What Makes Sammy Run? (39 page)

Nothing she could do would discourage Sammy. This was something worth being insulted for. Sammy was running with Class, and
Class was something strange and wonderful. He had a crazy hunch that if he didn’t care how much dust he ate in the early laps, he could snap the tape with his strong little chest
.

The next evening Sammy called the Beverly-Wilshire again. Hollywood is a terrible place to be left alone in, he said. She might want someone to show her the bright spots
.

“How sweet of you,” Laurette said. “Come right over.”

When he arrived, she was having cocktails with a young man. The young man stood up, terribly tanned and tall, looking down at Sammy with an easy, attractive, self-assured smile. Sammy found himself staring into a broad and immaculate expanse of stiff shirt. Laurette was in evening clothes too
.

“I thought George was on the other side of the globe,” she explained, ignoring Sammy’s face as she introduced them. “Imagine how thrilled I was when I found out he was back in Pasadena. I thought it might be fun if we all went together.”

George didn’t seem to mind Sammy at all, which made it worse
.

“I haven’t seen Laurie since Biarritz two summers ago,” he explained with a maximum of white teeth as he poured Sammy a cocktail
.

He was sore this time. He was so sore he forgot this was a precious bit of china that a loud word might crack
.

“Listen, Miss Harrington, don’t let me butt in. Why don’t you two kids just run along and have a good time?”

But Miss Harrington would not hear of it. “Mr. Glick is so clever,” she told the bronzed face from Pasadena. “He knows everything about making pictures. He’s going to tell us all about it at dinner. Aren’t you, Mr. Glick?”

Sammy tried to turn the compliment aside, if it were a compliment, or the jibe, if it were that. But he couldn’t do it deftly enough. He had always been better with the sledgehammer than he was with the foils. Laurette kept laughing at him, silently and politely, her superiority piercing Sammy’s pride like banderillas, stinging, hurting …

Sammy sat with them in the Florentine Room, feeling a raw and ugly wound inside, out of place in his business suit—his running
togs. He felt a little better when he beat George to it by ordering the most expensive wine in the place. But when it arrived, Laurette looked at it and told the waiter to send it back. “If you haven’t 1927, don’t bother. That’s the only good year left.”

The orchestra was playing a tango. Sammy didn’t know how to tango. Laurette and George danced it with their hands and their heads as well as their feet, like a professional team. Sammy’s eyes took every step with her, watched her dancing with her lips parted, her eyes half closed, her body swaying to the slow rhythm. He thought of the tango partners she must have left behind, American scions and Georgian princes and titled Englishmen. Maybe he could get a tango expert to come to the house, secretly, and then he would get up one evening and surprise Laurette, that bitch, the woman he loved. If it didn’t take too much time. Though it might be worth it to make time. He had finally found a woman worthy of his ambitions, she was the golden girl, the dream, and the faster he ran the farther ahead she seemed to be
.

Then they returned to the table and Sammy stood up, feeling challenged and mean, and popped down too quickly again
.

“What a beautiful dance,” Laurette said. “You feel wild and free.”

She knew Sammy had never felt wild and free
.

The music was back to jazz. Sammy rose jerkily. The manners were gone. Just the speed, the fury, the one-man battle
.

“Come on, let’s dance.”

He held her tight against him, his hand clamped against her bare back, his fingers tense and strong on her skin. It was a double satisfaction, the immediate thrill of her refined presence so close to Sammy Glick and the chance that this would reach the columns. He danced a dogged box-step which he forced her to follow. Both of them felt the struggle of it
.

“You even dance like a dynamo,” she said
.

“Okay. Wanna quit?” Sammy said
.

He was beginning to find himself
.

“No,” she said. “I’m enjoying it.”

She was. It was terrifying when he held her like that, not trying
to be polite any more. She hadn’t been really terrified in a long time. To dance as badly as Sammy and not be ashamed of it set him apart from all the other men she had ever known
.

She had the next dance with George and when she returned, Sammy was gone. The waiter handed her a note:

Decided I couldn’t waste any more time here so I ducked out to the studio to clean up some work. The bill is taken care of for the rest of the night. Have fun
.

Sammy

“I took a chance,” Sammy said. “And my hunch was right. I had gone soft on her and she was taking me for as big a sucker as these studio broads would if you gave them a chance. You know what she did? She called me at the office after that polo player left. Said she wanted me to come back and talk to her. I told her to meet me at my place. And she came. What do you think of that, Laurette Harrington coming over to see me in the middle of the night? We sat up talking until it got light. I had her all wrong, Al. That sophisticated stuff is all on the surface. She’s just a sweet, simple kid at heart …”

All the running Sammy ever did in his life must have been just the trial laps for those next two months. He wasn’t even around the office very often. He was too busy.

One day we had an appointment at three and he finally showed a little after five. Irresponsibility was never one of Sammy’s faults so I suspected something colossal must have happened.

When he finally came in I knew it was more than merely colossal. It was so big that even he was overwhelmed. He came in quietly, underplaying the scene.

“Al,” he said, “have you ever heard of anybody scoring two holes-in-one the same afternoon?”

He made you play straight for him.

“Well, I’m your man. Only it’s a little more important than golf. Harrington and I have been sitting in Victor Hugo’s from one until just now. He’s one of the sweetest guys in the world,
Harrington. And I’m not just saying that because he’s going to be my father-in-law.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “I hope you and Mr. Harrington will be very happy.”

