestion of delicate hesitancy. The subdued expression of emotion took on a subtle semblance of reality. In an era when broad grimaces and exaggerated pantomime were still the rule, her underplaying seemed to bring a new dramatic dimension into being.
Whether it was my script, or Lozoff’s handling, or Harker’s touch on certain retained scenes, or just the fact that Dawn wasn’t afraid any more—we had a winner.
I hugged Dawn there in the dark as the film faded out, and I was still hugging her when the lights came up. I didn’t care; nobody cared, because they were all talking and laughing at once and you could feel the excitement in the air that comes when you know you’ve won.
Then everybody was gathering around Lozoff and congratulating him, and Ryan was talking to Morris about exploitation and building a campaign for Dawn, and even young Nicky was slapping the little foreigner on the back.
“This is it,” I told Lozoff. “You’ll see.”
And, of course, he did see. It wasn’t until six months later that the returns were in, but they told the story. Daydreams scored with the critics, with the exhibitors, with the public. It made Coronet almost a million in net profits and it put Kurt Lozoff in the ranks of the ten best directors of the year.
But right now he nodded at me as though all this was a foregone conclusion.
“Come to my office for a minute,” he murmured. “Just you and Dawn and I—please? A little celebration.”
So we managed, finally, to break away. And in Lozoff’s office we sat quietly while the little man poured brandy in tiny glasses and handed them to us with studied ceremony.
“To our success,” he toasted.
I looked at Dawn and smiled. She smiled back. Then we both looked at Lozoff and suddenly I wasn’t smiling.
“That’s right,” I said. “This all started with the three of us, didn’t it?”
He nodded. Dawn’s eyes clouded and I knew she was remembering what I remembered now—that day in the dressing room when Harker burst in. Harker, who wasn’t supposed to be coming to the studio, according to Lozoff.
I put my glass down. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said. “About the way it all started.”
Lozoff beamed.
“You remember the morning I went to Dawn’s dressing room—when you promised to stand guard for us? How did Harker manage to sneak past you before you could warn us?”
Lozoff beamed.
“He didn’t get past you, did he? You knew he was coming. You set the whole thing up so that he would discover us together.”
Lozoff beamed.
“Damn it, you had it all planned! But if it hadn’t worked, we would have been finished—”
“It did work.” Lozoff began to laugh. “That’s all that matters.”
I scowled, but Dawn began to giggle. Lozoff’s chuckle rose and all at once I was laughing, too. I raised my glass again.
“That’s right,” I said. “Nothing succeeds like success.”
The brandy had never tasted sweeter.
SIXTEEN
IN THE spring of ’26 I was in love, but I was also in the movies. And the movies were in their heyday.
That was the year they made 750 features and showed them in over 20,000 theatres across the country, at $2,000,000 a day. Nice round numbers, nice round dollars, made in America.
That was the year of the foreign invasion—Jannings and Veidt, Asther and Murnau, Lya de Putti and Camilla Horn. The Hanson brothers came from Sweden and so did Maurice Stiller and a towheaded young nobody named Greta Garber, or Garbo—some such name.
That was the year when Hollywood went crazy over horses. Every morning Hobart Bosworth rode the bridle path along Santa Monica Boulevard, and on Sunday afternoons Will Rogers and the gang played polo. The Vine Street Brown Derby put up a hitching post for Tom Mix’s horse, Tony. Just a gag, of course, but wasn’t everything?
Everything, that is, except what was happening between Dawn and myself. We laughed a lot, but we were serious about it.
There was never enough room for her clothes in my closet, but outside of that we had no problems, as long as we were together. And we were together now, except for one memorable occasion.
That was the night Dawn left to spend the weekend with her mother. “I’ve got to,” she told me, struggling with the reticence she showed whenever Kate LaBuddie’s name was mentioned. “She’s been having such a terrible time with Buddie, she can’t seem to get him a job.” Dawn smiled at me. “Don’t be such a sourpuss, darling. I’ll be back Sunday night.”
“This is only Friday.”
“Get some rest. It won’t hurt you to go to bed early for a change.”
“I have been going to bed early.”
She stuck her tongue out at me, then came into my arms. “Only two days,” she murmured. “Be patient.”
“No man is an island,” I said. “And damned few are even continent.”
“Huh?”
“Just my improvement on John Donne.”
“Who’s he?”
“Writer. Does screenplays for Rin-Tin-Tin.”
And then she was gone and I was alone and somehow it didn’t feel good. So why don’t you marry the girl? I asked myself.
For a while I sat there, playing with the idea. It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to me. No man is an island and no two people are an island, either. Sooner or later Dawn and I would have to think about a future in relationship to other people.
The wheels were beginning to spin and the picture started to unreel. It was time to think about this in terms of a picture. My next picture, and Dawn’s.
Daydreams was in release, and we were on our way. Dawn could be a star, a big star. But a lot depended on her next vehicle, and that part would be up to me.
