Thursday

The sound of the drapes being drawn and the windows opened wide woke me up. For a moment I lay there in bed looking up at the ceiling vacantly. The room was strange to me and then suddenly I remembered where I was. It still seemed all wrong. I was supposed to be in New York. What was I doing in Hollywood?

Then it all came flooding back to me. I suppose it had been driven from my mind by that dream again—that dream in which I was running up a street that didn't exist to a girl I couldn't see. I had had that dream ever since the war and it always ended the same way. I fell and people were laughing at me.

They probably were laughing at me this morning. I had asked Farber in. Me. After all that had happened. I let Farber get his foot in the door. Now I had to pry him loose again and shut him out. I had done it once before. Could I do it again? I wasn't sure. This time it was my own fault.

"Good morning, Mr. John," Christopher's voice came from the side of the bed.

I sat up and looked at him. His black face was gleaming and split with a white toothy smile. "Good morning, Christopher," I replied. "How did you know I was here?" I had given him several weeks off because I didn't expect to be back for a while.

He looked at me seriously. "I read the papers that Mr. Peter was took sick and I figured that you would come back to be near him."

I didn't answer as he put the breakfast tray on the bed. Did everybody know how I would react to hearing about Peter except me? Christopher knew as well as I did about my quarrel with Peter and yet he also knew that I would be back. I couldn't get away from it. They were right because here I was.

The papers were folded neatly on the corner of the tray. I opened them up while I sipped slowly at the orange juice. The headline in the Reporter was simple and right to the point:

FARBER IN AT MAGNUM WITH MILLION-DOLLAR LOAN

In was right, but not for long if I could help it. If Ronsen hadn't come into my office just at that particular moment he never would have made it. I read the story with interest:

Speculation was rife today in the industry as to the mean­ing of Stanley Farber's million-dollar loan to Magnum. It was well known that Farber had been trying to get an interest in Magnum ever since Peter Kessler sold his interest to Laurence G. Ronsen. It was known at the time that Ronsen was inclined to give Farber this interest, but the one thing that held it up was the opposition of Magnum's prexy, John Edge. Edge and Farber had been feuding for fifteen years, ever since Edge had crowded Farber out of Magnum in a dispute over the theaters that Farber had been running for them.

Farber’s nephew, David Roth, had been installed as studio exec at Magnum two months ago, before Edge had been elected prexy of the company. The first sign of a rift between Ronsen and Edge became apparent earlier this week when Edge, contrary to Ronsen’s wishes, flew out here to be at the bedside of Peter Kessler, who had suffered a stroke.

It has been rumored but not confirmed that Farber would be given a large stock interest in Magnum as security for this advance and that he and Roth would be elected to Magnum's board of directors. It is also rumored but not confirmed that Roth would take charge of turning out Magnums top product.

Further unconfirmed rumors are that Bob Gordon, studio manager at Magnum, will ankle the lot because of the break­down of his responsibilities. This will leave Edge without a

single representative on his home lot and in turn may cause him to leave also.

In addition to the loan, Farber also signed an agreement with Magnum which gave Magnum an automatic play-off for all their pictures in Farber's Westco theater chain.

I closed the paper and finished the orange juice. Rumors were as much a part of Hollywood breakfasts as coffee. No breakfast was complete without them. I had had enough for the day.

Christopher poured coffee into my cup and took the cover off the bacon and eggs. The fresh crisp odor of the bacon rose from the plate. Suddenly I was hungry. I grinned at him. "I'm sure glad you came back, Christopher," I said.

He smiled back at me. "I am too, Mr. Johnny," he said. "I worries when you're home alone."

I stood on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette while I waited for Christopher to bring the car around. It was a fresh bright day and I had already begun to feel better. The depression that had settled upon me like a cloud when I had first heard about Peter seemed to be wearing off. It was hard to explain, but I always felt better when I had something or someone definite to fight.

