The Story of DAVID WOOLF 4 page

"No, it wouldn't," she said, putting the coffeepot on the table.

He straddled a chair and filled his cup. "Tell yuh what," he said suddenly. "We'll drive up there. We'll stay at the Ambassador an' have ourselves a high old time."

She turned to look at him. There was a sparkling excitement hidden deep in his eyes. It was then she knew he'd go back if there was anything for him. It wasn't that they needed the money. Nevada was a rich man now by any standards. Everything was paying off — the Wild-West show, which still used his name; the dude ranch in Reno in which he and her late husband had been partners; and the cattle ranch here in Texas, where they were living.

No, it wasn't the money. He'd turned down an offer of a million dollars' down payment against royalties for the mineral rights to the north quarter. Oil had been found on the land adjoining it. But he wanted to keep the range the way it was, didn't want oil derricks lousing up his land.

It was the excitement, the recognition that came when he walked down the street. The kids clamoring and shouting after him. But they had other heroes now. That was what he missed. That — and Jonas.

In the end, it was probably Jonas. Jonas was the son he'd never had. Everything else was a substitute — even herself. For a moment, she felt sorry for him.

"How about it?" he asked, looking up at her.

A feeling of tenderness welled up inside her. It had always been like that. Even years ago, when they'd been very young and he'd come up from Texas to the ranch in Reno where she and Charlie had settled. Weary and beaten and hiding from the law, he'd had a haunted, lonely look in his eyes. Even then she'd felt the essential goodness in him.

She smiled. "I think that would be real nice," she said, almost shyly.

"It's a rat race," Dan said. "We don't make pictures any more. We're a factory. We have to grind out a quota of film each month."

Nevada slid back in his chair and smiled. "It seems to agree with you, Dan. You don't look none the worse for it."

"The responsibilities are killin' me. But it's a job."

Nevada looked at him shrewdly. Pierce had put on weight. "But it beats the hell out of workin' for a livin', don't it?"

Dan held up his hands. "I knew there'd be no point in looking for sympathy from you, Nevada." They both laughed and Dan looked down at his desk. When he looked up again, his face was serious. "I suppose you're wondering why I sent you that telegram?"

Nevada nodded. "That's why I'm here."

"I appreciate your coming," Pierce said. "When this deal came up, you were the first one I thought about."

"Thanks," Nevada said dryly. "What's the hitch?"

Dan's eyes grew round and large and pretended hurt. "Nevada, baby," he protested. "Is that the way to talk to an old friend? I used to be your agent. Who got you your first job in pictures?"

Nevada smiled. "Who sold my show down the river when he found he could get more money for the Buffalo Bill show?"

Pierce dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "That was a long time ago, Nevada. I’m surprised you even brought it up."

"Only to keep the record straight, Dan," Nevada said. "Now, what's on your mind?"

"You know how pictures are being sold nowadays?" Pierce asked, then went on without waiting for Nevada to answer. "We sell a whole year in advance. So many A pictures, so many B's, so many action-adventures, so many mystery-horrors and so many Westerns. Maybe ten per cent of the program is filmed when the sale's made, the rest as we go along. That's what I meant by rat race. We're lucky if we can keep ahead of our contracts."

"Why don't you accumulate a backlog for release?" Nevada asked. "That ought to solve your problem."

Dan smiled. "It would but we haven't the cash reserve. We're always waiting for the buck to come in from the current release so we can produce the next one. It's a vicious cycle."

"I still haven't heard your proposition," Nevada said.

"I’m going to lay it right on the line. I feel I can speak frankly to you."

Nevada nodded.

"Jonas has us on a short budget," Dan said. "I’m not complaining; maybe Jonas is right. At least, we didn't lose any money last year and it's the first time in almost five years we broke even. Now, this year, the sales department thinks they can sell fourteen Westerns."

"Sounds fine," Nevada said.

"We haven't got the money to make them. But the bank will lend us the money if you'll star in them."

"You know?" Nevada asked.

Fierce nodded. "I spoke to Moroni myself. He thought it was a great idea."

"How much will they advance you?" Nevada asked.

"Forty thousand a picture."

Nevada laughed. "For the entire negative cost?"

Dan nodded.

Nevada got to his feet. "Thanks, pal."

"Hold on a minute, Nevada," Dan said. "Wait until I finish. You didn't think I'd get you up here unless I thought you could make a buck, did you?"

Nevada sank back into his seat silently.

"I know how you feel about quickies," Dan said. "But believe me, these will be different. We still have the sets we used for The Renegade, out on the back lot. Dress them up a little and they'll be good as new. I’ll use my top production staff. You can have your choice of any director and cameraman on the lot. That goes for writers and producers, too. I think too much of you, baby, to louse you up."

