Max (56 page)

‘About the point Mrs Upperman raises,' Feldman said. ‘There is no question of conspiracy if we should choose not to prosecute Mr Britsky's brothers. That is our right. In fact, there are legal precedents where this right has been called into question, but never overturned, and there have been thousands of incidents of precisely this nature where no prosecution occurred –'

‘But not of this magnitude,' Julius Holms interrupted.

‘Possibly not, but that makes absolutely no difference. We have the right to prosecute or to refrain from prosecution. Any suggestion to the contrary is ridiculous. Suppose a wife empties her husband's pants pocket of cash while he sleeps. Is he obligated to prosecute her?'

‘A swift kick in the tail would be more helpful,' Clifford Abel said, breaking the tension and provoking the only smiles that punctuated the meeting.

Avanti recognised Sam Snyder.

‘I'm different from all the rest of you in one thing,' Snyder said. ‘I've been with Max from the very beginning. I set up his first projector. I adjusted his first camera. I watched him through the years, starting with nothing and building this company into one of the giants of America. I'm a plain workingman, and I spend a good part of my days bawling out the dunderheads who are supposed to keep the machinery of this business functioning. But I know one thing.' He paused and directed a stubby finger at Max. ‘If it takes seven million dollars to give that man some peace of mind, it's cheap at the price. What in the hell do you want him to do? Sell his brothers? Sure they're crooks! But they're his flesh and blood, and you don't deliver your own flesh and blood to the hangman. That's the way he feels and that's the way I feel!'

‘Hear! Hear!' Royce Byron exclaimed. ‘I'm sure AlCapone has a brother.'

‘That's a dirty-shot!' Abel told him.

Max looked around the table, face to face. Clifford Abel was a little drunk. Understandable. He couldn't have faced it otherwise. Big Sam Snyder sat and stifled his desire to punch out every one of the New York sons of bitches, including the well-dressed Mrs Upperman. What had he done to her? Max wondered. How had he generated such cold, malignant hatred? Even when he laid all the guilt upon himself, accepting the fact that he had forced her into a loveless marriage, which was by no means true, a union with a Lower East Side hoodlum, less than true, it could not account for her hatred. He had never been cruel to her; he had never struck her, never humiliated her. He had given her wealth and what social position he could offer, and eventually she had married a man who had given her the rest, entrée into the top society of New York City. Well, one more very large one in a list of things Max could never understand. Bert Bellamy was more transparent, more relaxed, than anyone else at the table, the prince regent ready to step onto the throne. How many hours they must have spent working this out, every step of it, every detail. When had he lost Bert Bellamy as a friend, as an ally? Did it go all the way back to when he had taken him out of the cheap music hall circuit, hired him, and put him on the first step to becoming a millionaire? Now Bert was a man of parts, white and silver hair over pince-nez, a three-piece suit made at long distance by his tailor in London, distinguished, apart from the nasty bickering going on here at the table. Leave the bickering to others. Bert would speak in his own good time. It came from giving, and with the giving a reduction in size. He had reduced Bert Bellamy. I gave you what you couldn't earn on your own, what you never had the brains to create on your own. Drunken Cliff Abel, Sam Snyder near to tears, fat little Freddy Feldman – we all created; we made something where there was nothing, but you took the way Ruby and Benny took. That was their revenge and this is your revenge. Sort of understanding it made things a little easier for Max, but nothing to write home about.

Sally smiled thinly. ‘The James boys were brothers.' Max heard her if no one else did. Royce Byron was snarling at Clifford Abel.

‘Dear man,' Abel said, ‘I look upon you as an elephant's asshole. One is interested in the trunk and the tusks, but only maggots investigate the other end.'

‘I will not sit here and endure this!' Byron said.

Avanti hammered his gavel.

‘Asshole,' Abel hissed. ‘If you walk out, your Machiavellian majority is up shit creek. But don't let me keep you, dear man.'

‘Do I have to listen to this loathsome homosexual?' he asked Feldman pleadingly.

Feldman shouted, ‘For God's sake, Cliff, you're only making matters worse!'

‘Could they be worse?'

‘Come on, Cliff, shut up,' Snyder told him.