Until now I had been fighting merely to hold the company together. I had never considered Ronsen a genuine problem. He was outside the industry, a stranger, a necessary evil, one that you had to tolerate as long as was necessary; then, when the need no longer existed, you got rid of him. But now that Farber was in, I had a personal interest in the fight. It was no longer a fight to hold the company together; it had turned into a fight over who would hold the company together. If Farber was interested, it meant that he thought there was still a buck to be made in the business. It was up to me to figure out what he planned to do and then knock him down and do something better at the same time. This was a business where competition brought out the best in you. If you couldn't stand the gaff, there was no use in staying with it.

The car came rolling to a stop and I got into it. Christopher's face turned back to me. "The studio, Mr. Johnny?" he asked.

"No," I answered, "Mr. Kessler's house first."

He turned and put the car into gear. I leaned back against the cushions. There was time for me to get to the studio now. It would be better for me to let Ronsen and Farber set their plans and announce them before I came to work. When I got in then, I would know what they intended to do and I would upset their little applecart. I smiled to myself. There really was no reason on earth why I should feel so good; how could one explain it? The fact remained that I did.

The nurse came into the hall and softly closed the door behind her. She spoke in a low voice so that she couldn't be heard in the sickroom. "You can go in now, Mr. Edge," she said, "but don't stay too long. He's still very weak."

I looked at Doris and she started to come in with me. The nurse put a hand on her arm. "One at a time please."

Doris smiled at me and stepped back. "Go in, Johnny," she said, "I've already seen him once this morning and I know he wants to see you."

I shut the door quietly behind me. Peter was lying on the bed, his head propped up by two pillows. He was very still and at first I thought he was asleep, for he didn't move. His face was very white and thin and his eyes were sunken deep into his cheekbones. Then slowly he turned his head toward me and opened his eyes. He smiled.

"Johnny." His voice sounded pleased even if it was faint.

I walked over to the bed and stood there looking at him.

His eyes looked up at me. They were bright and alive in his face even if he was weak. He made a slight gesture with his hand. "Johnny." There was no mistaking the pleasure in his voice now. It was a little stronger.

I took his hand and sat down in a chair next to the bed. His hand felt thin and I could feel the bones of it as he moved his fingers. I still couldn't speak.

"Johnny, I've been a fool," he said, his eyes looking into mine.

Everything inside me seemed to fill up and overflow as he spoke. "No more than me, Peter." My voice sounded strangely harsh in the still room.

He smiled wanly. "We seem to spend our lives making mistakes, which we spend our lives trying to make up for."

I couldn't answer. I just sat there holding his hand. Slowly

his eyes closed and I thought he was asleep. I sat there quietly, afraid to move for fear I would disturb him. His hand was still in mine. I looked down at it. I could see a small blue vein throbbing on its back, over his fingers. I watched it fascinated. It seemed to swell slowly and then go down slowly.

His voice made me look up. The question startled me. "How's business, Johnny?" he asked. His eyes were bright and interested. For a moment it was almost like old times. It was his favorite question, the one he generally asked before anything else. The first of three. The second and third were "How's collections?" and "How's the bank balance?"

Before I knew it I was telling him. About George's deal to take the terrible ten. About Ronsen's squeeze to get Farber's million bucks. I left out all reference to the reasons why Ronsen and I differed.

As I spoke, color came back into his face and he looked more like the Peter of old. He didn't interrupt me, just listened, I when I finished, he seemed to settle back against the pillows with a sigh.

I looked at him anxiously. I was afraid I had tired him. But I didn't have to be. Hearing about the business seemed to act like a tonic to him. After a few seconds he spoke. His voice was a little firmer.

"They got no guts, Johnny, no guts," he said slowly, a slight smile playing around the corner of his mouth. "It looked very good to them, all they had to do to make money was turn out some pictures and issue some stock. But now when they're up against it, like we have been so many times, they're frightened. They run around like chickens with their heads cut off looking for somebody or something to save them." He turned his face to me. There was a real smile on his lips now. His eyes were bright on mine. "They can't win, Johnny, if we don't let them. We let their money frighten us once, but we know better now. Money never made any difference in the picture business. It was the pictures that turned the trick. And that's where we got them. We can make the pictures and they can't."

