Thirty Years 1908

Home Reading

The Dream Merchants

by

Harold Robbins

CONTENTS

Aftermath 1938

Monday

I got out of the cab on Rockefeller Plaza. It was a windy day even for March, and my coat flapped around my trouser legs as I paid the hackie. I gave him a dollar and told him to keep the change.

I grinned as he thanked me profusely. The meter read only thirty cents. The gears meshed as the cab drove off. I stood there a few minutes breathing deeply before I entered the building. The air smelled fresh and clean. It was too early in the day for the usual gasoline odors to drift over from the bus stand on the corner and I felt good. Better, perhaps, than I had felt in a long time.

I entered the building and bought the Times at my usual stand near the Chase Bank and then walked down the steps into the arcade to the barber shop.

De Zemmler's was to barber shops what Tiffany's is to jewelers'. The door opened magically as I neared it. A small stubby-looking little Italian held the door for me as I walked through, his swarthy face flashing large white teeth. "Good morning, Mr. Edge," he said. "You're early today."

I looked over at the clock automatically before I answered him. It was only ten o'clock. "Yes, Joe," I answered as he took my coat. "Is Rocco here yet?"

"Sure, Mr. Edge," he grinned. "He's changing clothes; he’ll be out in a minute."

I put the paper down on the counter while I took off my jacket and tie. Joe took them from me.

Just then Rocco came out from the back room and walked toward his chair. Joe seemed to signal him invisibly. Rocco looked at me and smiled.

"Rocco's ready now, Mr. Edge," Joe said to me; then turning to Rocco, he called: "Okay, number seven."

I picked up my paper and walked toward the chair. Rocco stood next to it grinning at me. I sat down and he whisked a cloth around me, tucked some Kleenex down my collar, and said: "Early today, Johnny."

I couldn't keep from smiling at the tone of his voice. "Yeah." I answered.

"Big day for yuh, Johnny." He smiled back at me. "I guess yuh couldn't sleep?"

"That's right," I replied, still smiling, "I couldn't sleep."

He walked over to the washstand in front of the chair and began to wash his hands. Looking back over his shoulder at me, he said: "I guess I couldn't sleep either if I just got a new job paying a grand a week."

I laughed aloud at that. "A grand and a half, Rock," I told him. "I wish you'd get things straight."

"What's five c's a week when you get that kinda dough?" he asked, walking back to me, drying his hands on a towel. "Pocket money."

"Wrong again, Rock," I said. "When you get that high, it's not money any more; it's prestige."

He took his scissors out of his pocket and began to peck at my hair. "Prestige is like a pot-belly. You look like a well-fed guy with it. A guy what's doing okay. But you're always secretly ashamed of it. You sometimes wish you could do without it and be skinny again."

"Sour grapes, Rock," I answered. "On me it looks good."

He didn't answer, just kept pecking away at my hair, so I opened the paper. The first page was nothing but news. Very uninteresting. I kept turning the pages until I found it.

It was on the amusement page. A two-column head in twenty-point type: "John Edge Elected President of Magnum Pictures." The story that followed was the usual thing. History of the picture company. History of me. I frowned a little at that. They didn't skip the fact that I had been divorced from that famous actress, Dulcie Warren.

Rocco looked over my shoulder at the paper. "Gonna start a scrapbook now that you're Mr. Big, Johnny?"

That one got a little under my skin. It was as if he had sneaked into my mind and sneaked out again with my thoughts. I tried not to be sore. I managed a weak grin. "Don't be silly, Rock," I said. "I'm still the same guy. I only got a different job. It don't change things for me."

"No?" Rocco grunted. "Yuh shoulda seen yourself com­ing in here just now. Like Rockefeller cut you in on the joint."

I began to get a little sore. I held up one hand and looked at it. "Call the manicurist," I told him.

The girl heard me and came right over. She took my hand. Rocco tilted the chair back and began to cover my face with lather; I couldn't read the paper any more, so I dropped it on the floor.

I had the works—shave, shampoo, sun treatment, every­thing. When I got out of the chair, Joe rushed over with my tie. I stood in front of the mirror and knotted it. For a change I got the knot just right and didn't have to do it over. I turned to Rocco, stuck my hand in my pocket, and came up with a five-dollar bill, which I gave him.

