The Dream Merchants (16 page)

Joe smiled. Since the morning he had spoken to Johnny about the risk he ran in prompting Peter to make that picture, he hadn’t said another word on the subject. He did his share of the job quietly and well and hoped that everything would work out all right. But everything was going too smoothly. Occasionally he felt a twinge of misgiving at the easy way things seemed to be working out and would reprimand himself for being a pessimist.

“Got a date?” he asked Johnny.

Johnny nodded, still concentrating on the tie.

“Anyone I know?” Joe asked.

The tie was knotted at last and Johnny turned around. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “Sam Sharpe’s secretary.”

Joe let out a whistle. “Better be careful, kid.” He smiled. “I seen that pretty little blonde once. She’s the marrying kind.”

Johnny laughed. “Nonsense. She’s a lot of fun.”

Joe shook his head in pretended sadness. “I seen that happen before. You go out with a dame for laughs and wind up with a ball and chain.”

“Not Jane,” Johnny answered. “She knows I’m not looking to settle down.”

“A dame might know it, but she’ll never believe it.” Joe smiled. Then his expression changed and his face grew serious. “You an’ Peter goin’ over to the combine offices tomorrow?”

Johnny nodded. It was late in May and everything was ready to roll on the picture. The script and the cast were ready; the only difficulty that remained was getting a studio big enough to make the picture in, since their own was pitifully small.

They had checked several of the independents, but none was available. At last they had decided to approach the combine and try to rent a studio from them. They had several large studios that could accommodate
The Bandit
, and one of them Johnny knew was not in use that summer. They had agreed that they would tell the combine they were making a serial, and it was a logical enough excuse to get by.

“What’ll you do if they turn you down?” Joe asked.

“They won’t turn us down,” Johnny replied confidently. “Stop being a gloomy Gus.”

“All right, all right,” Joe said; “I was just askin’.”

***

The horse’s hoofs stopped clattering on the pavement, and the hansom drew to a stop. The driver turned around on his seat and looked down at them. “Where to now, sir?” he asked.

“Around the park again,” Johnny said. He turned and looked at Jane. “All right with you?” he asked. “You’re not tired?”

Her face was pale in the moonlight. The night was warm, but she had a little scarf around her shoulders. “I’m not tired,” she said.

The hansom set off again and Johnny leaned back in his seat. He looked up at the sky; the stars were out and they twinkled down on him. He put his hands behind his head. “When this picture is finished, Janey,” he said, “we’ll really be on our way. Nothing’ll stop us then.”

He felt her stir beside him. “Johnny,” she said.

“Yes, Jane?” His mind was still in the stars.

“Is that all you ever think about? When the picture is finished?”

He turned toward her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

She looked at him steadily. Her eyes were wide and softly luminous. Her voice was very quiet. “There are other things in life besides pictures, you know.”

He stretched himself and grinned. “Not for me there ain’t.”

She turned her face away from him and looked out the other side of the carriage. “Other people find time for other things besides business.”

He put his arm around her shoulder; with the other hand he turned her face to him. For a moment he looked at her, then he kissed her. Her lips were warm and her arms went around him hungrily and then as suddenly dropped from his shoulders.

“You mean things like this, Janey?” he asked softly.

She was silent for a few seconds. When she answered, her voice was very small. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Johnny.”

Johnny’s face expressed his astonishment. “Why, honey?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you meant?”

She looked at him steadily. “It is and it isn’t. Kisses themselves aren’t important, but the things that are behind them are. I’m sorry that you kissed me because now I know there’s nothing behind it. You’ve got moving pictures inside you, Johnny, not feelings.”

***

The combine offices were located in a big building on Twenty-third Street. It was a twelve-story building and the combine occupied every floor. The executive offices were on the seventh floor, and when Peter and Johnny got off the elevator on that floor, they were met by a young girl receptionist.

“Who do you wish to see?” the girl asked.

“Mr. Segale,” Peter answered. “Mr. Edge and Mr. Kessler to see him. We have an appointment.”