The door behind me opened and the nurse came in. She bustled importantly over to the bedside. She picked up his wrist and felt for his pulse. She held it a moment and looked at me reproachfully. "You'll have to leave now, Mr. Edge. Mr. Kessler must get some rest."

I smiled at Peter and got to my feet. I turned and walked to the door. His voice stopped me before I went out. I looked back at the bed.

"Come and see me again tomorrow, Johnny," he said.

I looked at the nurse. She nodded her head. I smiled back at him. "Sure, Peter, sure. I'll let you know how things are going."

He smiled and let his head sink back against the pillow. The nurse took a thermometer and put it in his mouth. A cigar would have looked more natural there, I thought incongru­ously as I left the room.

Doris was waiting in the hall. "How is he?" she asked.

I grinned at her. "You know," I replied, "I think he wants to go back to work." I lit a cigarette thoughtfully and added: "It might not be such a bad idea at that. It might do us both some good."

And all the time I kept thinking. Back there in his room I hadn't said anything that was important. Nothing about how I felt about him, how I felt about us. The things that men can feel toward one another after having spent most of their lives together. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Was the only thing we could talk about, the only thing we had in common, after all these years, the picture company?

I walked into the big dining-room a little after one o'clock. The place was filled with people on their lunch hour. The air was filled with smoke and talk. I could feel eyes watching me as I walked through the main dining-room to the smaller dining-room. It was called the Sun Room. The sign over the doorway read: "All tables reserved." It was a warning for the small fry to stay out. This was a room for the top echelon only. My table was in an alcove, raised a little higher than the rest of the room. Behind it were three wide windows that looked over the studio. It was empty as I walked to it. I looked at Ronsen's table as I passed. It was empty too. I sat down and the waitress came up.

She smiled at me. "Good afternoon, Mr. Edge." "Hello, Ginny," I answered. "What's good for lunch?" "The sweetbreads," she answered, "sautéed. Just the way you like 'em."

"Sold," I told her.

She went away and I looked around the room. Gordon was just coming in. He saw me at the table and began to make his way toward me. I waved him to a chair. "Hello, Robert," I said.

He plumped himself into the chair heavily. "Scotch old-fashioned, dry, no sugar," he said to Ginny, who hovered next to him. He looked at me. "I need a drink."

I smiled at him. "I've heard those words before."

"You'll hear them a lot more before this picnic is over," he said. "Farber's on the lot already, making like a big shot."

I didn't answer.

He looked at me. Ginny put his drink before him. He picked it up and finished it in one draught. "I thought you weren't going to give him an in," he said flatly.

"I changed my mind."

"Why?" he asked. "I thought you didn't want him. Yesterday—"

I cut in on him. "I still don't want him. But a million bucks is a million bucks. It saves a lot of trouble."

"It can also make a lot of trouble," he said sarcastically. "Ronsen, Farber, and Roth were in to see me this morning. They say it's all set for Dave to take over on The Snow Queen. They said it was okay with you."

The Snow Queen was the biggest picture we had working at the time. It was a musical starring a kid that Gordon had gone to a lot of trouble to steal from Borden. She was only fourteen years old, but Bob had worked hard on her already. She had a voice like a mature woman's. Bob had planted her on a radio program featuring one of the biggest comedians and she had made a big hit. He had spent a lot of dough screwing up her tests at Borden and fixing it that they would drop her option. The minute he got her, he had gone to work. He had whipped up a story for her, and from the script we knew it had that intangible something that spelled hit before it came out. It wouldn't cost us a hell of a lot to make either, and already we sensed the dough coming in. It was his pet project, and now that everything was set to roll, all the glory would go to Dave if he took over. I didn't blame Bob for being sore.

Bob was on his second old-fashioned before I spoke. "That's interesting," I said casually.

He almost choked on his drink. "That's all you got to say?" he asked.

I nodded my head.

His face went red and he started to get up from the table.

I grinned at him. "Sit down, sit down. Keep your shirt on. I'm not letting anybody hurt you. We'll let Dave get associate-producer credit if we have to, but it will still be a Robert Gordon production."

