The Dream Merchants Part 58

The picture was over. He sat there in his seat, his eyes closed tightly together, as the house lights came on. Slowly he opened them.

Mark was getting out of his seat. He was helping the girl on with her wrap. Dully Peter watched him move toward the aisle, where he was surrounded immediately by people. He saw the girl's face turn to him and his eyes widened in shocked surprise.

Dulcie Warren! What was Mark doing with her? He knew what his father thought of her. While he was watching them he saw her kiss Mark's cheek lightly; then the people were all around them and he couldn't see what they were doing.

"It's too good a picture for the ma.s.ses, they won't appreciate it, Mark," someone was saying consolingly as Peter angrily pushed his way through the crowd around them. Dulcie was leaning on Mark's arm, looking up at him with an amused smile on her face.

"I had been afraid of that," Mark admitted. "The average movie-goer isn't too bright, you know," he added snidely. Then his gaze suddenly fell upon his father.

Peter was standing in front of him, his face almost choleric with rage.

"Peter!" Mark tried to smile. He didn't quite succeed. His face looked almost sickly. "What are you doing here?" He could feel Dulcie's arm slip quietly from his. "I didn't know you were here!"

For a moment Peter couldn't talk, he was almost speechless. Then his voice burst from him in a shrill scream. "You didn't know I would be here!" he mimicked. His voice grew even louder. "Well, I was. I sat behind you through the whole rotten picture and heard everything you said to that-to that-" He looked at Dulcie, standing next to Mark. His mind searched frantically for a word to describe her. "To that cheap courveh! Every word you said I heard!"

Mark looked around him anxiously. There was a look of eager expectancy on the faces about him. Already other people were being attracted by the commotion. They were beginning to look at them with a morbid relish. "Papa!" he said through white lips, his hands indicating the people.

But Peter was too angry to pay any attention to his imploring glances. "What's the metter, Marcus?" he asked, slipping unconsciously into his accent. "You ashamed the pipple should know what you done? You made a picture too good for the ma.s.ses?" He drew himself up as high as he could and shook an excited finger under his son's nose. "Vel, let me tell you somet'ing! The only time a picture is too good for the ma.s.ses is ven it's a stinker like the vun you just made!"

A t.i.tter of appreciative laughter went up from the people around them. Mark could feel his face turn a brick-red. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him. He turned to look helplessly at Dulcie, but she was already gone. She was walking swiftly up the aisle away from him. He turned back to his father miserably. "But, Papa-" he said, his voice perilously close to tears.

"Vot are you looking for, Marcus?" his father asked him, still shouting. "Your hooer? Maybe you vant to go vit her?"

Mark looked down at the floor. He didn't answer.

"Vel, vot are you vaiting for?" Peter roared. "Go after her! Go!" His arm pointed after her dramatically. "You already done all the damage you could do here! The business already you cost me! In the same gutter vit her you belong!" His voice broke suddenly as Esther came up to him through the crowd.

Mark looked up at his parents. His mother's eyes were filled with tears, she was turning Peter away from him. He took a step toward her. She shook her head gently over Peter's shoulders and nodded toward the exit. Mark started up the aisle.

His father turned and shouted after him: "And don't come back neither, you-you bloodsucker, you!"

Mark stumbled blindly toward the exit. He heard someone laugh and say maliciously: "That was a better show than the picture. It was worth the price of admission alone. I'm telling you all the picture people are like that. They're no good, none of them!"

An anger began to rise in him. His throat was dry and parched. Tomorrow all Hollywood would be talking about him and laughing at him. He yanked open the door of his car viciously. He climbed into it and put his head on his arms across the steering wheel. He began to cry.

Peter and Esther sat in the back of the car. Doris sat in the front seat driving. Her father's head lay wearily against the back of the seat and he was talking in a low voice. She couldn't hear what he was saying.

His face turned slowly to Esther. His voice was close against her ear. It was dull and empty of feeling. All his strength seemed to have left him. "The only chance we got now," he was saying weakly, "is the stock. If Johnny votes with me, maybe things will be all right."

Esther shushed him. "Rest," she said gently, pulling his head down to her shoulder. "Don't worry. On Johnny you can depend." But all the time her heart kept crying out to her son: "Mark, Mark, you were such a sweet little baby. How could you do this to your father?"

14.

"Aren't you going to take me home?" Dulcie's voice came calmly from the back seat. When she had left the theater she couldn't find a cab; so she had climbed into Mark's car to get out of the sight of the gaping crowds.