He stuck it in his breast pocket carelessly as if he were doing me a favor by taking it. He looked at me a minute and I looked at him. Then he asked: "Did yuh hear from the old man yet? What's he think?"

"No," I answered, "And I don't give a damn."

"That's no way to talk, Johnny." He shook his head gently. "He's an okay guy even if he did hurt you a little. He always liked yuh. Almost as much as his kid."

"He hurt me though, didn't he?" I asked almost bel­ligerently.

Rocco's voice was gentle. "So he did. So what? He's an old man. He was sick and tired and desperate and he knew he had shot his load." He stopped talking for a second to light the cigarette I had put in my mouth. His face was very close to mine when he spoke again. "So he went a little crazy and took it out on you. So what, Johnny? You just can't wash away the thirty years before that happened. You can't say those thirty years never happened, 'cause they did."

I looked into his eyes. They were soft and brown and had a subtle sort of compassion in them. They almost looked sorry for me. I started to say something but didn't. Instead I walked away from him and went to the door, put on my jacket, and threw my coat over my arm and walked out.

The tourists were already in the building. There was a whole group of the yokels lined up waiting for one of the guides to come and show them around. The yokels never changed. They had the same look on their faces that they had at the carny over thirty years ago. Eager, expectant, their mouths a little open as if they could see more through them.

I walked past them to the escalator and rode up to the main floor, then went over to the second bank of elevators—the bank that went express to the thirtieth floor. I entered the elevator. The operator looked at me and then punched the button marked 32 without my saying a word.

"Good morning, Mr. Edge," he said.

"Good morning," I answered.

The door shut and then there was that slightly sickening feeling as the high-speed elevator gained momentum and rushed toward the roof. The door opened and I got out.

The girl at the reception desk smiled at me as I walked by. "Good morning, Mr. Edge."

"Good morning, Mona," I said, turning down the corridor and walking the rug to my new office. It used to be his. But now my name was on the door. "Mr. Edge," it read in gold letters. They looked funny there instead of his name. I looked closely at the lettering to see if any traces of his name re­mained. There weren't any. They had done a thorough job of it, and it didn't take too long either. Even if your name had been on the door for a thousand years, it only took a few minutes to take it off.

I put my hand on the door and began to turn the knob. Suddenly I stopped. This was only a dream up to now. It wasn't my name on the door, it was his. I looked closely at the name on the door again.

"Mr. Edge," it read in gold letters.

I shook my head. Rocco was right. You just couldn't wash away thirty years.

I opened the door and stepped into the office. This was my secretary's office; mine was through the next door.

Jane was just hanging up the phone as I came in. She got to her feet and took my coat and hung it in a small closet and said: "Good morning, Mr. Edge," all at once.

"Good morning, Miss Andersen," I returned, smiling. "My, aren't we formal this morning?"

Jane laughed. "Christ, Johnny, after all, you're the big boss now. Somebody's got to set the standard."

"Let somebody else do it, not you, Janey," I told her as I walked into my office.

I stopped at the door a minute to sort of get used to it. This was the first time I had seen the place since it had been redecorated. I had been at the studio until Friday evening, flew into New York Sunday night, and this was only Monday morning.

Janey had followed me into the office. "Like it?" she asked.

I looked around. I sure did. Who wouldn't like an office that looked as if it were made out of spun gold? The office was on the corner of the floor. It had ten windows, five on each side. The inside walls were lined with an artificial wood. On the large wall there was a large photo-mural of the studio made from a picture taken from a plane. On the small wall there was an artificial fireplace complete with andirons, grille, and fireplace chairs. There were other chairs made of a deep rich red leather scattered throughout the office, and my desk was of a highly polished mahogany covered with a matching leather. In the center of the leather were my initials in raised leather of a slightly contrasting color. The place was big enough to throw a ball or party in and there would still be enough room left over to have some privacy.

"Like it, Johnny?" Jane asked again.

I nodded my head. "I sure do.' I walked over to my desk and sat down behind it.

"You haven't seen anything yet," she said. She walked over Io the fireplace and touched a button on the wall.

The fireplace began to turn around and a bar came out.

I whistled.

"Pretty slick, eh?" she asked proudly.

"I'm speechless," I answered.

"That isn't all," she said. She touched the button again and tin- fireplace came back into view. Then she walked a few steps mid touched another button. Part of the wall slid back and the

door revealed a shining tiled bathroom. "How do you like that?" she asked.