"That ain't the way I heard it," he said indignantly.

"That's the way it’s gonna be, an' if they don't like it, I don't care."

He was smiling now. "I should have known better, Johnny. I'm sorry."

"Forget it, Bob," I said generously. I could afford to be gen­erous. I wasn't giving anything away.

"What's the gimmick?" he asked, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone.

I looked around the room and lowered my voice to match his. The best actors in this business weren't always on the screen. There was more acting in every minute of our end of the business than went on in a year before the cameras. "This is no place to talk about it, Bob," I said softly, "I'll talk to you later."

He was completely happy now. He looked around the room expansively. He even smiled and nodded to some people. His every gesture exuded confidence. It was amazing how that changed the atmosphere in the room.

Before this, people had been talking quietly, looking at us apprehensively out of the corners of their eyes. They were wondering whether we'd still be their bosses tomorrow. They were already making plans in case we weren't. New people had to be cultivated and flattered. Maybe new jobs would have to be found by some. But now, from the way Gordon looked, most of them figured they were good for a while.

I looked over Gordon's head to the doorway. Ronsen, Farber, and Roth were standing there. Ronsen caught my eye and started toward me. He and Farber walked together, his hand most deferentially on Farber's arm. Dave brought up the rear like a puppy trailing after its masters.

Watching them, I almost smiled. Peter was right. I looked at Ronsen. His every action indicated solicitude for Farber.

Ronsen had changed a little since he had first muscled his way into the place. He was confident then. I remember what he said: "The trouble with this business is that there is too much dependence on personalities and too little faith in the good old American principles of running a business. There need be no such conditions. It's very simple, really. The studio is nothing but a factory. All they have to do is make pictures and have them marketed properly. That's my job here. To show the picture business how it should be run. Before I get finished with this place it will run like the Ford Motor Company."

I almost laughed aloud when I thought of that. The Ford Motor Company. He took a leaf right out of their books and the first thing he tried to do was break our contracts with the unions. He almost broke us instead. For nine weeks not a picture rolled on our lot. He had raged up and down the place, yelling: "Communistic labor principles." It didn't do any good. Then, in the last week of the strike, when the projectionists across the country refused to run a single Magnum picture in their theaters and we were faced with a complete loss of revenue, he finally gave in and I had to go out and straighten up the mess.

Peter was right. In the final analysis they had to come back to us. Maybe it was because we had nothing to lose and they had everything. We were broke when we started. We could afford to go out broke if we had to. We knew that the business was built upon a hypothecation, a gamble. We knew that every picture we turned out was a gamble, and like gamblers we were not satisfied to wait for the results of one bet. Before that picture was out we bet that it was good and hocked it against another picture, another gamble, and kept on going.

That was something they couldn't afford to do. They came

to us with pockets loaded, with money that they had had for years, that their fathers had had before them, and if they lost that their world was at an end and there was nothing left for them.

They had to come to us.

I stood up as they neared my table. I looked at Stanley. The years had changed him but little. He was still the same guy. Maybe his hair had gone gray, his face had filled out along with his stomach, but he still had the same ready smile that lacked warmth. His eyes still gave the impression that they were constantly adding and subtracting. He hadn't changed much. I still reacted to him the same way I had when I first met him. He rubbed me the wrong way. I didn't like him.

Larry spoke first. "Hello, Johnny," he said in that deep voice of his that carried to every corner of the room. "You know Stanley, don't you?"

Every eye in the room was on us. I smiled and held out my hand. "Sure," I said, "recognize him anywhere." He took my hand. It was still the same old handshake—just like picking up a dead fish. "How are yuh, boy?" I continued. "Glad to see yuh."

His face was a little pale under its ruddy color, but his eye had an unmistakable glint of triumph in it. "Johnny," he said, "it's been years."

He let go my hand and we stood there smiling at each other. To all outward appearances we were buddies who had just seen each other after a long while. And all the time we would have gladly cut each other's throat if there was any way we could get away with it.

"Sit down, gentlemen." I waved them to the chairs.