“Won’t you take a seat?” the girl asked, gesturing toward a comfortable couch placed along the wall. “I’ll check with Mr. Segale’s office.”

Johnny and Peter sat down. At the end of the hall was a large office with an open door. Through it they could see row upon row of desks with men and women sitting at them.

“They really are big business,” Johnny whispered.

“I’m nervous,” Peter answered.

“Take it easy,” Johnny counseled in a whisper. “They haven’t the faintest idea of what we’re going to do. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Peter started to reply, but his answer was cut short by the girl. “Mr. Segale will see you,” she said. “Right down the hall. You’ll see his name on the door.”

They thanked her and walked down the hall. The place was big and oppressive. Occasionally someone would scurry by them with an air of doing something very important. Even Johnny was impressed.

The name on the door read: “Mr. Segale—Production Supervisor.” They opened the door and walked in. They were in a secretary’s office. A girl looked up at them and gestured to another door against the inner wall. “Right in there,” she smiled. “Mr. Segale is expecting you.”

They went into the other office. The office was quietly but lavishly furnished. A rich wine-colored rug covered the floor, several paintings hung on the gray painted wall, and rich leather couches and chairs were scattered around the room.

Behind a tremendous flat-topped walnut desk sat Mr. Segale. He greeted them warmly and waved them to chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. He passed around a box of cigars. “Smoke?”

Peter took one and lit up. Johnny gestured no and lit a cigarette.

Mr. Segale was a small, fat man with a cherubic face. His blue eyes were unusually keen and his lips were thin and his mouth small and round.

It was when he looked at him that Johnny felt his first sense of misgivings. “This baby’s no fool,” he thought. “It’s not going to be so easy to pull the wool over those baby-blue eyes.” But he said nothing, he kept silent.

Mr. Segale spoke first. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Peter decided to come right to the point. “Magnum would like to rent the Slocum studios for three weeks to make a serial.”

Mr. Segale clasped his hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling. “I see,” he said, blowing the smoke from his cigar upwards. “I believe you hold a sublicense from us for the production of short features not to exceed two reels in length.”

“That’s right, Mr. Segale,” Peter answered quickly.

“You’re doing all right with them?” Segale continued.

Johnny looked at Peter. Things were not going the way he had thought they would. But Peter was intent upon Mr. Segale.

“What a question to ask!” Peter’s voice was gently amazed. “You know how we’re doing.”

Mr. Segale straightened in his chair. He looked forward on his desk, his chubby hands searching for a paper. He found it and looked at it. “Hmm, you produced seventy-two reels of film last year.”

Peter didn’t answer. He, too, was beginning to feel something was wrong. He stole a quick look at Johnny. Johnny’s face was cold, his blue eyes hard behind narrowed lids. With a sinking feeling he realized Johnny felt the same thing he did. He turned back to Segale. “Why all these questions, Mr. Segale? All we’re asking for is space to make a serial.”

Mr. Segale stood up and walked around his desk to Peter. He stood there in front of Peter’s chair and looked down at him. “Are you sure that’s all you want to do, Mr. Kessler?” he asked.

Johnny watched them. He was starting to see the inside. The man was playing with Peter as a cat would with a mouse. He knew what they wanted; he had known what they wanted before they came in. Why didn’t he say so immediately instead of horsing around?

Peter’s voice was bland and smooth as he replied: “Sure, Mr. Segale, what else would we need all that space for?”

Segale looked down at him for a minute. “I’ve heard some talk that you want to make a six-reel feature out of the Broadway play
The Bandit
.”

Peter laughed. “Ridiculous. Maybe I did talk about making a serial out of it, but a six-reeler, never.”

Segale walked back to his chair and sat down. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kessler, the Slocum studio is all booked up for the summer and we can’t let you have it.”

Johnny sprang to his feet. “What do you mean, all booked up?” he said excitedly. “That’s a lot of crap. I know there isn’t a thing shooting there all summer.”

“I don’t know where you get your information, Mr. Edge,” Segale replied smoothly. “But I ought to know.”