I got up and walked over to her, put my arms around her, and gave her a squeeze. "Janey, you just made me the happiest guy in the world. How did you ever guess that the one thing I wanted was a private John?"

She laughed, a little embarrassed now. "I'm so glad you like it, Johnny. I was a little worried."

I let go of her and stuck my head in the bathroom door. It was complete, stall shower and all. I turned back to her. "Your worries are over, kid. Papa likes."

I went back to the desk and sat down. I still had to get used to it. When Peter had the office, it was plain, old-fashioned, like himself. They said a man's office reflected what his sec­retary thought he was. I began to wonder. Did Janey think I was this fancy a Dan?

The phone in Jane's office began to ring and she rushed out to answer it, shutting the door behind her. The minute the door closed I felt alone. I felt so alone it was ridiculous.

In the old days when I was Peter's assistant, by now my office would be crowded with people. We'd be talking and the air would be blue with smoke and it would feel good. They used to tell me their ideas, about pictures, about sales, about advertising. We used to razz each other, criticize, argue; but out of it all came an easy camaraderie that I knew I would never have again.

What was it that Peter had once said? "When you're boss, Johnny, you're on your own. You got no friends, only enemies. If people are nice to you, you wonder why. You wonder what they want from you. You listen to what they say and try to make them comfortable, but you never can. They never forget that you're the boss and what you say or do might turn their lives inside out. Being boss is a lonely thing, Johnny, a lonely thing."

I had laughed at the time, but now I was beginning to under­stand what he had meant. Deliberately I thrust the thought from my mind and turned my attention to the mail stacked high on my desk. After all, I hadn't looked for the job. I picked up the first letter and suddenly my hand stopped. Or had I? The thought flashed through my mind and was gone in a second and 1 began to read the letter.

It was a note of congratulations. That's what all the rest of the mail and telegrams were about. Everybody in the industry was sending me notes of congratulations and good will. The big and little. That was an interesting thing about this business. No matter how much you were liked or disliked, whenever something happened everybody sent you notes. It was like being in a big family where every member of it watched everybody else for signs of success or failure. You could always tell what people thought you were heading for by the amount of inconsequential mail you got.

I was almost through with the mail when Jane came into my office again, carrying a large bouquet of flowers.

I looked up at her. "Who sent those?"

She put them into a vase on the coffee table and without living anything tossed a small white envelope on my desk.

Almost before I saw the small initials "D. W." on the envelope I knew whom they were from because of the way Janey had acted. I opened the envelope and took out a small white card. There was some scrawling in a small familiar hand.

"Nothing succeeds like success, Johnny," it read. "Looks I guessed wrong." It was signed: "Dulcie."

I threw it into the wastebasket and lit a cigarette. Dulcie. Dulcie was a bitch. But I had married her because I thought she was wonderful. Because she was beautiful. And because she had a way of looking at you that made you think you were the most wonderful guy in the world. It just shows how much you can get fooled. When I found out just how much you could get fooled we were divorced.

"Were there any calls, Jane?"

Her face was troubled while I had read the letter; now it brightened. "Yes," she answered. "Only one before you came in. George Pappas. He said for you to call back when you had time. "

"Okay," I said. "Get him for me."

She left the office. George Pappas was all right. He was president of Borden Pictures and we had known each other a long lime. He was the guy that had bought Peter's little nickelodeon when Peter had decided to go into the production of pictures.

My phone buzzed. I picked it up. Janey's voice came through: "I have Mr. Pappas for you."

'Put him on," I said. There was a click, then George's voice. "Hallo, Johnny?" The way he said it, the "J" was soft and slurred.

"George," I said, 'how the hell are yuh?"

"Good, Johnny. How are you?"

"Can't complain."

"How about lunch?" he asked.

"Thank God somebody thought of that," I told him. "I was afraid I'd have to eat alone."

"Where will we meet?" he asked.

I had an idea. "George," I said, "you come over here. I want you to see the office."

"It's nice, eh, Johnny?" he asked, laughing softly.

"Nice isn't the word for it," I said. "It's like the reception room in one of those high-class French whorehouses. Anyway, you come over and see it and let me know what you think."

"One o'clock, Johnny," he said, "I'll be there."