There were only four places at my table. Since Bob and I were already seated, there were only two more places. Larry dropped into the chair on my right and Stanley seated himself heavily on my left. That left Dave standing up and looking for a place to sit.

Ginny saw him standing there and made a motion to get a chair for him; but I caught her eye. She stopped and, half smothering a smile, turned and went toward the kitchen.

Dave stood there uncomfortably for a moment looking for someone to bring him a chair. He looked at me helplessly. I smiled up at him. "Grab yourself a chair, son," I said pleasantly,

"and sit down." I turned to the others, still smiling. "I don't know what's the matter with these waitresses. They're never around when you want them."

Dave had to walk over to the wall and bring back a chair. I watched him. Without turning I spoke to Stanley in a quiet voice, but one that could be heard all through the room. "Bright kid, your nephew," I confided. "Reminds me of you, the way you were years ago. He'll go far if he doesn't let his head run away with him."

From the corner of my eye I could see the color run into Stanley's face. I saw Dave stop for a second as my words reached him; then he picked up the chair and turned around. His face was pale as he walked back to the table with it. He came back and sat down.

I turned to Stanley. "Yuh look good, boy," I said. "Put on a little weight though, haven't you?"

The conversation went on, but I didn't remember much of it. I was thinking about the last time Stanley and I had sat at a table together; that time he had come to me with the proposition that we unite our forces and take over the business for ourselves. It wasn't so long ago at that. Only fifteen years. It was 1923.

The little man got slowly to his feet. His blue eyes twinkled brightly at me; the fringe of gray hair around his bald head seemed to stand out like a wire brush from the sides of his head. He smiled at me. He spoke with a thick German accent. "I think that ought to do it, Mr. Etch," he said.

I looked down at my legs. There were two of them. One was mine and gleamed with a ruddy fleshlike color. One wasn't. It was made of wood and had joints of aluminum. It fitted tightly over the stump and was held with two straps. One went around my thigh and one fastened onto another strap that went around my waist. I looked at him doubtfully.

He seemed to read my mind. "Don't vorry, Mr. Etch," he said quickly, "it vill vork all right. Put on your trousers and then ve'll try it."

Suddenly I was eager to try it. If it worked I could walk again. I could be like other people. "Why can't I try it before I put on my trousers?" I asked.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "the trousers first. Take my

vord for it, I know. Vitout trousers you will look at it and it vill be no good. You must not think about it."

I put the trousers on and he helped me while I buttoned them and slipped into the suspenders. He left me sitting there while he rolled a contraption over to me. It looked like one of those walkers they make for babies, only bigger. There were two parallel steel bars held up by four upright bars. On the bottom were four coasters, round little wheels.

"Now, Mr. Etch," he said, "hold onto these bars and lift yourself up between them."

I put one hand on each bar and lifted myself up. The little man stood next to me anxiously. "Rest each bar under your armpit," he said. I did as he told me.

"Now," he said, going to the other side of the room, "valk toward me."

I looked at him and then down at myself. My trouser legs fell straight to the floor. Both of them. They looked strange there, two of them, instead of one going to the floor and the other pinned to my side.

His voice was sharp. "Don't look down, Mr, Etch. I said: 'Valk toward me!'"

I looked at him again and took a tentative step forward. The carriage rolled under my arm and I almost stumbled, but the bars held me up.

"Don't stop, Mr. Etch! Keep valking!"

I took another step, then another and another and another and another. I could have walked a thousand miles. The carriage moved easily with me. I reached him.

He put his hand on the bars and stopped the carriage. "So far, so good," he said. He knelt by my side for a moment and tightened the strap around my thigh. "Now," he said, straightening up, "valk after me." He stood in front of the walker and, facing me, walked backwards. Slowly I followed him. He kept walking back­wards in a wide sort of a circle. He never looked behind him; his eyes were watching the movement of my legs.

I was beginning to get tired. There were shooting pains in my thighs, and the back of my neck hurt from my shoulders pressing against the bars. The belt across my waist cut into me every time I breathed.

