Black Is the Fashion for Dying (3 page)

The ordinary troubles he had dispatched quickly. To the petulant queries from New York he dictated the usual evasive answers. He barred Abe Luskman from the studio for life, for the double-cross with Metro on the Fielding book. He suspended Whiteman, the assistant casting director, pending investigation of the rape charges. He cut two hundred thousand out of the
Three's a Crowd
budget, okayed Technicolor for the South Sea story, mediated an hysterical quarrel between Tony Walton, head of make-up, and Linda Trevor, agreed to spend another fifty thousand on the Nautilus project, and, in a series of personal interviews, soothed the variously injured egos of half a dozen actors, musicians and producers. The still pettier matters, involving minor producers and writers, he shoved into T. J. Lorrance's eager hands.

For a moment Fabro's mind rested on T. J. Someone, probably Abe Luskman, had once said, “Zanuck and Warner got yes-men, but in Lorrance Karl Fabro's got the only maybe-man in Hollywood!” That wasn't bad. The pink-and-white rabbit, with his twitching lips and skimpy J. Press clothes, always seemed to be saying yes or no, but when you unraveled one of his involved sentences, filled with contingency clauses and on-the-other-hands, it invariably came out maybe. Still, could be he was better than a yes-man. If you heard yes enough, you got to believe it. And T. J. was useful. He was a sort of IBM rabbit when it came to remembering things. He could be counted on to do what he was told to do. And he was faithful. The only man he trusted at the studio. That alone made him invaluable.

Confronted by an ominous red eye, the limousine braked to a cushiony halt. Fabro glanced out the window, saw on the hill to his right the incongruous hulk of the Beverly Hills Hotel, half Edwardian and half Statler-modern.

“Let me know when we get to Bel-Air,” he said, as the car slid forward again. After a moment, he added, “You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then
say
yes, sir!”

A day of crises, he reflected, shifting the Upmann to a corner of his mouth. But not of defeat. Even the
Dark Circle
fiasco had turned out well. It had been a close thing, though. And in a way his fault for listening to that artistic jerk from New York. No, not completely his fault. New York had hired Claude Remigen. New York had flown him out with the producer-director contract that made him an untouchable. Of course Benjy, on long distance the same day, warned, “Stage smashes don't necessarily mean movie smashes, Karl, so keep a noose on his balls.” But what did that mean? He couldn't put him to shooting tests. And
Dark Circle
hadn't sounded bad: a detective story with the Devil as the heavy. A modern allegory, Remigen said, a morality play in the machine age.

Morality play, Fabro grunted in amusement. Jesus! Those faces when the lights came up after the executive showing in the studio theater. He hadn't seen anything like it since the press preview of
Aaron Slick From Pumpkin Creek.
For once, the department heads were too stunned to speak. A major disaster. Two million down the drain.

One by one they had turned to him, waiting for a cue. That was when the idea came, as he had known it would. As it always had.

“Whodunit!”

They eyed him blankly.

“New ending, couple of new scenes, a few cuts.”

“Take out the allegory?” Remigen cried.

“Yes, Mr. Remigen. We make it into a quality detective story.”

The others began to grin, seeing it was the only way out. Screaming, all fairy now, Remigen fled, hysterically threatening to tear up his contract. That was fine, too. Sixty thousand left to go on it, and the changes wouldn't cost half that. He'd hurried to teletype Benjy the details, knowing in advance what the answer would be.

“Bel-Air, Mr. Fabro,” Dawes said.

“Take the main gate.”

“Yes, sir.”

So here we go, Fabro thought. The main gate. Not a bad title. Starring Caresse Garnet. Only that couldn't be now. Caresse was kaput. Too bad, in a way.

But nothing could last forever. Abruptly, he blanked Caresse out of his mind, let his thoughts wander back over the day again.
Dark Circle
converted into a personal triumph. And an even greater triumph with
Tiger in the Night.
That could really amount to something. A new way of making motion pictures.

The idea wasn't actually his. Standish, of CBS, had dropped it at a party one night for anyone to pick up. “You movie moguls are still in the horse-and-buggy days,” he'd said, his swarthy, cocksure face scornful. “Six, eight, ten weeks for a feature-length picture. One set at a time, one camera, one set-up. Waits for lighting, for sound, for the camera to be hauled up, for actors to rehearse, learn their lines, find their places. Maybe three minutes of film a day.”

