Pat recognized Ward Wainwright.
'Go in and look at it!' Wainwright roared. 'Look at it. Here's
some ticket stubs! I think the prop boy directed it! Go and
look!' To the doorman he said: 'It's all right! He wrote it. I
wouldn't have my name on an inch of it.'
Trembling with frustration, Wainwright threw up his hands and
strode off into the curious crowd.
Eleanor was terrified. But the same spirit that had inspired 'I'd
do anything to get in the movies', kept her standing there--though
she felt invisible fingers reaching forth to drag her back to
Boise. She had been intending to run--hard and fast. The hard-
boiled doorman and the tall stranger had crystallized her feelings
that Pat was 'rather simple'. She would never let those red-rimmed
eyes come close to her--at least for any more than a doorstep kiss.
She was saving herself for somebody--and it wasn't Pat. Yet she
felt that the lingering crowd was a tribute to her--such as she had
never exacted before. Several times she threw a glance at the
crowd--a glance that now changed from wavering fear into a sort of
queenliness.
She felt exactly like a star.
Pat, too, was all confidence. This was HIS preview; all had been
delivered into his hands: his name would stand alone on the screen
when the picture was released. There had to be somebody's name,
didn't there?--and Wainwright had withdrawn.
SCREENPLAY BY PAT HOBBY.
He seized Eleanor's elbow in a firm grasp and steered her
triumphantly towards the door:
'Cheer up, baby. That's the way it is. You see?'
NO HARM TRYING
Esquire (November 1940)
Pat hobby's apartment lay athwart a delicatessen shop on Wilshire
Boulevard. And there lay Pat himself, surrounded by his books--the
Motion Picture Almanac of 1928 and Barton's Track Guide, 1939--by
his pictures, authentically signed photographs of Mabel Normand and
Barbara LaMarr (who, being deceased, had no value in the pawn-
shops)--and by his dogs in their cracked leather oxfords, perched
on the arm of a slanting settee.
Pat was at "the end of his resources"--though this term is too
ominous to describe a fairly usual condition in his life. He was
an old-timer in pictures; he had once known sumptuous living, but
for the past ten years jobs had been hard to hold--harder to hold
than glasses.
"Think of it," he often mourned. "Only a writer--at forty-nine."
All this afternoon he had turned the pages of The Times and The
Examiner for an idea. Though he did not intend to compose a motion
picture from this idea, he needed it to get him inside a studio.
If you had nothing to submit it was increasingly difficult to pass
the gate. But though these two newspapers, together with Life,
were the sources most commonly combed for "originals," they yielded
him nothing this afternoon. There were wars, a fire in Topanga
Canyon, press releases from the studios, municipal corruptions, and
always the redeeming deeds of "The Trojuns," but Pat found nothing
that competed in human interest with the betting page.
--If I could get out to Santa Anita, he thought--I could maybe get
an idea about the nags.
This cheering idea was interrupted by his landlord, from the
delicatessen store below.
"I told you I wouldn't deliver any more messages," said Nick, "and
STILL I won't. But Mr. Carl Le Vigne is telephoning in person from
the studio and wants you should go over right away."
The prospect of a job did something to Pat. It anesthetized the
crumbled, struggling remnants of his manhood, and inoculated him
instead with a bland, easygoing confidence. The set speeches and
attitudes of success returned to him. His manner as he winked at a
studio policeman, stopped to chat with Louie, the bookie, and
presented himself to Mr. Le Vigne's secretary, indicated that he
had been engaged with momentous tasks in other parts of the globe.
By saluting Le Vigne with a facetious "Hel-LO Captain!" he behaved
almost as an equal, a trusted lieutenant who had never really been
away.
"Pat, your wife's in the hospital," Le Vigne said. "It'll probably
be in the papers this afternoon."
Pat started.
"My wife?" he said. "What wife?"
"Estelle. She tried to cut her wrists."
"Estelle!" Pat exclaimed. "You mean ESTELLE? Say, I was only
married to her three weeks!"