At last he stopped. "All right Mr. Etch," he said. "That's enough for the first time. You can sit down now and take off leg. Vith a month of pragtice you vill be like perfect."

I sank into the chair, breathing hard. I opened my trousers and he slid them off. Then he quickly loosened the straps and the leg slipped off. He massaged my thighs with expert fingers.

"It is sore, yah?" he asked.

I nodded my head.

"It is alvays like that at the beginning," he said. "But you vill get used to it and it vill go away."

The sense of power I had felt when I first stood up seemed to drain out of me as the leg had come off. "I'll never get used to it," I said. "I'll never be able to use it for more than a few minutes at a time."

He pulled up his trouser leg and looked at me. "If I could do it, Mr. Etch," he said, "a young man like you should not haff any trouble."

I looked at his leg. It was artificial. I looked at him. He was smilling. I began to smile back at him.

He laughed aloud. "See," he said, "it is not so bad."

I nodded my head.

"I told Mr. Kessler ven he vass in Chermany that it vould vork for you," he continued. "And it vill. He said to me: 'Herr Heink, if you can give this friend of mine to valk, I personally vill see that you go to America vit your family to live.' And I said to him: 'Herr Kessler, I am as goot already as an American citizen.' Is it not so?"

I grinned at him. I felt good. As busy as Peter had been, he had not forgotten to try to help me. It would have been easy for him not to go out of his way to this small town where he had heard of Herr Heink but continue about his business. But Peter had taken the time even though it had thrown his schedule more than a week out of place.

Then he sent this guy and his whole family to America and paid their way because that was the price the man had asked. He hadn't said anything to me about it. He knew of the disappointments I had had with the artificial legs made here. They weren't legs at all. They were clumsy stumps.

The first I knew about it was when Herr Heink had come to the office and sent in his card and a note from Peter. The note read simply: "This will introduce Herr Joseph Heink, who

has come to the U. S. to start in business. He makes artificial legs. Maybe he can help you." Signed: "Peter."

No word about what it cost him. It was only after I had spoken to Heink that I learned what Peter had done.

This guy had something too. It was the way the joints worked. Naturally. Like your own legs. The movements were free and easy to make. You could not tell from looking that the man had an artificial leg himself. I had not known until now.

Peter was still in Europe. Doris and Esther were with him. They would be there for another six months and the business was all on my shoulders in the meantime.

I stood up and leaned on my crutches.

"You come back tomorrow morning, Mr. Etch," Heink said, "and ve vill give you another lesson in valking."

When I got back to the office, Rocco was waiting for me. "How was it?" he asked.

I smiled at him. "Good. I think this is gonna work."

He grinned. "That's swell."

I sat down behind my desk. He took the crutches from me and leaned them against the wall. "Anything special come up this morning?" I asked.

"The usual crap," he answered. He started to turn away and then came back. "Oh yes," he said, "Farber called and wanted to know if you were free for lunch."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know, you hadn't come in yet."

I thought for a minute. I didn't like Farber. I never had and I didn't know why. He knew his business all right, but there was something about him that I didn't like. Maybe it dated back to that letter I had got from him before I went into the army—the one where he thanked me for a job I hadn't given him yet.

George had okayed him and I let the thing stand. I was going into the army anyway and didn't think too much about it. But now he was in charge of all theater operations and we had over two hundred theaters. George was busy with his own theaters, which came to at least as many, and we had both agreed that Farber was logically the one to handle our jointly owned theaters.

"Do you know what he wanted?" I asked.

Rocco shook his head.

I thought for another minute. "Oh, what the hell," I said, "I suppose I might as well see him and get it over with. If I don't he'll only bother me until I do. Tell him I'll meet him at the club at one thirty."

Rocco turned and left the office. I could hear him talking to Jane through the closed door.

Stanley Farber was waiting for me in the lobby of the club as I walked in the door. There was another man with him, a tall heavy-set man with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes.

He came forward to meet me, the tall man with him. He held out his hand. I took it. "Hello, Johnny, how are you?" His laugh was a little too loud, too forced.