"That's fine," Nevada said. "But what am I supposed to work for? Spit and tobacco?"

"I think I've got a good deal for you. I had our accountants look into it and figure out a way you can keep some money instead of paying it all out in these damn taxes Roosevelt is slapping on us."

Nevada stared at him. "This better be good."

"We'll salary you ten grand a picture," Dan said. "That breaks down to five grand a week, because each picture will only take two weeks to shoot. You defer your salary until first profits and we'll give you the picture outright after seven years. You'll own the entire thing — negative and prints — lock, stock and barrel. Then, if you want, we'll buy it back from you. That'll give you a capital gain."

Nevada's face was impassive. "You sound just like Bernie Norman," he said. "It must be the office."

Pierce smiled. "The difference is that Norman was out to screw you. I'm not. I just want to keep this factory running."

"What would we use for stories?"

"I didn't want to look into that until after I’d talked to you," Dan said quickly. "You know I always had a high regard for your story sense."

Nevada smiled. He knew from Pierce's answer that he hadn't even thought about stories yet. "The important thing would be to hang the series on a character people can believe in."

"Exactly how I felt about it," Dan exclaimed. "I was thinking maybe we'd have you playing yourself. Each time, you'd get into another adventure. You know, full of the old stunts, tricks and shoot-outs."

Nevada shook his head. "Uh-uh. I can't buy that. It always seems phony. Gene Autry and Roy Rogers do that at Republic. Besides, I don't think anybody else would believe it. Not with this white hair of mine."

Pierce looked at him. "We could always dye it black."

Nevada smiled. "No, thanks," he said. "I kinda got used to it."

"We'll come up with it," Dan said. "Even if we have to pick up something from Zane Grey or Clarence Mulford. Just you say the word and we're off."

Nevada got to his feet. "Let me think about it a little," he said. "I'll talk it over with Martha and let you know."

"I heard you got married again," Dan said. "My belated congratulations."

Nevada started for the door. Halfway there, he paused and looked back. "By the way," he asked, "how's Jonas?"

For the first time since they had met, Pierce seemed to hesitate. "All right, I guess."

"You guess?" Nevada asked. "Why? Haven't you seen him?"

"Not since New York, about two years ago," Pierce answered. "When we took over the company."

"And you haven't seen him since?" Nevada asked incredulously. "Doesn't he ever come to the studio?"

Dan looked down at his desk. He seemed almost embarrassed. "Nobody sees him much any more. Once in a while, if we're lucky, he'll talk to us on the telephone. Sometimes he comes here. But it's always late at night, when there's nobody around. We know he's been here by the messages he leaves."

"But what if something important comes up?"

"We call McAllister, who lets Jonas know we want to talk to him. Sometimes he calls us back. Most of the time, he just tells Mac how he wants it handled."

Suddenly, Nevada had the feeling that Jonas needed him. He looked across the room at Dan. "Well, I can't make up my mind about this until I talk to Jonas."

"But I just got through telling you, nobody sees him."

"You want me to do the pictures?" Nevada asked.

Pierce stared at him. "He may not even be in this country. We might not hear from him for a month."

Nevada opened the door. "I can wait," he said.

"Are you staying for supper, Duvidele?"

"I can't, Mama," David said. "I just came by to see how you were."

"How am I? I’m the way I always am. My arthritis is bothering me. Not too much, not too little. Like always."

"You should get out in the sun more often. For all the sun you get, you might as well be living back in New York."

"A son I got," Mrs. Woolf said, "even if I never see him. Even if he stays in a hotel. Once every three months, maybe, he comes. I suppose I should be glad he comes at all."

"Cut it out, Mama. You know how busy I am."

"Your Uncle Bernie found time to come home every night," his mother said.

"Times were different then, Mama," he said lamely. He couldn't tell her that her brother had been known all over Hollywood as the matinee man. Besides, Aunt May would have killed him if he stayed out. She kept a closer guard on him than the government kept on Fort Knox.

"One week you're here already and this is only the second time you've been to see me. And not even once for supper!"

"I’ll make it for supper soon, Mama. I promise."

She fixed him with a piercing glance. "Thursday night," she said suddenly.

He looked at her in surprise. "Thursday night? Why Thursday night, all of a sudden?"

A mysterious smile came over her face. "I got someone I want you should meet," she said. "Someone very nice."

"Aw, Mama," he groaned. "Not another girl?"

"So what's wrong with meeting a nice girl?" his mother asked in hurt innocence. "She's a very nice girl, David, believe me. Money her family's got. A college girl, too."