"She was the best girl you ever had," said Le Vigne grimly.
"I haven't even heard of her for ten years."
"You're hearing about her now. They called all the studios trying
to locate you."
"I had nothing to do with it."
"I know--she's only been here a week. She had a run of hard luck
wherever it was she lived--New Orleans? Husband died, child died,
no money . . ."
Pat breathed easier. They weren't trying to hang anything on him.
"Anyhow she'll live," Le Vigne reassured him superfluously, "--and
she was the best script girl on the lot once. We'd like to take
care of her. We thought the way was give you a job. Not exactly a
job, because I know you're not up to it." He glanced into Pat's
red-rimmed eyes. "More of a sinecure."
Pat became uneasy. He didn't recognize the word, but "sin"
disturbed him and "cure" brought a whole flood of unpleasant
memories.
"You're on the payroll at two-fifty a week for three weeks," said
Le Vigne, "--but one-fifty of that goes to the hospital for your
wife's bill."
"But we're divorced!" Pat protested. "No Mexican stuff either.
I've been married since, and so has--"
"Take it or leave it. You can have an office here, and if anything
you can do comes up we'll let you know."
"I never worked for a hundred a week."
"We're not asking you to work. If you want you can stay home."
Pat reversed his field.
"Oh, I'll work," he said quickly. "You dig me up a good story and
I'll show you whether I can work or not."
Le Vigne wrote something on a slip of paper.
"All right. They'll find you an office."
Outside Pat looked at the memorandum.
"Mrs. John Devlin," it read, "Good Samaritan Hospital."
The very words irritated him.
"Good Samaritan!" he exclaimed. "Good gyp joint! One hundred and
fifty bucks a week!"
Pat had been given many a charity job but this was the first one
that made him feel ashamed. He did not mind not EARN-ing his
salary, but not getting it was another matter. And he wondered if
other people on the lot who were obviously doing nothing, were
being fairly paid for it. There were, for example, a number of
beautiful young ladies who walked aloof as stars, and whom Pat took
for stock girls, until Eric, the callboy, told him they were
imports from Vienna and Budapest, not yet cast for pictures. Did
half their pay checks go to keep husbands they had only had for
three weeks!
The loveliest of these was Lizzette Sta
rheim, a violet-eyed little
blonde with an ill-concealed air of disillusion. Pat saw her alone
at tea almost every afternoon in the commissary--and made her
acquaintance one day by simply sliding into a chair opposite.
"Hello, Lizzette," he said. "I'm Pat Hobby, the writer."
"Oh, hel-LO!"
She flashed such a dazzling smile that for a moment he thought she
must have heard of him.
"When they going to cast you?" he demanded.
"I don't know." Her accent was faint and poignant.
"Don't let them give you the run-around. Not with a face like
yours." Her beauty roused a rusty eloquence. "Sometimes they just
keep you under contract till your teeth fall out, because you look
too much like their big star."
"Oh no," she said distressfully.
"Oh yes!" he assured her. "I'm telling YOU. Why don't you go to
another company and get borrowed? Have you thought of that idea?"
"I think it's wonderful."
He intended to go further into the subject but Miss Starheim looked
at her watch and got up.
"I must go now, Mr.--"
"Hobby. Pat Hobby."
Pat joined Dutch Waggoner, the director, who was shooting dice with
a waitress at another table.
"Between pictures, Dutch?"
"Between pictures hell!" said Dutch. "I haven't done a picture for
six months and my contract's got six months to run. I'm trying to
break it. Who was the little blonde?"
Afterwards, back in his office, Pat discussed these encounters with
Eric the callboy.
"All signed up and no place to go," said Eric. "Look at this Jeff
Manfred, now--an associate producer! Sits in his office and sends
notes to the big shots--and I carry back word they're in Palm
Springs. It breaks my heart. Yesterday he put his head on his
desk and boo-hoo'd."
"What's the answer?" asked Pat.