I put a smile on my face and looked at him. I wondered why he was so nervous. "I'm all right, Stan," I said. "How are you?"

"Never better," he answered, still laughing.

I said nothing, just leaned there on the crutches and looked at him. Suddenly he stopped laughing in the same way he started. He looked at me. "Johnny, I'd like you to meet my brother-in-law," he said. He turned to the other man. "Sid, this is Johnny Edge, the man I told you about." He turned back to me. "My brother-in-law, Sidney Roth."

We shook hands. I liked the way the man shook hands. It was strong, firm. I liked the way the man looked at me— straight, honest. "Glad to know you, sir," I said.

His voice was soft and quiet for so big a man. "I'm honored, Mr. Edge."

Stanley turned and started toward the table. "Shall we eat?" he asked, laughing foolishly again.

I followed him, wondering why the hell he had me to lunch with his brother-in-law. I didn't have to wait very long to find out. Stanley started in with the soup.

"You're in this business a long time, aren't you, Johnny?" he asked.

I looked at him. He knew as well as I how long I'd been in the business. I was polite, though. I answered him. "Fifteen years," I said, "since 1908." I was surprised myself when I said it. It hadn't seemed that long a time.

"Have you ever thought about going into business for yourself?" Stanley continued.

I shook my head. "I always thought that I was," I answered.

Stanley darted a quick look at his brother-in-law. It was a sort of I-told-you-so kind of look. It had a funny expression of condescension about it. He turned back to me. "I mean, start your own company or take over another?"

"No," I said to him. "Saw no reason for it. I always got along with Kessler all right."

For a moment Stanley was silent. When he spoke again, he had taken another tack. "From what I heard," he said, his voice lower now, "you were the brains behind Kessler all the time. Everything he did was because of you. You were responsible for his success."

I didn't like the way the talk was going, but I kept my temper. I wanted to find out what was coming. "I wouldn't say that, Stan," I said easily. "We all worked at it."

He laughed confidently now. "Don't be falsely modest, Johnny. You're among friends. You did all the brainwork and Peter got all the money and glory."

"I didn't do so bad," I protested mildly.

"What did you get out of it?" Stanley waved his hand airily. "Peanuts. Do you know he's a millionaire out of this? And when you met him he was a hardware-store keeper in a small town."

I tried to look interested. I leaned forward across the table. I didn't speak.

He looked at his brother-in-law again and then turned to me. "Don't you think it's about time you got a fair deal out of the old man?" he asked.

I spread my hands out on the table in a gesture of helplessness. "How?"

"Everybody knows Kessler listens to you. It's very simple really. His note at the Bank of Independence is coming due this year and it's common knowledge he will ask for a renewal. Why don't you suggest that he sell an interest in the business and retire the note?"

I played dumb. "Who's got that much money to buy in?"

"My brother-in-law could be interested for a fifty-per-cent partnership."

I looked at Mr. Roth. He hadn't said a word throughout our discussion. "And where do I come in?" I asked gently.

"With us," Stanley said. "If we can buy our way into equal

partnership in the picture company, I can buy out Pappas's half of the theaters. That will give us control of the theater company. From there it's a short step to control the whole works."

I leaned back in my chair and looked at him.

Stanley was suddenly eager. He leaned toward me excitedly. "I’m tellin' you, Johnny, we'll clean up. With what you know about the picture company and what I know about the theaters, we'll make a fortune between us!" He held a match to the cigarette I had placed between my lips. "It won't be no time at all before we can crowd Kessler out!"

I drew deeply on my cigarette and looked at him, then I looked at his brother-in-law. The older man looked back at me steadily. His eyes were right on mine. "Mr. Roth, what business are you in?" I asked suddenly.

His voice was calm as he answered me. "The junk business."

My voice was as calm as his when I spoke. "Business must be pretty good if you can throw four million bucks into this."

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's not bad," he said noncommittally.

"It must be pretty good," I persisted.

"There was a lot of money in it during the war," he answered easily. "It's not quite that good now, but it's all right."

I was silent for a moment while I looked at both of them. Then I spoke again. "What do you think of a deal like this, Mr. Roth?"