I’d work out a story line for Lozoff’s approval, then get the go-ahead from Morris. And after that I’d spring it on Dawn—tell her about the picture, tell her about the wedding, tell her about the honeymoon after we finished shooting—
I could see it all and it looked good. One of those good dreams I could believe in, the kind that can come true.
Then the doorbell rang and the dream dissolved.
I opened the door and nightmare walked in—stumbled in, rather, and sank down sobbing on the sofa.
“Carla! What’s the matter?”
It had been months since I’d seen her, and never like this. She’d never cried before.
Hardly a pretty spectacle; Carla Sloane with her eyes bloodshot and her nose red. And yet there was something poignant in the sight, perhaps because she had always seemed so self-assured, so controlled.
Whatever the reason, I reacted. I sat beside her, patting her shoulder and making vague male sounds of propitiation.
“Please—tell me what’s wrong.”
Her eyes were wide, wild. “You oughtta know. I’m knocked up.”
“But—”
“Oh, it isn’t you, couldn’t be. I wish it was. No I don’t—I wish I’d never been born!”
“Who, then?”
“What’s the use of saying? It won’t do any good, nothing’ll do any good now. I don’t know why I came here except there’s nowhere else to go—”
She started sobbing again, and only a few phrases came through. But one em
erged quite clearly.
“—that goddam yellow Marmon—”
Then I knew.
I let her cry while I mixed a drink. By the time I put it in her hand she’d calmed down a bit.
“Take it easy now. Maybe we can get this thing straightened out. Did you tell Nicky?”
“Of course.”
“And—?”
“He gave me some guy’s name. A doctor.”
“Well, let’s think about that. He certainly won’t marry you. Is the doctor any good?”
“They’re all good, until something goes wrong. Then you’re on your own, they won’t let you come back for treatment even if you get septic-whatever-they-call-it, anyway it’s blood-poison.” She shuddered. “I know. It happened to a girlfriend of mine.”
“But couldn’t Nicky find someone who’ll keep you there for a few days, just to be sure?”
Carla shook her head. “He gave me the name of one of them, too. Only what he doesn’t know is, the croaker’s gonna be raided next week.”
I stared at her. “How do you know that?”
Her eyes left mine. “Glenda told me.”
“Glenda Glint?” I blinked. “Since when did you get so chummy with her?”
“Oh, you might as well know. I’ve been working for Glenda on the side now for almost a year. At first, when she just had her magazine column, she used to slip me a fin every time I gave her an inside tip about the studio. Then she got this daily column with the paper—syndicated, all over the country—”
I nodded. “That’s all you hear about lately. Glenda Glint says, Glenda Glint predicts, Glenda Glint has an exclusive.”
“Well, I’m on her regular payroll. I suppose she has somebody at most of the other studios, too. She wants to get the scoop ahead of Lolly Parsons.”
“She picks some, funny methods,” I said. “This latest notion of hers, this ‘Clean Up Hollywood’ campaign—dragging out all the old skeletons again. I imagine that’s the kind of snooping that helped her find out about your doctor friend being raided.”
Carla put her drink down on the end table. “She’s been getting dope on a lot of this stuff. Took it to the D.A. and asked for a showdown.”
“Since when did she get so righteous?”
“Since she figured out that if she did, the D.A. would give her first crack at the story when he made his move. Besides, you know something? This dame really hates the movies.”
“But you played along with her.”
“Like a damned fool. At first I just thought it was an easy way to pick up a little extra dough. I never gave her any real inside info, you ought to know that. And I didn’t realize the way she felt until lately. Until I told her I was in trouble—”
I stood up. “You told her?”
Carla sniffled. “Go ahead, tell me I was crazy; I know it but I’d just found out and I was upset. I had to talk to someone, some woman. Only she isn’t a woman, she’s pure bitch, and now she’s going to break the story—”
I pulled Carla to her feet, shook her. “She wouldn’t dare run it!”
“Of course she’ll run it, it’s just what she wants for her campaign. What do you think I meant when I said I was in trouble?”
“Does Nicky know that, too?”
“No. Not yet.”
I went over to the phone.
“Tommy, what are you doing?”
“Calling Sol Morris, of course.”
“Oh, please—if he finds out he’ll kill me!”
“It’ll kill all of us if he doesn’t.” I paused before picking up the receiver. “Now listen to me. I’m going to try and help you get out of this mess. Only you’ve got to promise to cooperate.”
“All right. I trust you.”
I picked up the phone and called Morris at his private number—the one we all had “for emergencies” and never used. Well, there comes a time, and no man is an island.
“Mr. Morris? This is Post. Yes, I know what time it is. But somebody else doesn’t. That’s why I had to call you. Now please, listen carefully.”
He listened, all right.
Then it was my turn to listen. “Yes. Yes. Half an hour. We’ll be there.” I hung up.
“What did he say?”
“We’re going over to the Studio.”
“Now? Why it’s almost ten!”
“I know. But we have work fast.”