"Changa management," suggested Eric, darkly. "Shake-up coming."
"Who's going to the top?" Pat asked, with scarcely concealed
excitement.
"Nobody knows," said Eric. "But wouldn't I like to land uphill!
Boy! I want a writer's job. I got three ideas so new they're wet
behind the ears."
"It's no life at all," Pat assured him with conviction. "I'd trade
with you right now."
In the hall next day he intercepted Jeff Manfred who walked with
the unconvincing hurry of one without a destination.
"What's the rush, Jeff?" Pat demanded, falling into step.
"Reading some scripts," Jeff panted without conviction.
Pat drew him unwillingly into his office.
"Jeff, have you heard about the shake-up?"
"Listen now, Pat--" Jeff looked nervously at the walls. "What
shake-up?" he demanded.
"I heard that this Harmon Shaver is going to be the new boss,"
ventured Pat, "Wall Street control."
"Harmon Shaver!" Jeff scoffed. "He doesn't know anything about
pictures--he's just a money man. He wanders around like a lost
soul." Jeff sat back and considered. "Still--if you're RIGHT,
he'd be a man you could get to." He turned mournful eyes on Pat.
"I haven't been able to see Le Vigne or Barnes or Bill Behrer for a
month. Can't get an assignment, can't get an actor, can't get a
story." He broke off. "I've thought of drumming up something on
my own. Got any ideas?"
"Have I?" said Pat. "I got three ideas so new they're wet behind
the ears."
"Who for?"
"Lizzette Starheim," said Pat, "with Dutch Waggoner directing--
see?"
"I'm with you all a hundred per cent," said Harmon Shaver. "This
is the most encouraging experience I've had in pictures." He had a
bright bond-salesman's chuckle. "By God, it reminds me of a circus
we got up when I was a boy."
They had come to his office inconspicuously like conspirators--Jeff
Manfred, Waggoner, Miss Starheim and Pat Hobby.
"You like the idea, Miss Starheim?" Shaver continued.
"I think it's wonderful."
"And you, Mr. Waggoner?"
"I've heard only the general line," said Waggoner with director's
caution, "but it seems to have the old emotional socko." He winked
at Pat. "I didn't know this old tramp had it in him."
Pat glowed with pride. Jeff Manfred, though he was elated, was
less sanguine.
"It's important nobody talks," he said nervously. "The Big Boys
would find some way of killing it. In a week, when we've got the
script done we'll go to them."
"I agree," said Shaver. "They have run the studio so long that--
well, I don't trust my own secretaries--I sent them to the races
this afternoon."
Back in Pat's office Eric, the callboy, was waiting. He did not
know that he was the hinge upon which swung a great affair.
"You like the stuff, eh?" he asked eagerly.
"Pretty good," said Pat with calculated indifference.
"You said you'd pay more for the next batch."
"Have a heart!" Pat was aggrieved. "How many callboys get seventy-
five a week?"
"How many callboys can write?"
Pat considered. Out of the two hundred a week Jeff Manfred was
advancing from his own pocket, he had naturally awarded himself a
commission of sixty per cent.
"I'll make it a hundred," he said. "Now check yourself off the lot
and meet me in front of Benny's bar."
At the hospital, Estelle Hobby Devlin sat up in bed, overwhelmed by
the unexpected visit.
"I'm glad you came, Pat," she said, "you've been very kind. Did
you get my note?"
"Forget it," Pat said gruffly. He had never liked this wife. She
had loved him too much--until she found suddenly that he was a poor
lover. In her presence he felt inferior.
"I got a guy outside," he said.
"What for?"
"I thought maybe you had nothing to do and you might want to pay me
back for all this jack--"
He waved his hand around the bare hospital room.
"You were a swell script girl once. Do you think if I got a
typewriter you could put some good stuff into continuity?"
"Why--yes. I suppose I could."
"It's a secret. We can't trust anybody at the studio."
"All right," she said.
"I'll send this kid in with the stuff. I got a conference."