He shrugged his shoulders, elaborately casual. "It sounds like a good one, Mr. Edge."

I waved my hand. "I'm not talking about the dollar-and-cents outlook, Mr. Roth. I'm talking about the moral aspect."

He smiled at me slowly. I could see a look of real warmth leap into his eyes. "The moral aspect is your concern, not mine, Mr. Edge." He put his hands on the table before him and looked at them. "What do you think about it?"

I was still leaning back in my chair, still casual in my movements, but I was surprised at the sudden savagery in my own voice. "I think it stinks to high heaven, Mr. Roth." I leaned forward and spoke to him. "And if you don't get that slimy rat away from my table I'll kill him with my bare hands!"

Stanley jumped to his feet. His face had gone white. His voice was hoarse. "You mean to say you're not interested?" he shouted. "After letting me think you were?"

I could see faces in the restaurant turn toward him. Mr. Roth kept looking at me. I turned and looked up at Stanley. My voice was cold. "When I get back to the office I expect to find your resignation on my desk."

Stanley stood there, looking at me with a furious expression on his face. I turned and looked at Mr. Roth.

There was a look of quiet understanding on his face. Stanley started to speak again, but Mr. Roth stopped him with an upraised hand. "Go into the other room, Stanley," he said quietly, "and wait for me. I want to speak to Mr. Edge alone."

Stanley looked at both of us for a moment and then turned and walked away.

We sat there quietly for a long while, not speaking. We just looked at each other. At last Mr. Roth spoke. "I apologize for my brother-in-law, Mr. Edge," he said in that soft, quiet voice of his. "I suspected for a long time he was a schlemiel, but now I know he is."

I didn't answer. We were quiet for a few moments, then he spoke again. "I also want to apologize for myself, Mr. Edge. I'm ashamed to feel I've been a part of this thing."

I still didn't answer.

He got to his feet and looked down at me. I looked up at him. His face was grave, stolid. "There is nothing a man would not do for his only sister, Mr. Edge. I am a good twenty years older than her, and when my mother died I promised I would look out for her. I thought I was helping my sister's husband and so helping her. I realize I've been wrong." He held out his hand.

I looked at it and then at him. Slowly I rose to my feet. I took his hand. His face was somehow sad, but his eyes met mine. He inclined his head slightly in a kind of bow and turned and left the room.

Stanley's resignation was on my desk when I got back to the office and I forgot about him for a while. I heard he went back to Chicago with his brother-in-law and that he opened some theaters back there, but I didn't pay much attention to him. I was too busy learning how to walk.

I looked around the table. Larry was talking now, but I didn't know what he was saying. Suddenly I was curious about this man I had seen but once fifteen years ago. I looked at Dave. For the first time I realized that he was the son of the man I had met.

I spoke across the table to him, cutting into Larry's talk as if he didn't exist. "How's your father, Dave?" I asked.

Dave was surprised at my question. His face grew flustered. Who, me?" he stammered.

I smiled at him. Larry fell silent in surprise that I had in­terrupted his talk. He wasn't used to it. I ignored him. "Yes," I said to Dave, "your father. I met him once many years ago. A very fine gentleman."

Dave's face looked pleased at what I had said. When he relaxed he looked very much like his father. But his face didn't have the strength his father's had. "My father is dead," he answered simply. "He died two years ago."

For a moment I was genuinely sorry and I said I was. "Too bad we didn't get to know each other better," I said. "I feel he would have made a good friend."

I looked at Dave and then at Stanley. A crazy thought was running through my mind. Can relatives through marriage grow to look like one another? They both had the same selfish, sensual expression on their faces. Their mouths were round and thin and spoiled.

I began to smile slowly. I turned and looked at Stanley again. He looked uncomfortable. That business he was giving us about hard work was so much crap. He didn't make his dough. It was his wife's. She inherited it from her brother. She and Dave. That's why Stanley kept pushing him forward.

I laughed aloud. They looked at me as if I had gone off the nut. I laughed again. This wasn't going to be as tough as I thought.