Leaping into a moment of silence, Avanti said, ‘I think we can all remember that we are adults – and that includes you, Mr Abel. This is probably the most important board of directors meeting in the history of our company. Let us treat it as such.' He pointed his gavel at Bert Bellamy. ‘I think Mr Bellamy would like the floor.'

Now it was his own good time. Bert rose to his feet slowly, his face grave but not stripped of compassion by any means, and he said gently, ‘I can understand Max's feelings. To ask a man to condemn his own brothers is more than obscene. It's un-Christian and vile –' So there it was at last, slipped in gently like the sharpest, most slender dagger, the sheep separated from the goats, the designation pinned on this skinny little Jew who had the effrontery to challenge them to mercy. ‘– and I, for one, would never dream of asking Max to take action against his brothers.' He paused and looked from face to face. ‘Nevertheless, some justice must be served. So does our society function. As Max suggested, we should put this matter to rest, put it in the past, let it die here behind these closed doors, and, if Mr Feldman agrees to the legality of such a thing, destroy the minutes of this meeting.'

Again he paused. Julies Holms cried, ‘Hear! Hear!' Max smiled bitterly. Sharp, sharp, old buddy, he said to himself. You always did the routines better than I did, especially when we played the high-class gigs, and this is the classiest of all.

‘Nevertheless,' Bert continued, ‘as I said before, some justice must be served. We have no desire to put Reuben and Benjamin Britsky behind bars, and we will not, but they must make restitution. There can be no quibbling on that score.' He looked around the table again, nodded, and resumed his seat.

‘I would like to know, Bert,' Feldman said, ‘How many members of the board concur in your statement? I say this because it sounded to me less like a suggestion than like a decision.'

‘I have consulted legal opinion on my own. I have been assured that any single member of this board – indeed, any stockholder – could bring charges against the Britsky brothers.'

‘Quite true. I have been explicit on this matter in my discussions with Mr Britsky. But since I am keeping the record of this meeting, I would like to poll the members. May I make a motion to that effect, Mr Avanti?'

‘A motion is on the floor.'

‘I second it,' Snyder said.

‘I would rather not put this to a vote,' Avanti said. ‘If anyone objects to Mr Feldman polling the board, would he raise his hand?'

No hand was raised, and Feldman began, ‘Mr Britsky?'

‘No.'

‘Mr Avanti?'

Hesitation. ‘This is my first knowledge of this suggestion. Could I wait?'

‘Mr Holms?'

‘I think yes. I would want to expand on that opinion.'

‘Mr Abel?'

‘Oh, no, Freddy. The suggestion is sheer nonsense. You know that.'

‘Mrs Upperman?'

‘Yes.'

‘Mr Byron?'

‘Yes.'

‘Mr Snyder?'

‘Of course not, Freddy.'

‘And for the record,' Feldman said, ‘I would oppose it too.'

Max asked for the floor. ‘I said no as to Bert's suggestion. I am very much aware of the compassion he expressed, and it's exactly what I would have expected from a dear old friend,' refraining from adding: who happens to be the slimiest son of a bitch I ever broke bread with. ‘But the truth is that restitution for seven million dollars, well –' Max spread his arms and shook his head. ‘My brothers don't have a nickel. They're worthless, penniless bums. Benny is a poker player and a big man with low ladies. Ruby has dropped at least a million at the crap tables in Reno. It adds up to nothing. They can't make restitution.'

‘But you can,' Sally said.

‘Thank you, my dear.'

‘I think,' said Feldman, ‘that restitution is out of the question. We can take the time to run an audit of Ruby and Benny, but it won't change a thing. If we sold them down to their underwear, we might generate a few hundred dollars, and that's it. For my part, I simply do not see the necessity for restitution. We have a large, healthy, powerful company. Every other studio here – Fox, Metro, Columbia, Warner's – every one of them has dropped millions on bad films, bad decisions. It's in the nature of the business. The cash flows must be generated with a degree of risk. We don't make automobiles. We make moving pictures. It may appear incredible to say that seven million dollars is of no consequence, but if you will examine the balance sheets of this company, you will realise that is the case. It is of no consequence. Therefore, I make a motion that this board, in the light of Mr Britsky's years of dedication to this company, vote not to prefer any criminal charges against Reuben and Benjamin Britsky.'