We did. And apparently Sol Morris had not been idle, either. In exactly thirty-two minutes we were sitting in the big executive office, around the conference table. There were five of us—Carla, myself, Sol Morris, Nicky, and Lester Salem.
The harsh overhead light accentuated the already heightened pallor of every face. Carla, staring down at the glass-topped surface of the table. Nicky, seemingly shrunken in his chair. Lester Salem, a waxen window dummy (what was he doing here? I wondered). Sol Morris, perhaps the most self-possessed of all; he didn’t look stricken, haggard, or afraid—just tired. And myself, shifting nervously in my seat.
For a moment it was pantomime and then Morris broke silence. “Well, folks,” he said. “There ain’t much for me to do, is there? What I got to tell Nicky here I already said, believe me.” He glanced at the beefy young man, who cringed as though shielding off an actual blow; I could imagine what had gone on during the ride down to the Studio.
Morris glanced at Carla now. “As for you, young lady, I got only two things. One is, I could beat your brains out for making such troubles for us. And the other is—I’m sorry. I apologize to you for my son.”
The watery blue eyes (water, or tears?) sought mine. “Post, you I must thank.” He paused. “Mr. Salem I am ashamed in front of. That he should be in my house, a guest, when he hears this thing.”
That explained Salem’s presence, all right.
But Morris went on. “Not but I wouldn’t have told him, anyhow. Because he is one of the family now and he ought to know. He came along on account of maybe he can help. Isn’t that right, Mr. Salem?”
The window dummy nodded gravely.
“So let’s not waste time. I was going to get Riley down here, on account of the publicity angle, until I figured that’s just what we don’t want—publicity. So far nobody knows about this except the five of us and one more.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Glenda Glint, who else? I called her right away when you told me. She’s coming over. So like I said, we got only a couple minutes for suggestions, so—”
The phone rang and Morris picked it up. “Sure, Fritz. Pass her in.”
Morris put the phone down again and shrugged. “She’s here already.”
And then we heard the footsteps in the hallway, and Carla squeezed my hand, hard, and she was here.
Glenda Glint. Not Miss Glint, but Glenda. Glenda in the all-too-solid flesh. Prosperity agreed with her. It enveloped her in twenty pounds of additional weight; clung to her neck in the form of a mink fur-piece, glittered from her fingers, shone from her hennaed hair. Only the sniff was the same—the sniff and the petulant voice.
“Well, this is certainly a fine time to call a press conference, I must say.”
“No, Glenda, you know I wouldn’t ask you to come over unless it was important. Here, sit down.” Sol Morris led her to a chair, and it was curious to see God playing usher to Miss Glint. “How about a drink?”
“I haven’t time.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to be at the Montmartre right now. Doris and Milton are having a very special party.”
“This’ll only take a minute,” Morris placated.
“Would you mind telling me what it’s all about?”
Morris shrugged. “I think you know.”
She wheeled on Carla. “You told him?”
“She told me,” I said. “I gave the facts to Mr. Morris.”
Glenda Glint produced an especially spiteful sniff for my benefit. “Then there’s nothing more to be said. I’m using the story in my Sunday feature. And if you called me in here with some idea you could
talk me out of it, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Sol Morris stood up and went around behind her chair. He put a pudgy hand on her shoulder. “I wouldn’t fool you, Glenda—that story’s gonna hurt us. It’s gonna hurt us bad. Not only the Studio, but it’s a black eye for the whole Industry.”
“It’s news,” Glenda Glint said. “Good or bad, it’s news.”
“News?” Sol Morris bowed his head. “Who’s talking news? I’m talking people. Carla, my boy Nicky here. What’s it gonna do to them?”
“That’s their lookout. They should have thought about it before—”
“Who thinks about such things? You know how it is.”
I’ll bet she doesn’t. I told myself. But Morris continued.
“So I’m not even talking any more, Glenda. I’m begging. Like a father, and because you belonged to the family, once.”
She stared up at him. “I’ve never been a member of your family. Don’t you remember, you fired me yourself, because I spoke up and told the truth. How could I belong to your family? I’m no kike.”
“Kike.” Morris sighed. “That’s a word, Glenda. Like sheeny, yid, a lot of other words. I heard them all in my life, many times. They don’t bother me none. They just mean Jew. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“You know what I’m trying to say. Jews! This whole business is run by them.”
“That’s not true, Glenda. Look around. Nicky here, my son, he’s Jewish. Though God forbid you’d never know it, and I’m not proud of it. But Mr. Salem, he’s not a Jew. Or Carla, or Tommy Post. Frisby and Jackie Keeley, they’re a couple Irishmen. Be honest, Glenda. Is DeMille a Jew, or Pickford, or Gish, or Mickey Neilan or Mack Sennett or—”
The sniff cut him short. “I have no time to waste discussing religion with you. Anyway it doesn’t matter. I’m printing that story.”
“Supposing we deny it?”
“Then I imagine the papers will be happy to print your denial, probably right on the front page. Nothing would please me better.”
Morris straightened up. His voice was suddenly sharp. “All right, how much do you want?”