“You should have seen me,” Sammy said. “I was as nervous as a whore in church. Thought sure as soon as I broke it to him he was going to run out and throw Laurette on the first plane. You know, fine old Southern family and all that crap. But Jesus, he was tickled to death. In fact he seemed so anxious to marry her off to me that I began to wonder whether he was on the skids himself and figured the head of a studio was a nice little thing to have in the family.”

“Head of the studio?”

“Yes,” Sammy said. “I did everything I could. But I’m afraid poor Sidney is out after all.”

“What do you mean afraid?” I said. “Afraid Harrington might change his mind?”

“Al,” he said, “it’s a good thing I have a sense of humor. Because if I didn’t you’d have been out on your ear long ago. As a matter of fact I really went out there and fought for Sidney this afternoon.”

“Arise, Sir Samuel, my true knight,” I said.

“Don’t give me that,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to apologize for. I kept my word. I told Harrington I’d be willing to work under Fineman. I couldn’t do any more than that, could I?”

“How should I know?” I said. “And why should you care what I think, anyway?”

“Listen, Al,” he said, “I’m no dope. I know how long those pals of mine would stick around if I couldn’t go on doing things for them. You’re different. You never asked me for anything—I mean for yourself. You’re my only friend. I’m only human. I’m not just a—dynamo. Every man’s got to have a wife and a friend.”

I still think the guy had something when he said forgive them for they know not what they do. Nine times out of ten that may be a virtue. But there is always that tenth time when a strong stand is needed and softheartedness becomes very flabby behavior.
This was one time when I really had the impulse to break off diplomatic relations with Sammy. When he was knifing his fellow man in the back he performed with such gusto and brilliance that it fascinated me as a tour de force. He was so conscientious about being unscrupulous that you almost had to admire him. But there was something indecent about this new pose. It was a little too much like the tycoon who spends the first part of his life sucking and crushing and the last part giving away dimes and Benjamin Franklin’s advice. I could imagine the Sammy Glick of forty instead of thirty, with all the sordid details of his career washed from his mind, reviewing his life like an official biographer, believing that his contribution to mankind has entitled him to friendship, kindness and peace.

Suddenly he felt he had to justify himself. He insisted upon giving me a playback of that historic interview with Harrington.

They were sitting in Victor Hugo’s. The orchestra was playing chamber music, soft and refined, but the only music for Sammy was Harrington’s voice
.

“Sammy, I’m going East tomorrow. I don’t know whether you realize it or not, but we’re contemplating some important changes in our organization out here. We feel your record entitles you to a say in this reorganization.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Sammy said. “Of course, it’s only fair to tell you how much I’ve learned from assisting Sidney. He’s been like a father to me. Everything I know about producing came from him. In fact, he’s taught me everything he knows.”

“That’s just what I’ve been wondering. Perhaps he has given you all he has to give. He let too many flops slip into the program this year.”

“Only a genius can make pictures on an average of one a week without some turkeys, Mr. Hanington. Sidney is a hard worker. He did the best he could.”

“I appreciate your sentiments. But, to speak frankly, the purpose of my visit was to determine whether his best was good enough.”

“The pictures would have made money if the overhead wasn’t so
terrific. But it isn’t entirely his fault if production costs have been too high.”

“Then you think production costs are too high?”

“You put me in a difficult position, Mr. Harrington. I don’t like to speak about my superiors. Especially a man like Fineman, who was such a pioneer in this business. After all, I can remember when I was a kid seeing his nickelodeons.”

“Naturally, my boy,” Harrington said. “Loyalty is always to be commended. Always. But our first loyalty is to World-Wide, and I wonder if Fineman isn’t becoming a little too old-fashioned to uphold the standard of the World-Wide trademark.”

“You couldn’t find a better man than Fineman,” Sammy said, “among the older producers.”

“I’ve had a chance to watch you both function,” Harrington said. “And I may have some difficulty convincing the Board because you’re so young. But I’ve made up my mind that what this studio needs is new leadership. Young blood.”

The waiter came to the table. “Will that be all, Mr. Glick?”

Yes, Sammy thought. I think it will. I think that is just about it, pal
.

“No,” he said, “bring Mr. Harrington and me another brandy.”

“To you and Laurette,” said Mr. Harrington
.

“And to World-Wide,” Sammy added quickly
.

He crossed to the window that looked out over the lot. The studio street was full of the pretty girls in slacks going home in twos and threes and carpenters and painters in overalls carrying their lunchboxes and cat calling to each other; a director exhausted from the day’s shooting and already worrying with a couple of assistants about the camera set-ups for the next; a star clowning as he climbs over the door into his silver Cord; the crazy-quilt processional of laborers, extras, waitresses, cutters, writers, glamour girls, all the big cogs and the little ones that must turn together to keep a film factory alive.

“Now it’s mine,” Sammy said. “Everything’s mine. I’ve got everything. Everybody’s always saying you can’t get everything
and I’m the guy who swung it. I’ve got the studio and I’ve got the Harrington connections and I’ve got the perfect woman to run my home and have my children.”

I sat there as if I were watching
The Phantom of the Opera
or any other horror picture. I sat there silently in the shadows, for it was growing dark and the lights hadn’t been switched on yet and I think he had forgotten he was talking to me. It was just his voice reassuring him in the dark.

“Sammy,” I said quietly, “how does it feel? How does it feel to have everything?”

He began to smile. It became a smirk, a leer.

“It makes me feel kinda …” And then it came blurting out of nowhere—“patriotic.”