He raised his head from his arms slowly. He turned around and looked at her. Her cigarette glowed brightly in the darkness as she drew on it. Its light revealed her eyes; they were dark and imperturbable.

The drove home in silence. Occasionally he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. There was no expression on her face at all. To look at her you would think nothing had happened to upset her. Yet he knew she was upset. He could tell from the way in which she lit one cigarette from another.

She put her key in the lock and turned it. The door opened a little and she turned back to him and looked up at him. "Good night, Mark." she said calmly.

He looked down into her eyes. Anger came over his face. "Is that all you have to say after what happened tonight? 'Good night, Mark?'" His voice was hoa.r.s.e.

She shrugged her shoulders quietly. "What else is there to say?" she asked in that same calm, infuriating manner. She stepped inside the door. "It's over and done with." She began to close the door.

His foot stopped it. He glared at her angrily.

She looked up at him, still calm, still sure of herself. "I'm tired, Mark. Let me go to sleep."

He didn't answer. For a moment he stood there quietly, then he put an arm on her shoulder and pushed her into the room ahead of him and closed the door.

Her eyes were wide and unafraid. "What are you doing, Mark?" she asked quickly. "Why don't you go home? It's been a pretty rough day for all of us."

He went to a cabinet and took a bottle of whisky from it. He opened it and drank right from the bottle. He could feel the hot liquor burning its way down his throat. He turned back to her. "You heard what my father said?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"He'll get over it by morning," she answered quietly. She came toward him. "Now will you go home?"

His hands reached out and seized her roughly. He pulled her to him and kissed her, his mouth bruising hers.

She twisted in his grasp, trying to get loose. "Mark"-her voice was beginning to show signs of fright-"you don't know what you're doing!"

"Don't I?" he asked mockingly, his arms holding her tight. "I should have done this a long time ago!"

She was really frightened now. There was a look at madness on his face that she had never seen before. Her hands flew up and scratched at him, she tried to push him away from her. Suddenly she broke free of him. "Get out!" she screamed at him.

He smiled at her slowly. "You look real pretty when you're angry, Dulcie," he said walking toward her. "But you know that, don't you? Many men must have told you that!" His hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder.

She wrenched herself free of his grip, but he held on to her dress. The flimsy material tore in his hands. He caught her again. Her hands tore at his face, scratched at his eyes. "Let me go! Let me go, you maniac!" she screamed at him.

Suddenly his hand swept across her face. Her head reeled with the shock. He struck her again and she fell to the floor, leaving the rest of her dress in his hands. He bent over her and again his hand struck her.

Her hands flew up to cover her face. "Not my face," she screamed in abject terror. "Not my face!"

His face was very close to hers. He grinned slowly. "What's the matter, Dulcie? Afraid for your looks?"

She felt his hands tearing the rest of her clothing from her. Suddenly she didn't feel them on her any more. She took her hand from her face slowly and looked up at him. There was a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. She could taste its salty flavor against her tongue.

He was taking off his jacket. Dully, almost stupidly, she saw the rest of his clothes come off. Suddenly she was cold. A chill ran through her body. She looked down at herself. There were dark-blue bruises on her white flesh. She began to tremble in her fright.

He knelt over her, grinning crazily. She looked up at him, s.h.i.+vering convulsively, her eyes dilated with fear. He stared into her eyes. His hand went out and hit her face again. Her mind was reeling. She could hardly hear what he was saying.

"Too bad there isn't a gutter handy," he said in a conversational tone of voice. "But the floor will have to do!"

And then he fell on her.

15.

The meeting room in the Waldorf was already filled with smoke as Johnny looked around the room. Ronsen sat opposite him. There were small beads of sweat standing out on his forehead as he spoke in whispers to Floyd and Randolph.

Johnny looked at his watch. Peter should be here any minute now. His plane had been due at the airport almost an hour ago. He looked across the room at the men.

Ronsen s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably under his gaze. They had not spoken to each other since a brief greeting when Johnny had entered the room a half hour ago. They were waiting for Peter to arrive. Suddenly the room was silent and a subtle tension seemed to creep into the air.

There was the sound of voices outside the door. It opened and their eyes turned to it automatically as Peter came into the room. Esther and Doris were with him.

Johnny looked up in surprise. He had not known that Doris was coming with her father.

Awkwardly the men rose to their feet. They looked at the two women.

Peter's face was tired as he introduced them. Each man murmured an uncomfortable greeting as his name was spoken.

Johnny took advantage of their turned backs to wink at Doris. She smiled back at him.

Peter threw his hat and coat into an empty chair and took his place at the table. Esther sat down beside him, while Doris seated herself in a chair against the wall.