‘Second!' Abel cried.

‘Before there's any vote,' Royce Byron said, ‘I wish to remind the board that such a vote is not binding. As a stockholder, I have the right to prefer criminal charges.'

‘Is that your intent?' Avanti asked.

‘It certainly is – unless restitution is made.'

‘We've been through that. There's no way restitution can be made.'

‘There certainly is.'

The sheep from the goats, Max thought. He liked Avanti. He was glad Avanti was not a part of it. Who was it, then – Bert, Sally, Byron, and most likely Holms? That would be it. They must have planned it step by step – not Bert now, not his old buddy, but Royce Byron, New York, Wall Street, the telephone company – all the standard stock villains. Bert had to come out smelling like a rose. He was the only one who could step into the driver's seat.

‘Then enlighten us, Mr Byron,' Avanti said.

‘I'll be happy to. The person most interested in keeping the Britsky brothers out of prison, the person who has the most to gain by it, is Mr Britsky, our president. Mr Feldman assures us that the corporation has not been damaged. I wonder whether, if that assurance were offered to the stockholders, they would agree with him. Myself, I do feel damaged, both morally and financially. So I say that if the miscreants are not to be punished and pay their debt to society, if not to our company, restitution must be made, and since it cannot be made by the culprits, then the interested party, Mr Max Britsky, must make it.'

A hubbub broke out, a half-dozen people speaking at once, Avanti pounding his gavel, and Max sitting back in his chair and watching the board members and listening to their angry words almost with detachment. Finally restoring a semblance of order, Avanti asked for a vote on the motion, regardless of whether it was binding.

Max, Snyder, Abel, and Feldman voted for the motion to drop the matter and take no criminal proceedings against the Britskys.

Bert, Sally, Holms, and Byron voted against the motion.

Avanti did not vote, and when Feldman asked him to please make his preference known, he explained that since his bank had extended a large credit line to Britsky Productions, it would hardly be proper for him to vote – certainly not without consultation with his home office. Therefore, he must abstain. ‘And,' he added, ‘I can say that in a matter of this nature, I am almost certain that San Francisco would advise me to abstain.'

‘But, you see,' Byron said, ‘the vote is only a formality. There is no way for Mr Britsky to avoid the question.'

‘It does come to me,' Max agreed. ‘Let me put my cards on the table, gentlemen. Britsky Productions pay me a wage of two thousand dollars a week. That's comfortable, but a number of our stars earn much more. I also charge some expenses to the lot – a studio car when I use it, occasional business dinners or lunches off the lot – never comes to more than a couple of hundred a week, mostly less. A thousand a week I turn over to my mother to run her home. The rest – well, it goes. I'm an easy touch, and between out-of-work actors and charities and the surprising number of people who need loans – well, like I say, it goes. I'm not poor. I got about eighty thousand in my bank account, but seven million dollars – that I don't have.'

‘You're pulling our leg,' Byron snorted.

‘Mr Britsky has a keenly developed sense of humor,' Sally said.

‘Max,' Bert said, ‘I think they're referring to the fact that you do own fifty-one percent of Britsky Productions.'

‘I'm sure they were,' Max said. ‘As Mrs Upperman observed, I got a sense of humor.' Snyder started to say something, but Max silenced him with an outstretched hand. ‘Just hold it, Sam. It's my turn. I've been quiet and listening. Now I'll talk.' He turned back to Bert. ‘Never mind the bullshit, Bert. Wherever it is, I been there. So let's talk
tachlis
. Right? No shit anymore – the
ganse emmes
. You worked it all out before you set foot in here, you and that strange woman who was once my wife and this cookie from the telephone company. So
ahf an tisch
– you remember enough Yiddish for that. You got me by the balls, and there ain't one fucken thing I can do.' The language was for Sally's benefit. ‘So spell it out and let's wind it up. I'm bored as hell, anyway.'

‘All right, Max. It's better that way.'

‘You're damn right it is.'

‘We want seven million dollars' worth of your stock – at market, to be turned over to the company to become company stock. Then we want your resignation, since we feel these new conditions would be too abrasive for you to continue to be productive here.'