“So?” Harry Greenspan had asked.

“So TV has passed you clucks by and you don't know it. We use cameras,
plural.
Six or eight of 'em if necessary. And we shift from set to set, audio and lighting ready and waiting, as fast as the actors can get there. Result: for fifty-two minutes of shooting, a fifty-two minute show!”

“Quality,” Harry Greenspan had muttered.

“So, okay. We don't have the quality. That's budget. You give me the scripts and the sets and the actors and I'll give you quality until it comes out your ears!”

And there the idea lay until
Tiger in the Night
began to run over. Five days finally, at sixteen thousand a day, and Benjy screaming louder each day. And three-quarters of yesterday lost because of Caresse Garnet. He'd called Standish then, borrowed one of his production assistants, and cornered Josh Gordon in the Directors' Building.

“Television monitors. Six cameras. Four sets. Simultaneous action,” Gordon had muttered as he outlined the production assistant's scheme. “What you need is the ringmaster from Ringling Brothers' circus.”

“You won't do it?”

“I don't know.”

“Have you read your contract, Josh?”

“Yeah, I've read it, Fatso, and I know you can make it stick, but I don't have to like it.”

“Suppose I gave you credit for the idea?”

“That's a laugh. If Benjy hasn't got a teletype from you in New York right now, claiming full credit, I'm Eisenhower, bare-assed in a snowdrift.”

The limousine's engine raced as the hydromatic dropped down a gear. Fabro saw they were climbing a sleep grade, saw Dawes looking at him through the rear-view mirror. “We're almost at the top of Bel-Air, Mr. Fabro.”

“Didn't I tell you Caresse Garnet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, consider yourself told.”

Six cameras and all, it must have worked fine. Around three he'd sent T. J. down to do some snooping and before Gordon caught him and threw him off the set, he learned they'd already shot nine pages. Which meant if tomorrow went as well,
Tiger in the Night
would make the deadline he'd set, pick up three of the lost days. And he'd be taking bows for a new technique that might save the industry.

If it wasn't for Benjy, with his memo-pad mind, the day's ultimate crisis, this lousy appointment with destiny could have been put off for another year. And by then it wouldn't be a crisis. There was the teletype message, of course, the last of the day from Benjy, obviously sent from his office after dinner. It read:

Dark Circle
yours but changes must not exceed $30,000.

Have you forgotten Caresse Garnet?

But it was past seven when the message arrived and he had arranged for Miss Earnshaw to say, if questioned, he'd left the studio by then. He should have known that was too easy, though. Did know, in a way, because he'd set up a mental chessboard in that gloomy hole on Highland, drinking the raw Scotch, obviously just made in the back room, and figuring eventualities. One of which had burst upon him the moment he set foot in his house at eleven.

Two half-filled glasses in the living room and the pink splotches on T. J.'s cheeks indicated he and Irene had been holding one of their cozy, implausible chats, and for an instant he wondered darkly, as he had a dozen times before, what there could be between them. By God! If it was what he half thought. That would be something. Cuckolded by a mouse!

Twitching uneasily, T. J. volunteered, “Irene's on the phone.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You told me to wait for you, Karl.”

He grunted, fishing for the ice that was never in the silver bucket. “Call Blake.” At least there was Scotch. He upended the bottle over a double old-fashioned glass. “Find out if he's finished.”

“He's working at home.”

“He's got a phone, hasn't he?”

Irene, entering, brushed by T. J. at the hall door. Her plump face was flushed, too, and she was smiling.

“No ice,” he said.

The smile went away. “Papa wants to speak to you.”

“Oh, God!”

“He's been calling every half-hour.”

“Doesn't he ever sleep?”

“Now, Karl. You know Papa when he's got something on his mind.”

He went to the unlisted phone in the study, knowing exactly what it was. “If it's Caresse Garnet—” he began.

Benjy's guttural East Side voice cut him off. “You give me trouble over her, Karl?”

“I just forgot.”

“The corporation don't pay you for forgetting.”