Peter looked around the table. "Are we ready to get down to business?" he asked. He didn't wait for their reply. "As presiding officer at this meeting, I hereby call it to order." He picked up a gavel from the table in front of him and rapped the table with it sharply. The loud noise echoed through the room.

Johnny picked up his pen, looked at his watch, and wrote the time in his notebook. When he looked up, Ronsen was already on his feet. Johnny smiled grimly to himself. They weren't wasting any time.

"Mr. Chairman," Ronsen spoke to Peter.

Peter nodded his head. "Mr. Ronsen."

Ronsen's eyes were on Peter. He spoke in impersonal terms, but his words were addressed directly to him. "In view of the existing conditions at the studio and, in general, throughout the company-matters of great concern to this board naturally-I was wondering whether the chair would entertain an offer to purchase his stock in the company."

Peter looked at him steadily. His voice was flat and cold. "No."

Johnny watched him. From the way Peter sounded, he was angry. Ronsen was in for a h.e.l.l of a fight. Suddenly he was very proud of Peter. He remembered a long time ago when Peter had faced Segale across a desk at the old combine and had told him off. Peter had guts then. Time had not taken that away from him. His pen scratched busily on the paper.

Ronsen was still on his feet, looking down at Peter. His mouth, too, had set into grim, determined lines. "I would like to point out to the chair that a suit has been filed against him on behalf of certain stockholders, which, if brought into court, would prove most embarra.s.sing."

Peter shook his head gently. "In this business we learned a long time ago not to be embarra.s.sed, Mr. Ronsen. We have gotten used to the public eye and we are not afraid of it." He got to his feet slowly and faced Ronsen across the table. "As long as I represent the controlling interest in this company, I will not consider selling my stock in it. I ain't going to be intimidated by n.o.body. Especially people who enter into agreements with the sole purpose of breaking them agreements. Those people are no better than crooks to me."

A strange glitter came into Ronsen's eyes. They loomed intensely behind his gla.s.ses. "In view of the chairman's statement, would he care to let the stockholders pa.s.s upon the decision?"

Peter nodded. His eyes were on Ronsen. "The chair is willing."

Ronsen looked around him. There was a faint note of triumph in his voice. "I believe all the stockholders are represented at this meeting. Would the chair be satisfied with an oral vote? A written vote can be taken later if desired."

Peter turned to Johnny as Ronsen sat down. "The motion is whether I should sell my stock or not. Will the secretary call the roll?" He sat down and looked at Johnny expectantly.

Johnny stared at him. His heart began to pound excitedly in his breast. Didn't Peter know he had lost his stock? Hadn't Doris told him? He looked at her. Her hand was clenched before her mouth and she was staring back at him, her eyes wide in her white, frightened face.

He got to his feet. "I don't believe such a decision can be brought before the board at this meeting," he said desperately, trying to stave off the inevitable. His voice was ragged with strain.

Peter looked up at him. "Don't be a schlemiel, Johnny. Go ahead and take the vote!"

Johnny still hesitated.

Peter stood up angrily. "All right, then, I'll take it myself."

Johnny's legs were trembling as he sat down. He picked up his pen again, but his hand was shaking so much that he could hardly write.

Peter's voice was firm. "I'll make it snappy, gentlemen." He said. "The chair votes against the motion. That's forty-five percent of the stock." A note of satisfaction came into his voice. "Now, Johnny," he said, turning toward him.

Johnny looked up at him without answering. He opened his mouth, but no sounds came out. He tried again to speak. He didn't recognize the croaking sounds that came from his lips as his voice. "I-I can't vote, Peter."

Peter stared at him incredulously. "What do you mean you can't vote? Don't be a fool, Johnny! Come on and get this business over with!"

The words seemed torn from Johnny's lips in an agonizing cry. "I haven't got the stock any more!"

Peter's voice was unbelieving. "If you haven't got it, then who has?"

Ronsen was on his feet again. There was a look of cold triumph on his face. "I have it, Mr. Chairman," he said quietly, his voice filled with power.

Johnny's face snapped toward him. He should have guessed it! Ronsen was out there at the time Vic sold the stock. The son of a b.i.t.c.h!

Peter's face turned white. He slumped against the table for a moment, then sank slowly into his seat. His eyes were bitter and accusing on Johnny's face. "You sold me out, Johnny," he said dully. "You sold me out!"

16.

He pressed the buzzer. He could hear the chimes ringing behind the door, then the sounds of footsteps approaching it. The door opened and Doris stood there.