Super (5 page)

“Corny idea, corny everything but it was the first picture about the new streamliners and it made a lot of money for the company that is now called RKO. Great shots at Boulder Dam, too. They were still building some of it at the time. How do you know so much about this picture, kid? Most people never heard of it.”

“I saw it at college in a public relations class on how to do company publicity. Burlington got a lot of great free publicity out of that movie.”

Sanders, even in the faint light, could see pleasure in Rinehart’s face.

“I’ve also read the book about the movie—it had the script and little essays by the producer, director, even the sound man about making the movie,” said Charlie, pressing his advantage.

“Yeah, yeah. I remember that. I have a copy of the book myself somewhere. It came out the next year.”

“There was also a
Silver Streak
Big Little Books for kids that was published at the same time.”

Darwin Rinehart took a long, long sip of his scotch. “Beginnings and endings,” he sighed to Sanders and everyone else in the world.
“Silver Streak
was my beginning.”

“The Super Chief would be a natural, great, fantastic next chapter,” said Sanders.

“More like an ending, I’d say.”

“I guess I ought to go, sir. I’m sorry I bothered you.” Sanders made a slight move to stand.

Darwin Rinehart told him to stay where he was.

“Go ahead. What’s your Super Chief idea, kid?”

Charlie Sanders had, by now, gotten used to being called kid by this movie man despite the fact that, according to the movie magazines, Rinehart himself was forty—only eight years older than this Santa Fe man.

“I can’t think of anything else … you know … that I can do to help you … you know, get extended,” said the brunette, Fair Visitor #2.

“I know, I know,” said Clark Gable. He was upset—embarrassed. “I think you should put on your clothes and leave.”

The woman, as Ralph had advertised, was a brunette and slightly younger than #1, but she was as pretty and had about the same proportions.

“One more try, please?” she asked.

“It’s not going to do any good. Please go.”

Gable rolled out of the berth and she followed him. Both were naked. Soon he had put his pajama bottoms back on and she was back into her two-piece dark blue traveling suit.

She moved toward the door, stopped and then burst into tears.

Gable made a leaning motion to go to her and maybe even to put an arm around her shoulders. But he didn’t. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

“I can’t believe this,” she said through her sobs. “I’m with Clark Gable, the sexiest man on the face of the earth, and I can’t … you know, arouse him.”

“It’s not you,” said Gable.

She pulled away from him, the tears having slightly moderated. “I read a story in
Confidential
magazine about your having five, six, even seven women a night. It just
has
to be me.” She began crying again.

Gable went to the pockets of his sport coat, which was hanging on a hook nearby. “Here, take this,” he said, handing her a ten-dollar bill.

She grabbed the bill, crushed it in her hand and threw it back at him. It struck his chest and fell to the floor. “I’m an English teacher. I teach the seventh grade. I did this for the occasion, for history—not money!” she shouted.

Gable put a finger to his lips. “Let’s hold it down, all right?”

Then, suddenly, the woman’s eyes were no longer teary. They were squinting with wisdom—revelation. “You can’t be a pansy like I read in
Confidential
Van Johnson was, can you, Clark Gable? Not you, The King of sex?” There was as much accusation as question in the words.

Gable handed her another ten-dollar bill. “No, no. I’m just tired. I just couldn’t … do it. Not again. You were the twelfth girl I’ve had this evening.”

She took the money this time and slammed the door behind her as she left the compartment.

“It’s to remake
Silver Streak
for today, right now in the fifties,” said Charlie Sanders. “That’s my idea.”

“Forget it,” said Darwin Rinehart. “They don’t use iron lungs anymore for polio. They give shots. Salk vaccine kind of shots.”

“I know. It has to be something else besides an iron lung.”

“Forget it. Now trains are for people like me who prefer and can afford slow, easy traveling, not rush emergencies. They’re losing their business to cars and airplanes. Trains are on the way out except for a few of us. Forget it.”

“Some people are afraid to fly. Instead of an iron lung that is rushed west on the train it could be a person. But it could still follow a lot of the same things that happened in
Silver Streak
. We could have a bad guy, like they did, who tries to sabotage the Super Chief.”

Rinehart’s eyes were closed. Sanders couldn’t tell if the scotch and whatever else he’d consumed was the cause or he was simply deep in thought about a Super Chief movie.

Charlie Sanders pushed on. “The president of Burlington, as a public relations move, loaned out his new train for the movie. I know we at the Santa Fe would do the same thing with the Super Chief. I just know we would.”