We said good-by and hung up.

I called Jane in and told her to get all the department heads up into my office. It was about time they heard from me anyway. Besides, what was the good of being boss if nobody showed up for you to boss?

The meeting lasted until almost one o'clock. It was the usual crap. They were full of congratulations and good will. I told them the company was in bad shape and that we'd have to quit messing around and buckle down to some serious work or first thing we'd know we'd all be out of work. As I said it I felt funny. Saying something like that in an office that had cost about fifteen grand to refurnish seemed entirely out of place to me, but apparently none of them thought about it that way. They were impressed. Before I closed the meeting I told them I wanted on my desk before the week was out an econ­omy chart from every department showing who and what we could dispense with. We had to eliminate waste and ineffi­ciency if we were to survive this economic crisis. Then I told them to go to lunch, and as they filed out I knew from the looks on their faces behind their smiles that not a one of them would be able to eat.

When the door closed behind the last of them I went over to the wall where the bar was and looked for the button. I couldn't find it. I walked over to Janey's door and opened it.

"I can't find those Goddam buttons," I told her.

She looked startled for a second, then she got up. "I'll show them to you," she said.

I followed her over to the wall and watched her press the button for the bar. As it swung around, I told her to mix me a drink while I went down to the can. Automatically I started for the outer door, but she stopped me.

"Private," she said, "remember?" She touched another but­ton and the bathroom door slid back.

Not answering, I went in. When I came out, George was in the office, a drink in his hand, and looking around the place. I went over to him and we shook. "Well, George," I asked, "what do you think of it?"

He smiled slowly, finished his drink and put the empty glass back on the bar, and said: "A few pictures of some naked ladies on the wall and I think maybe, Johnny, you're right."

I finished my drink and we went to lunch. We went down to the English Grill. I didn't want to go to Shor's because of the crowd and he didn't want to go to the Rainbow Room be­cause of the height, so we compromised on the English Grill. It was in the arcade of the RCA Building and looked out on the fountain. It was still cool enough for them to have their skating rink out and George and I got a window seat and for a few minutes watched the skaters.

The waiter came. I ordered grilled lamb chops and George ordered a salad. Had to watch his diet, he explained. We looked out the window again for a while and watched the skaters.

At last he sighed. "Makes you wish you were young again, Johnny."

"Yeanh," I said.

He looked at me closely. "Oh, I'm sorry, Johnny, I forgot."

I smiled. "That's all right, George. I don't think much about it any more, and even if I did, what you said was still right."

He didn't answer, but I knew what he was thinking about. It was my leg. My right one. I had lost it in the war. I had the lat­est thing in prosthetics now and if people didn't know about it they could never guess it wasn't mine that I walked around on.

I remembered how I had felt that day Peter had come to visit me in the hospital on Staten Island. I was bitter, sore at the world. I wasn't thirty years old and had lost my leg. I was

just going to lie in the hospital the rest of my life and Peter had said: "So you lost a leg, Johnny. You still got your head on your shoulders, ain't you? A man doesn't live by how he can run around, he lives by what he's got between his ears. So don't be a fool, Johnny, come back to work and you'll forget all about it in no time."

So I went back to work and Peter was right. I forgot all about it until that night that Dulcie called me a cripple. But Dulcie was a bitch and in time I even forgot about that.

The waiter brought our order. We began to eat. We were halfway through with the meal when I began to talk. "George," I said, "I'm glad you called and wanted to see me. If you hadn't, I would have called you."

"About what?" he asked.

"Business," I said. "You know what the setup is. You know why I've been made president. Because Ronsen thinks I can bail him out."

"And you want to?" George asked.

"Not particularly," I answered candidly, "but you know how it is. You spend thirty years helping build something, you don't like to let go just like that. Besides, it's a job."

"And you need a job so bad?" he asked, smiling.

I grinned at that. A job was one thing I didn't need. I was worth a quarter of a million bucks. "Not in that sense, but I'm too young to lie around doing nothing."

He made no reply to that. After a mouthful of his salad he asked: "And what do you want I should do?"

"I'd like you to play the terrible ten." I said.

Not a sign of what he was thinking flashed across his face. No surprise that I had just asked him to play what the trade had laughingly dubbed the ten worst pictures ever made. "You trying to close my theaters, Johnny?" he asked softly.