"But, Mama, I don't want to meet any girls. I haven't the time."

"Time you haven't got?" his mother demanded. "Already thirty years old. It's time you should get married. To a nice girl. From a nice family. Not to spend your whole life running around in night clubs with those shiksas."

"That's business, Mama. I have to go out with them."

"Everything he wants to do he tells me is business," she said rhetorically. "When he doesn't want to do, that's business, too. So tell me, are you coming to dinner or not?"

He stared at his mother for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "All right, Mama. I’ll come. But don't forget, I'll have to leave early. I've got a lot of work to do."

She smiled in satisfaction. "Good," she said. "So don't be late. By seven o'clock. Sharp."

There was a message to call Dan Pierce waiting for him when he got back to the hotel. "What is it, Dan?" he asked, when he got him on the telephone.

"Do you know where Jonas is?"

David laughed. "That name sounds familiar."

"Quit kidding," Dan said. "This is serious. The only way we'll get Nevada to make those Westerns is if Jonas talks to him."

"You really mean he'll go for the deal?" David asked. He hadn't really believed that Nevada would. He didn't need the money and everybody knew how he felt about quickies.

"He'll go," Dan said, "after he talks to Jonas."

"I’d like to talk to him myself," David said. "The government is starting that antitrust business again."

"I know," Dan said. "I got the unions on my neck. I don't know how long I can keep them in line. You can't cry poverty to them; they saw the last annual reports. They know we're breaking even now and should show a profit next year."

"I think we better talk to Mac. We'll lay it on the line. I think two years without a meeting is long enough."

But McAllister didn't know where Jonas was, either. As David put down the telephone, a faint feeling of frustration ran through him. It was like working in a vacuum. Everywhere you turned, there was nothing. All you did was try and make deals. Deals. Piled one on top of the other like a pyramid that had no end. You traded with Fox, Loew's, RKO, Paramount, Warner. You played their theaters, they played yours. All you could do was stand on one foot, then on the other.

He wondered why Jonas took that attitude toward them. He wasn't like that with his other interests. Cord Aircraft was rapidly becoming one of the giants of the industry. Intercontinental Airlines was already the largest commercial line in the country. And Cord Explosives and Cord Plastics were successfully competing against Du Pont.

But when it came to the picture company, they were just keeping alive. Sooner or later, Jonas would have to face up to it. Either he wanted to stay in this business or he'd have to get out. You had to keep pushing forward. That was the dynamics of action in the picture business. If you stopped pushing, you were dead.

And David had done all the pushing he could on his own. He'd proved that the company could be kept alive. But if they were ever going to make it for real, they'd have to come up with something really big. Deals or pictures — he didn't care which.

Actually, he preferred deals. They were safer and much less risky than big-budget pictures. Disney, Goldwyn and Bonner were all looking for new distribution outlets. And they all came up with big pictures, which grossed big and, best of all, were completely financed by themselves. He was still waiting for replies to the feelers he'd put out to Goldwyn and Disney. He'd already had one meeting with Maurice Bonner. But the approval for any such deal had to come from Jonas. It could come from no one else.

Bonner wanted the same kind of setup that Hal Wallis had at Warner's, or Zanuck had over at Twentieth Century-Fox — over-all executive supervision of the program, personal production of his own four major projects each year, stock and options in the company.

It was a stiff price to pay but that was what you paid if you wanted the best. Skouras hadn't hesitated when he wanted Zanuck. One man like that could add twenty million to your gross. It was the difference between existing and reaching for the brass ring.

But meanwhile, where was Jonas? Jonas held the one key that could unlock the golden door.

"There's a Mr. Irving Schwartz calling," his secretary said on the intercom.

David frowned. "What does he want? I don't know any Irving Schwartz."

"He says he knows you, Mr. Woolf. He told me to say Needlenose."

"Needlenose!" David exclaimed. He laughed. "Why didn't he say so the first time? Put him on."

The switch clicked as the girl transferred the call. "Needlenose!" David said. "How the hell are you?"

Needlenose laughed softly. "O.K. And you, Davy?"

"Fine. I've been working like a dog, though."

"I know," Needlenose said. "I been hearin' lots of good things about you. Makes a guy feel good when he sees one of his friends from the old neighborhood make it big."

"Not so big. It's still nothing but a job." This was beginning to sound like a touch. He figured rapidly how much old friends were worth. Fifty or a hundred?

"It's an important job, though."

"Enough about me," David said, eager to change the subject. "What about you? What are you doing out here?"

"I'm doin' O.K. I'm livin' out here now. I got a house up in Coldwater Canyon."