“I take it, Mr. Segale,” Peter injected, “the combine doesn’t want Magnum to make a serial.”

Segale looked at Peter steadily, leaning back in his chair as he spoke. “Mr. Kessler,” he said urbanely, “as of June 1, the combine doesn’t want Magnum to make pictures at all. Under paragraph six, section A, of our cross-licensing agreement, we hereby revoke our license to you to engage in the manufacture and production of motion pictures.”

Johnny saw Peter’s face grow gray as Segale spoke. For a second he seemed to slump in his chair, then he straightened up and color began to flood back into his face. Slowly he got to his feet. “I take it, then, the combine is exercising its monopolistic right in restraint of trade and competition.”

Segale looked at him closely. “You call it what you want, Mr. Kessler. The combine is only doing what is provided for in its contract.”

Peter’s voice was heavy and dull, but underneath it was a steely timbre. “You can’t stop Magnum from making pictures simply by revoking its contract, Segale. Neither can you stop the free progress of the screen. Magnum will continue to make motion pictures. With or without a combine license!”

Segale looked over at Peter coolly. “The combine is not at all anxious to put you out of business, Mr. Kessler, if you will reiterate your agreement to make and produce only two-reel features.”

Johnny looked at Peter. This Segale was a hard customer. First he hit you over the head with a sledge hammer, then he offered you a Seidlitz powder. He wondered what Peter would do. Segale had offered him a way out.

Peter stood there quietly. Many things were turning over in his mind. This was a chance for him to save his business, but if he took it, he would never again have the nerve to try to buck the combine.

It was only a motion picture that he wanted to make. Strips of celluloid, thousands of feet long, with little pictures frozen on them. But when you flashed them on the screen, they came to life. They were real people and real places and they meant something. People laughed at them and wept with them. They were as capable of stirring the emotions as the stage, as literature, as music or any form of art. And an art in order to be important had to be free, even as a man had to be free and unhampered in order to live the way he wanted.

What was it Esther had said when he first went into this? “You do what you want. It’s not important that we have a house on Riverside Drive….”

The words flooded over his tongue. He knew just what he wanted to say to Segale, but what came out was something entirely different.

“Magnum will not enter into any agreement that will dictate to it as to what type of pictures it will make, Mr. Segale. It is not important that we have a house on Riverside Drive.”

He turned his back and walked out of the room. Johnny followed him.

Behind them Mr. Segale scratched his head and wondered what a house on Riverside Drive had to do with making motion pictures.

7

The sunlight was white and glaring and hurt their eyes as they stood in the street in front of the combine offices. Johnny looked at Peter. Peter’s face seemed white and drawn to him. “Come on, let’s get a drink,” he suggested.

Peter shook his head slowly. His voice trembled a little as he answered: “No, I think I’ll go home and lie down awhile. I—I don’t feel so good.”

Johnny’s voice was sympathetic. It was his fault that Peter had been brought to this. “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean—”

Peter interrupted him: “Don’t be sorry, Johnny. It’s not your fault any more than mine. I wanted to do it.” He put his cigar in his mouth and puffed at it. It had gone out. He struck a match with trembling fingers and tried to light it, but his hand was shaking so much that he couldn’t get it to light. At last, in disgust, he threw his cigar away.

They stood there looking at each other morosely, each occupied with his own thoughts. For Peter it seemed the end of all his plans. Now he would have to figure out something else to do. Already his conscience was troubling him. He had been too hasty in there with Segale. He should have taken up Segale’s offer, let somebody else buck the combine. Someone with more money and in a better position. He didn’t know. He felt sick and confused. Maybe when he got home and talked to Esther, things would straighten out.

Johnny was already figuring on how to make the picture elsewhere. There must be another studio or place they could rent to make the picture. The combine couldn’t be the only organization in New York that had a studio big enough for
The Bandit
. He would have to look around. Maybe Borden could let them have some space at his studio. He made serials and with a little squeezing there certainly was enough room to make
The Bandit
. After all, Borden had twenty-five hundred bucks in the picture and he wouldn’t like to see it go down the drain.