"They're not that bad, George," I said. "And I'll make a good deal for you. You can play 'em anyway you like, short half or long half, fifty dollars a date; guarantee five hundred dates and you get them free after that."

George didn't answer.

I finished my chops, leaned back in my chair, and lit a cigarette. It was a good deal I had made. George had close to nine hundred theaters; that meant he would play them free in four hundred houses.

"They're not as bad as the papers say," I threw in. "I saw them and I can say I saw a lot worse."

"Don't try to sell me, Johnny," he said softly, "I'll buy."

"There's just one more thing, George," I said. "We need the dough right away."

He hesitated half a second before he answered: "Okay, Johnny, for you I'll do it."

"Thanks, George," I told him. "It'll be a helluva help."

The waiter came up and cleared the table. I ordered coffee and apple pie, and George ordered black coffee.

While we were on our coffee George asked me if I had spo­ken to Peter lately.

I shook my head. My mouth was full of pie and I swallowed it before I answered. "I haven't seen him in almost six months."

"Why don't you give him a call, Johnny?" he said. "I should think he'd like to hear from you now."

"He can call me," I answered shortly.

"You still sore, eh, Johnny?"

"Not sore," I said. "Disgusted. He thinks I'm one of the peo­ple in the plot to steal the picture business. The anti-Semiten he calls them."

"You don't think he believes that any more, do you?"

"How in hell would I know what he believes?" I asked. "He threw me out of his house that night I told him he would have I o sell out or lose everything. He accused me of being a spy for Ronsen and part of the plot that was out to ruin him. He blamed everything that went wrong on me. The things he did t bat he said I should have stopped. Oh, no, George, I took it (or a long time, but that was the finish for me."

He took out a long cigar and placed it in his mouth and lit il slowly, all the while looking at me. When he had it lit to his satisfaction, he asked: "And what about Doris?"

"She decided to string along with her old man. I haven't heard from her either." It hurt me even as I said it. I'd been a fool about many things, but just when I thought everything would turn out all right, it went wrong.

"What did you expect her to do?" George asked. "I know girl. Do you think she would run out on the old man when everything went wrong? She's too fine for that."

At least he didn't say a word about my futsing around all those years, I was grateful to him for that. "I didn't want her

to take a powder on the old guy. All I wanted to do was marry her."

"And how would that look to Peter?" he said.

I didn't answer. There wasn't any answer. We knew how it would look to Peter, but it made me sore anyway. People had their own lives to live and both of us had given him more than enough of ours.

George signaled for the check. The waiter brought it and he paid him. We walked out into the arcade and George turned to me. He held out his hand.

I took it. His grip was firm and warm.

"Call him," he said. "You'll both feel better."

I didn't answer.

"And good luck, Johnny," he continued. "You'll do all right. I'm glad you got the job instead of Farber. And I’ll bet that Peter is, too."

I thanked him and went back upstairs. All the way up in the elevator I kept thinking about calling Peter. When I got off onmy floor I finally decided to hell with it. If he wanted to talk to me, he could call me.

Jane's office was empty as I went through it. I guessed she was still out to lunch. There was another stack of mail on my desk that had been placed there while I was out. It was piled pretty high and there was a little paperweight stuck on top of it to hold it down.

The paperweight looked familiar. I picked it up. It was a little bust of Peter. I hefted it in my hand and, sitting down in my chair, looked at it. Some years ago Peter had thought that a bust of himself would prove to be an inspiration to every em­ployee, so he had hired a sculptor, who had charged him a thousand bucks to make up this little statuette. Then we had found a small metalworks plant, had had a die cast, and soon the little bust was on every desk in the office.

The statue was very flattering. It gave him more hair than I had ever remembered his having, a squarer chin than he ever had, a more aquiline nose than he had been born with, and an air of quiet determination that belonged no more to him than to the man in the moon. And underneath it, on the base of the bust, were the words: "Nothing is impossible to the man who is willing to work — Peter Kessler."

I got up again and, holding the bust in my hands, walked over

to the bathroom and pressed the button. While the door rolled back I kept turning it over and over in my hand. When the door was open, I stepped through it. On the right-hand n ill were a few little shelves for bottles and things. Carefully I placed Peter's statue in the center of the top shelf and topped back to look at it.