Without appearing to open his eyes, Rinehart said, in a near whisper: “We shot most of the railroad shots with the Zephyr at that town in Illinois … what was it?”

“Galesburg,” said Sanders.

“Yeah. At the studio in Hollywood we did a ‘clinch’ shot with Blane and Starrett, the lovebirds. We even had a phony diesel engine the studio made as a prop.”

“I think I read that the whole idea for the movie came from a man who was editor of a magazine called
Diesel Digest
. He fought his way in to see Allvine and sold him on the idea. It’s not that different from what I’m trying to do now, sir. Here I am, Sanders of the Santa Fe, making a pitch to the great Darwin Rinehart.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rinehart had opened his eyes. And he was smiling. “But this isn’t how we do it. Our movies come from books. I don’t read books for picture ideas. Gene does that for me. Then somebody comes in and does The Talk about the picture that could be made from the book. Do me a talk if you can, kid.”

Darwin Rinehart glanced out the window at the lights of small towns and farmland and then said, “But make it snappy. It’s already past midnight.”

“Yes, sir!”

But before Charlie Sanders could start, Rinehart said: “What about Joliet? Did we go through Joliet, Illinois?”

“Yes, sir. That was before Galesburg.”

“Good, good. Okay, kid, you’re on.”

Fair Visitor #2 had been gone from Clark Gable’s drawing room only a few moments when Ralph reappeared.

“Just wanted to see if there was anything else I could get you tonight, sir.”

Gable grinned. “Nope. I’ve had more than I can handle for one night.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ralph. “I assume you’ll be wanting a shave in the morning in the barber shop, as usual?”

Gable frowned. “No, no. I’ll shave myself.”

“That’ll disappoint Mr. Josephs for sure.”

Gable was still frowning. “Mr. Josephs?”

“He’s a substitute barber on this run. Normally, he does the Chief or the Texas Chief. Your regulars are all either on vacation or on other trains. Mr. Josephs was looking forward to shaving The King for the first time in his barber’s life.”

The frown disappeared. Gable said, “I’ve never seen him before? He’s never shaved me before in his life?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then, let’s not disappoint him. Make me an appointment.”

“Usual time, sir?”

“What times does he have open?”

“Any time is always open for you, Mr. Gable. I already told him eight thirty, your usual time.”

“Certainly. The usual. Eight thirty it is.”

“When would you like to begin with the Fair Visitors today, sir?” asked Ralph. “There are several waiting notification—one or two, I believe, will be leaving the train fairly early in the day …”

Gable held up his right hand, palm out. “I think we’ll hold off on that—for now, at least,” he said. “I’m feeling a bit weary.”

Ralph smiled, nodded his head as if to royalty and left.

Charlie Sanders, talking as snappily as he ever had in his life, just made it up off the top of his head. It was already late and he knew Darwin Rinehart was not going to give him much time.

“A pretty young woman is dying in Albuquerque. She has a serious brain disorder that can only be cured and her life saved by one man—a handsome young brain surgeon who has the perfect set of hands for the delicate operation it will take. He is known as the best in the world for this particular operation. Usually people come to him but the Albuquerque woman is too sick to travel. So he must come to her.”

“Where does he live?” Rinehart asked.

“How about Galesburg, Illinois, because of the
Silver Streak
connection?”

“Nobody lives in Galesburg, Illinois.”

“Carl Sandburg did.”

“My point exactly. Put him in Kansas City.”

“Done. Yes, sir. The surgeon’s in Kansas City. We get there in less than three hours, in fact—you know, tonight here on the Super Chief.”

Rinehart said, “Yes, I know. That’s why I thought of it. Of course, nothing ever happens in Kansas City either except in
Oklahoma!
—the movie—when that dancer did a song about it being up-to-date.”

“Wasn’t that Gene Nelson?”

“Right, right. Lee Dixon played the part on Broadway. Rod Steiger stole the movie playing Jud Fry. Nobody ever dreamed he could sing. You wake him up in the middle of the night and I’ll bet he’s still Jud Fry. Actors are the characters they play forever.”

Rinehart must have seen a look of disbelief on Sanders’s face because he quickly added:

“Hey, kid, I was at a dinner party one night in Beverly Hills. A guy had a heart attack sitting right there at the table. Lew Ayres, without saying a word, got down on the floor with the man, did a lot of doctor things and saved his life. He did it on reflex—instinct. Back in the thirties and forties he’d played Dr. Jimmy Kildare in nine pictures for MGM. Once a doctor in a movie, always a doctor. Once a pig man in
Oklahoma!
, always a pig man. That’s it.”