Sidney Sheldon - A Stranger in the Mirror

Lucille’s voice came over the intercom. “Dallas Burke is here.”

“Send him in.”

“And Mel Foss would like to see you. He said it’s urgent.”

Mel Foss was head of the television division of Pan-Pacific Studios.

Sam glanced at his desk calendar. “Tell him to make it breakfast tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. The Polo Lounge.”

In the outer office, the telephone rang and Lucille picked it up. “Mr. Winter’s office.”

An unfamiliar voice said, “Hello there. Is the great man in?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Tell him it’s an old buddy of his—Toby Temple. We were in the army together. He said to look him up if I ever got to Hollywood, and here I am.”

“He’s in a meeting, Mr. Temple. Could I have him call you back?”

“Sure.” He gave her his telephone number, and Lucille threw it into the wastebasket. This was not the first time someone had tried the old-army-buddy routine on her.

Dallas Burke was one of the motion-picture industry’s pioneer directors. Burke’s films were shown at every college that had a course in movie making. Half a dozen of his earlier pictures were considered classics, and none of his work was less than brilliant and innovative. Burke was in his late seventies now, and his once massive frame had shrunk so that his clothes seemed to flap around him.

“It’s good to see you again, Dallas,” Sam said as the old man walked into the office.

“Nice to see you, kid.” He indicated the man with him. “You know my agent.”

“Certainly. How are you, Peter?”

They all found seats.

“I hear you have a story to tell me,” Sam said to Dallas Burke.

“This one’s a beauty.” There was a quavering excitement in the old man’s voice.

“I’m dying to hear it, Dallas,” Sam said. “Shoot.”

Dallas Burke leaned forward and began talking. “What’s everybody in the world most interested in, kid? Love—right? And this idea’s about the most holy kind of love there is—the love of a mother for her child.” His voice grew stronger as he became immersed in his story. “We open in Long Island with a nineteen-year-old girl working as a secretary for a wealthy family. Old money. Gives us a chance for a slick background—know what I mean? High-society stuff. The man she works for is married to a tight-assed blueblood. He likes the secretary, and she likes him, even though he’s older.”

Only half-listening, Sam wondered whether the story was going to be Back Street or Imitation of Life . Not that it mattered, because whichever it was, Sam was going to buy it. It had been almost twenty years since anyone had given Dallas Burke a picture to direct. Sam could not blame the industry. Burke’s last three pictures had been expensive, old-fashioned and box-office disasters. Dallas Burke was finished forever as a picture maker. But he was a human being and he was still alive, and somehow he had to be taken care of, because he had not saved a cent. He had been offered a room in the Motion Picture Relief Home, but he had indignantly turned it down. “I don’t want your fucking charity!” he had shouted. “You’re talking to the man who directed Doug Fairbanks and Jack Barrymore and Milton Sills and Bill Farnum. I’m a giant, you pygmy sons of bitches!”

And he was. He was a legend; but even legends had to eat.

When Sam had become a producer, he had telephoned an agent he knew and told him to bring in Dallas Burke with a story idea. Since then, Sam had bought unusable stories from Dallas Burke every year for enough money for the old man to live on, and while Sam had been away in the army, he had seen to it that the arrangement continued.

“…so you see,” Dallas Burke was saying, “the baby grows up without knowing her mother. But the mother keeps track of her . At the end, when the daughter marries this rich doctor, we have a big wedding. And do you know what the twist is, Sam? Listen to this—it’s great. They won’t let the mother in! She has to sneak in to the back of the church to watch her own kid getting married. There won’t be a dry eye in the audience…. Well, that’s it. What do you think?”

Sam had guessed wrong. Stella Dallas . He glanced at the agent, who averted his eyes and studied the tips of his expensive shoes in embarrassment.

“It’s great,” Sam said. “It’s exactly the kind of picture the studio’s looking for.” Sam turned to the agent. “Call Business Affairs and work out a deal with them, Peter. I’ll tell them to expect your call.”

The agent nodded.

“Tell them they’re gonna have to pay a stiff price for this one, or I’ll take it to Warner Brothers,” Dallas Burke said. “I’m giving you first crack at it because we’re friends.”

“I appreciate that,” Sam said.

He watched as the two men left the office. Strictly speaking, Sam knew he had no right to spend the company’s money on a sentimental gesture like this. But the motion-picture industry owed something to men like Dallas Burke, for without him and his kind, there would have been no industry.

At eight o’clock the following morning, Sam Winters drove up under the portico of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A few minutes later, he was threading his way across the Polo Lounge, nodding to friends, acquaintances and competitors. More deals were made in this room over breakfast, lunch and cocktails than were consummated in all the offices of all the studios combined. Mel Foss looked up as Sam approached.

“Morning, Sam.”

The two men shook hands and Sam slid into the booth across from Foss. Eight months ago Sam had hired Foss to run the television division of Pan-Pacific Studios. Television was the new baby in the entertainment world, and it was growing with incredible rapidity. All the studios that had once looked down on television were now involved in it.

The waitress came to take their orders, and when she had left, Sam said, “What’s the good news, Mel?”

Mel Foss shook his head. “There is no good news,” he said. “We’re in trouble.”

Sam waited, saying nothing.

“We’re not going to get a pickup on ‘The Raiders.’”

Sam looked at him in surprise. “The ratings are great. Why would the network want to cancel it? It’s tough enough to get a hit show.”

“It’s not the show,” Foss said. “It’s Jack Nolan.” Jack Nolan was the star of “The Raiders,” and he had been an instant success, both critically and with the public.

“What’s the matter with him?” Sam asked. He hated Mel Foss’s habit of forcing him to draw information from him.

“Have you read this week’s issue of Peek Magazine?”

“I don’t read it any week. It’s a garbage pail.” He suddenly realized what Foss was driving at. “They nailed Nolan!”

“In black and white,” Foss replied. “The dumb son of a bitch put on his prettiest lace dress and went out to a party. Someone took pictures.”

“How bad is it?”

“Couldn’t be worse. I got a dozen calls from the network yesterday. The sponsors and the network want out. No one wants to be associated with a screaming fag.”

“Transvestite,” Sam said. He had been counting heavily on presenting a strong television report at the board meeting in New York next month. The news from Foss would put an end to that. Losing “The Raiders” would be a blow.

Unless he could do something.

When Sam returned to his office, Lucille waved a sheaf of messages at him. “The emergencies are on top,” she said. “They need you—”

“Later. Get me William Hunt at IBC.”

Two minutes later, Sam was talking to the head of the International Broadcasting Company. Sam had known Hunt casually for a number of years, and liked him. Hunt had started as a bright young corporate lawyer and had worked his way to the top of the network ladder. They seldom had any business dealings because Sam was not directly involved with television. He wished now that he had taken the time to cultivate Hunt. When Hunt came on the line, Sam forced himself to sound relaxed and casual. “Morning, Bill.”