“No, Benjy. But damn it, I had so much to do today—”

“Don't lie.” Benjy's voice fell to a confidential croak. “Can Irene hear you?”

“No.”

“Are you … involved with this one?”

For a split second he was tempted to say yes. But Benjy would never let it drop there, if only for Irene's sake.

“No,” he said. “I'm not involved.”

“Then, why?”

“I think she's a valuable property.”

“That you said last year, and quick two more flops she makes for us.”

He had no answer to this. After a time Benjy spoke again. “There is something smells not so good here, Karl.”

“All right. I'll tie a can to her.”

“She must be notified before twelve.”

“Damn it, Benjy, I said I'd do it!”

A tsking sound came from Long Island. “Such a temper my son-in-law's got,” Benjy said, and hung up.

By the time he'd found the legal forms in his desk and filled them in, T. J. was with Irene again in the living room. The pair spoke simultaneously when he came in, like children trying to placate an angry governess, saying: “Blake—” and “I've got your ice, darling.”

“What about Blake?”

“He says the script's done.”

At least that was something. He took the double old-fashioned glass from Irene, drained it. “Have Dawes bring the Fleetwood around.”

She knew better than to ask questions. Alone with T. J., he mumbled, “Caresse Garnet.”

“Her contract?”

“Finished.” He let his eyes move from the pink-splotched face down the gray flannel suit. “T. J.”

“Yes?”

“
Button your pants!
”

Fabro snorted, amused at the memory. The reflex, hands abruptly clapped over privates, had turned T. J. into a comic valentine parody of “September Mom.” And his face when his fumbling fingers found the buttons all in place! Outrage, shame … and guilt? No. Not guilt. Fabro snorted again, gagged on cigar smoke, spat phlegm from his mouth. Even if Irene were willing, T. J. wouldn't have the nerve. Wouldn't even have the nerve to bleat his customary maybe. He snorted a third time, saw Dawes staring at him in the mirror.

“Well?”

“Miss Garnet's house, sir.”

So it was.

Karl Fabro II

Point Destiny. Stone steps leading up to a white Mediterranean house with light shining from every window. A party? he wondered, astonished. With Caresse having a six o'clock call? He followed the Filipino houseboy into the house and along the wide hall past shuttered dining-room doors, hearing violins in a Strauss waltz, but no voices. Strange.

Left alone in the loggia, its huge sliding doors open to Caresse's shimmering turquoise pool, he lit a fresh cigar. The ball in his stomach was growing bigger. Gas. No, not gas. He started for the bamboo bar in the comer, but on his way he caught sight of a portrait in a silver frame on a glass-topped coffee table. For a moment he stared at the gaunt face looking up at him, the face of a poet, a genius, a prophet, a fanatic, with the mark of the white destroyer stamped on sunken cheeks, corded neck and wild, hollow eyes. He picked up the photograph, saw it was inscribed:

Let my words rise from my ashes
,

Caresse, to sing my love!

Edgar

The name roused a contemptuous belch from Fabro's stomach. Edgar Allan Pixley. The trailer-camp bard, living, or dying, rather, on muscatel and cigarette butts and the febrile rush of blood tearing at brain and lungs, but singing his love, too. Stub pencil lines written on the backs of envelopes, on the margins of books, on toilet paper, in the three big accounting books—

Heels on the marble floor made him put the portrait down, move to the bar. It was Caresse. “I thought you'd be around, sweetie-pie,” she said.

Her throaty voice was faintly contemptuous and so was her face, milk pale under the jet black hair. He stared in reluctant admiration. She had on some crazy sort of oriental costume, pointed gold slippers, a jewel-embroidered vest and harem pants made of a silky material that looked as though it had been scissored from her turquoise pool. Forty-five, if she was a day. A star for nearly thirty years. Five marriages, a telephone book of lovers, scandals, disasters, triumphs, and she still made carhops of the Mansfields and Monroes.

“I had to come,” he said.

She moved to the bar, slim and imperious, and reached for a bottle of Bisquit. “Why?”

“Can I buck Benjy?”

She didn't answer, intent on pouring the brandy. He watched her uneasily, then said: “You know I don't want to do this.”