"All right--and--oh Pat--come and see me again."
"Sure, I'll come."
But he knew he wouldn't. He didn't like sickrooms--he lived in one
himself. From now on he was done with poverty and failure. He
admired strength--he was taking Lizzette Starheim to a wrestling
match that night.
In his private musings Harmon Shaver referred to the showdown as
"the surprise party." He was going to confront Le Vigne with a
fait accompli and he gathered his coterie before phoning Le Vigne
to come over to his office.
"What for?" demanded Le Vigne. "Couldn't you tell me now--I'm busy
as hell."
This arrogance irritated Shaver--who was here to watch over the
interests of Eastern stockholders.
"I don't ask much," he said sharply, "I let y
ou fellows laugh at me
behind my back and freeze me out of things. But now I've got
something and I'd like you to come over."
"All right--all right."
Le Vigne's eyebrows lifted as he saw the members of the new
production unit but he said nothing--sprawled into an arm chair
with his eyes on the floor and his fingers over his mouth.
Mr. Shaver came around the desk and poured forth words that had
been fermenting in him for months. Simmered to its essentials, his
protest was: "You would not let me play, but I'm going to play
anyhow." Then he nodded to Jeff Manfred--who opened the script and
read aloud. This took an hour, and still Le Vigne sat motionless
and silent.
"There you are," said Shaver triumphantly. "Unless you've got any
objection I think we ought to assign a budget to this proposition
and get going. I'll answer to my people."
Le Vigne spoke at last.
"You like it, Miss Starheim?"
"I think it's wonderful."
"What language you going to play it in?"
To everyone's surprise Miss Starheim got to her feet.
"I must go now," she said with her faint poignant accent.
"Sit down and answer me," said Le Vigne. "What language are you
playing it in?"
Miss Starheim looked tearful.
"Wenn I gute teachers h?tte konnte ich dann thees r?le gut
spielen," she faltered.
"But you like the script."
She hesitated.
"I think it's wonderful."
Le Vigne turned to the others.
"Miss Starheim has been here eight months," he said. "She's had
three teachers. Unless things have changed in the past two weeks
she can say just three sentences. She can say, 'How do you do';
she can say, 'I think it's wonderful'; and she can say, 'I must go
now.' Miss Starheim has turned out to be a pinhead--I'm not
insulting her because she doesn't know what it means. Anyhow--
there's your Star."
He turned to Dutch Waggoner, but Dutch was already on his feet.
"Now Carl--" he said defensively.
"You force me to it," said Le Vigne. "I've trusted drunks up to a
point, but I'll be goddam if I'll trust a hophead."
He turned to Harmon Shaver.
"Dutch has been good for exactly one week apiece on his last four
pictures. He's all right now but as soon as the heat goes on he
reaches for the little white powders. Now Dutch! Don't say
anything you'll regret. We're carrying you in HOPES--but you won't
get on a stage till we've had a doctor's certificate for a year."
Again he turned to Harmon.
"There's your director. Your supervisor, Jeff Manfred, is here for
one reason only--because he's Behrer's wife's cousin. There's
nothing against him but he belongs to silent days as much as--as
much as--" His eyes fell upon a quavering broken man, "--as much
as Pat Hobby."
"What do you mean?" demanded Jeff.
"You trusted Hobby, didn't you? That tells the whole story." He
turned back to Shaver. "Jeff's a weeper and a wisher and a
dreamer. Mr. Shaver, you have bought a lot of condemned building
material."
"Well, I've bought a good story," said Shaver defiantly.
"Yes. That's right. We'll make that story."
"Isn't that something?" demanded Shaver. "With all this secrecy
how was I to know about Mr. Waggoner and Miss Starheim? But I do
know a good story."
"Yes," said Le Vigne absently. He got up. "Yes--it's a good
story. . . . Come along to my office, Pat."
He was already at the door. Pat cast an agonized look at Mr.
Shaver as if for support. Then, weakly, he followed.