The not true face that looked so real stared back at me. I turned and went back into my office and shut the door behind me. I picked up some of the mail and looked through it, but it didn't do any good. I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking of Peter and the way he had looked at me when I had put him on the bathroom shelf. It wasn't any use.

Angry with myself, I got up and went back into the bath-room and took the bust out. I looked around my office for a place to put it where it wouldn't disturb me. I settled for the top of the fireplace. It looked better there. It almost seemed to smile at me. I could almost hear his voice in the room saying: That's better, boy, that's better."

"Is it, you old rascal?" I said aloud. Then I grinned and went back to my desk. Now I was able to concentrate on the mail.

At three o'clock Ronsen came into my office. His round, well-fed face grinned at me. His eyes looked deep and self-satisfied behind their square-cut frameless glasses. "All settled, Johnny?" he asked in his surprisingly strong voice. When you first heard him speak you wondered how such a strong, com­manding voice could come from such a round, comfortable body. Then you remembered this was Laurence G. Ronsen. In his class of society you were born with a deep commanding voice.

"Yes, Larry," I answered. That was another thing about him I hat I did not like. When I was around him I was subcon­sciously compelled to try to speak at almost perfect English, which was something I was constitutionally unable to do.

"How did you make out with Pappas?" he asked.

He must have his spies working overtime, I thought. Aloud I answered: "Pretty good. I sold him the terrible ten for a flat quarter of a million bucks."

His face lit up at the sound of that. I made my moment of

triumph a little more complete. "In advance," I added; "we'll get the money tomorrow."

He rubbed his hands together and came over to the desk and slapped me on the shoulder. His hand was surprisingly heavy and I remembered he had also been an all-American fullback at college. "I knew you were the boy that could do it, Johnny. I knew it."

As quickly as his pleasure broke through his reserve it slipped back into its sheath. "We're on the right track now, boy," he said. "We can't miss. Let's play off that old product and tighten up our organization and pretty soon we'll be in the black.

Then I told him about the meeting of the morning and what I had asked them to do. He listened attentively, nodding his head from time to time as I stressed the various things we had to do.

When I had finished he said: "I can see you're going to have plenty to do around here."

"Christ, yes," I answered. "I'll probably stay in New York the next three months to keep on top of things."

"Well, it's important enough," he agreed. "If you don't con­trol things here, we might as well close up shop."

Just then my phone rang. Jane's voice came through: "Doris Kessler calling from California." I hesitated a second. "Put her on."

I heard the click-click, then Doris's voice: "Hello, Johnny." "Hello, Doris," I said. I wondered why she had called; her voice sounded strange.

"Papa had a stroke, Johnny, He's calling for you." Automatically I looked over at the statue on the fireplace. Ronsen followed my glance and saw it there. "When did it happen, Doris?"

"About two hours ago. It's awful. First we got a telegram that Junior was killed in a battle in Spain. Papa took it awful hard. He fainted. We hurried him to bed and called the doctor. He said it was a stroke and he didn't know how long Papa would last. Maybe one day, maybe two. Then Papa opened his eyes and said: 'Get me Johnny, I got to talk to him. Get me Johnny!'" She began to cry.

It only took a moment, then I heard myself saying: "Don't cry, Doris. I'll be out there tonight. Wait for me."

"I'll be waiting, Johnny," she said, and I hung up the phone.

I clicked my receiver up and down a few seconds until Jane came back on. "Get me a ticket to California on the next plane out. Call me as soon as it's confirmed, I'll leave from here." I hung up the phone without waiting for her answer.

Ronsen stood up. "What's wrong, Johnny?"

I lit a cigarette; my hands were shaking a little. "Peter just had a stroke," I said. "I'm going out there."

"What about the plans here? " he asked.

"They'll have to keep for a few days," I answered.

"Now, Johnny"—he held up a quieting hand—"I know just how you feel, but the board won't like it. Besides, what can you do out there?"

I looked at him and stood up behind my desk. I didn't pay any attention to his question, didn't bother to answer it. "Damn the board," I said.

He was the board and he knew that I knew it. His mouth tightened. He turned and angrily left the office.

I watched him go. For the first time since I had decided to take the job that night Ronsen had offered it to me, my mind was at peace.

"Damn you too," I said to the closed door. What did that jerk know about the last thirty years?

Thirty Years 1908