David almost whistled. His old friend was doing all right. Houses up there started at seventy-five grand. At least it wasn't a touch. "That's great," he said. "But it's a hell of a long way from Rivington Street."

"It sure is. I’d like to see you, Davy boy."

"I’d like to see you, too," David said. "But I’m so god-damned tied up here."

Needlenose's voice was still quiet, but insistent. "I know you are, Davy," he said. "If I didn't think it was important, I wouldn't bother you."

David thought for a moment. Now that it wasn't a touch, what could it be that was so important? "Tell you what," he said. "Why don't you come out to the studio? We can have lunch here, then I'll show you around."

"That's no good, Davy. We got to meet someplace where nobody'd see us."

"What about your house, then?"

"No good," Needlenose replied. "I don't trust the servants. No restaurants, either. Someone might snoop us out."

"Can't we talk on the telephone?"

Needlenose laughed. "I don't trust telephones much, either."

'"Wait a minute," David said, remembering suddenly. "I'm having dinner at my mother's tonight. Come and eat with us. She's at the Park Apartments in Westwood."

"That sounds O.K. She still make those knaidlach in soup swimming with chicken fat?"

David laughed. "Sure. The matzo balls hit your stomach like a ton of bricks. You'll think you never left home."

"O.K.," Needlenose said, "What time?"

"Seven o'clock."

"I’ll be there."

David put down the telephone, still curious about what Needlenose wanted. He didn't have long to wonder, for Dan came into his office, his face flushed and excited, his heavy jowls glistening with sweat. "You just get a call from a guy named Schwartz?"

"Yeah," David said, surprised.

"You going to see him?"

"Tonight."

"Thank God!" Dan said, sinking into a chair in front of the desk. He took out a handkerchief and mopped at his face.

David looked at him curiously. "What's so important about my seeing a guy I grew up with?"

Dan stared at him. "Don't you know who he is?"

"Sure," David said. "He lived in the house next to me on Rivington Street. We went to school together."

Dan laughed shortly. "Your friend from the East Side has come a long way. They sent him out here six months ago when Bioff and Brown got into trouble. He's union officially, but he's also top man for the Syndicate on the West Coast."

David stared at him, speechless.

"I hope you can get to him," Dan added. "Because, God knows, I tried and I couldn't. If you don't, we'll be out of business in a week. We're going to have the biggest, god-damnedest strike you ever saw. They'll close down everything. Studio, theaters, the whole works."

David looked at the dining-room table as he followed his mother into the kitchen. Places were set for five people. "You didn't tell me you were having a lot of company for dinner."

His mother, who was peering into a pot on the stove, didn't turn around. "A nice girl should come to supper for the first time with a young man without her parents?"

David suppressed a groan. It was going to be even worse than he'd suspected. "By the way, Mama," he said. "You better set another place at the table. I invited an old friend to have dinner with us."

His mother fixed him with a piercing glance. "Tonight, you invited?"

"I had to, Mama," he said. "Business."

The doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. "I'll get it, Mama," he said quickly. It was probably Needlenose.

He opened the door on a short, worried-looking man in his early sixties with iron-gray hair. A woman of about the same age and a young girl were standing beside him. The worried look disappeared when the man smiled. He held out his hand. "You must be David. I’m Otto Strassmer."

David shook his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Strassmer."

"My wife, Frieda, and my daughter, Rosa," Mr. Strassmer said.

David smiled at them. Mrs. Strassmer nodded nervously and said something in German, which was followed by the girl's pleasant, "How do you do?"

There was something in her voice that made David suddenly look at her. She was not tall, perhaps five four, and from what he could see, she was slim. Her dark hair, cropped in close ringlets to her head, framed a broad brow over deep-set gray eyes that were almost hidden behind long lashes. There was a faint defiance in the curve of her mouth and the set of her chin. An instant realization came to David. The girl no more cared for this meeting than he did.

"Who is it, David?" His mother called from the kitchen.

"I beg your pardon," he said quickly. "Won't you come in?" He stepped aside to let them enter. "It's the Strassmers, Mama."

"Take them into the living room," his mother called. "There's schnapps on the table."

David closed the door behind him. "May I take your coat?" he asked the girl.

She nodded and slipped it off. She was wearing a simple man-tailored blouse and a skirt that was gathered at her tiny waist by a wide leather belt. He was surprised. He was experienced enough to know that the pert thrust of her breasts against the silk of the blouse was not fashioned by any brassière.

Her mother said something in German. Rosa looked at him. "Mother says you and Papa go in and have your drink," she said. "We'll go into the kitchen and see if we can help."

David looked at her. Again that voice. An accent and yet not an accent. At least, it wasn't an accent like her father's. The women turned and started toward the kitchen. He looked at Mr. Strassmer. The little man smiled and followed him into the living room.

David found a bottle of whisky on the coffee table, surrounded by shot glasses. A pint bottle of Old Overholt. David suppressed a grimace. It was the traditional whisky that appeared at all ceremonies — births, bar mizvahs, weddings, deaths. A strong blend of straight rye whiskies that burned your throat on the way down and flooded your nose unpleasantly with the smell of alcohol. He should have had enough brains to bring a bottle of Scotch. He was sure it was Old Overholt that had kept the Jews from ever acquiring a taste for whisky.

It was apparent that Mr. Strassmer didn't share his feelings. He picked up the bottle and looked at it. He turned to David, smiling. "Ah, Gut schnapps."

David smiled and took the bottle from his hand. "Straight or with water?" he asked, breaking the seal. That was another thing that was traditional. The bottle was always sealed. Once it was opened and not finished, it was never brought out for company again. He wondered what happened to all the open, half-empty bottles. They must be languishing in some dark closet awaiting the day of liberation.

"Straight," Mr. Strassmer said, a faintly horrified note in his voice.

David filled a shot glass and handed it to him. "I’ll have to get a little water," he apologized.

Just then Rosa came in, carrying a pitcher of water and some tumblers. "I thought you might need this." She smiled, setting them on the coffee table.

"Thank you."

She smiled and went out again as David mixed himself a drink, liberally diluting it with water. He turned to Mr. Strassmer. The little German held up his glass. "L'chaim."

"L'chaim," David repeated.

Mr. Strassmer swallowed his drink in one head-tilted-back gesture. He coughed politely and turned to David, his eyes watering. "Ach, gut."

David nodded and sipped at his own. It tasted terrible, even with water. "Another?" he asked politely.

Otto Strassmer smiled. David refilled his glass and the little man turned and sat down on the couch. "So you're David," he said. "I’ve heard a great deal about you."

David smiled back and nodded. This was the kind of evening it would be. By the time it was over, his face would ache from all this polite smiling.

"Yes," Mr. Strassmer continued. "I have heard a great deal about you. For a long time, I've wanted to meet you. We both work for the same man, you know."

"The same man?"

"Yes." Mr. Strassmer nodded. "Jonas Cord. You work for him in the movie business. I work for him in the plastics business. We met your mother at shul last year when we went there for the High Holy Day services." Mr. Strassmer smiled. "We got to talking and found that my wife, Frieda, was a second cousin to your father. Both families came originally from Silesia."

He swallowed the whisky in his glass. Again he coughed, and looked up at David through teary eyes. "A small world, isn't it?"

"A small world," David agreed.

His mother's voice came from behind him. "So, nu, it's time to sit down to supper already and where's this friend?"

"He should be here any minute, Mama."

"Seven o'clock you told him?" his mother asked suspiciously.

David nodded.

"So why isn't he here? Don't he know when it's time to eat, you should eat or everything gets spoiled?"

Just then the doorbell rang and David heaved a sigh of relief. "Here he is now, Mama," he said, starting for the door.

The fall, good-looking young man who stood in the doorway was nothing like the thin, intense, dark-eyed boy he remembered. In place of the sharp, beaklike proboscis that had earned him his nickname was a fine, almost aquiline nose that contrasted handsomely with his wide mouth and lantern-like jaw. He smiled when he saw David's startled expression. "I went to a face factory and had it fixed. It wouldn't look good I should walk around Beverly Hills with an East Side nose." He held out his hand. "It's good to see you, Davy."

David took his hand. The grip was firm and warm. "Come on in," he said. "Mama's ready to bust. Dinner's ready."

They went into the living room. Mr. Strassmer got to his feet and his mother looked at Needlenose suspiciously. David glanced around quickly. Rosa was not in the room. "Mama," he said. "You remember Irving Schwartz?"

"Hello, Mrs. Woolf."

"Yitzchak Schwartz," she said. "Sure I remember. What happened to your nose?"

"Mama," David protested.

Needlenose smiled. "That's all right, David. I had it fixed, Mrs. Woolf."

"A mishegass. With such a small nose, it's a wonder you can breathe. You got a job, Yitzchak?" she demanded belligerently. "Or are you still hanging around with the bums by Shocky's garage?"

"Mama!" David said quickly. "Irving lives out here now."

"So it's Irving now." His mother's voice was angry. "Fixing his nose is not enough. His name, too, he's got to fix. What's wrong with the name your parents gave you — Isidore — hah?"

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 560