ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

He picked up the whisky glass.

"If you're not interested in my proposition," I said, "just go ahead and drink that drink."

He stared at me silently for a moment. Then he looked at the small, amber-filled glass in his hand. His hand trembled slightly and some of the whisky spilled on the tablecloth. "What makes you such a do-gooder all of a sudden?"

"I'm not," I said. I reached for my coffee cup and smiled at him. "I haven't changed at all. I still think you're the world's champion prick. If it was up to me, I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole. But Forrester wants you to run our Canadian factory. The damn fool doesn't know you like I do. He still thinks you're the greatest."

"Roger Forrester, huh?" he asked. Slowly the whisky glass came down to the table. "He tested the Liberty Five I designed right after the war. He said it was the greatest plane he ever flew."

I stared at him silently. That was more than twenty years ago and there had been many great planes since then. But Amos remembered the Liberty Five. It was the plane that set him up in business.

A hint of the Amos Winthrop I had known came into his face. "What's my end of the deal?" he asked shrewdly.

I shrugged my shoulders. "That's between you and Roger," I said.

"Good." A kind of dignity came over him as he got to his feet. "If I had to deal with you, I wouldn't be interested, at any price."

He stalked back to his bedroom door. He turned and glared at me. "What do I do about clothes?"

"There's a men's shop downstairs. Call them and have them send up what you want."

The door closed behind him and I reached for a cigarette. I could hear the faint murmur of his voice on the telephone. Leaning back in the chair, I let the smoke drift idly out through my nose.

When the clothing arrived, I had them leave it in his bedroom. Then the buzzer sounded again and I cursed to myself as I went to the door. I was beginning to feel like a bloody butler. I opened the door. "Hello, Mr. Cord."

It was a child's voice. I looked down in surprise. Jo-Ann was standing next to Monica, clutching the doll I had given her in one hand and her mother's coat in the other.

"McAllister sent me a telegram, on the train," Monica explained. "He said you'd probably be here. Did you find Amos?"

I stared at her dumbly. Mac must be losing his marbles. He must have known there was a three-hour layover in Chicago and that Monica would show up here. What if I didn't want to see her?

"Did you find Amos?" Monica repeated.

"Yes, I found him."

"Oh, goody," Jo-Ann suddenly exclaimed, spotting the breakfast table. "I'm hungry." She ran past me and climbing up on a chair, picked up a piece of toast. I stared after her in surprise.

Monica looked up at me apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jonas," she said. "You know how children are."

"You said we'd have breakfast with Mr. Cord, Mommy."

Monica blushed. "Jo-Ann!"

"It's all right," I said. "Won't you come in?"

She came into the room and I closed the door. "I’ll order some breakfast for you," I said, going to the telephone.

Monica smiled. "Just coffee for me," she said, taking off her coat.

"Is the doctor here yet, Jonas?"

Monica stared.

I stared.

Jennie stood in the open doorway, her long blond hair spilling down over the dark mink coat, which she held wrapped around her like a robe. Her bare neck and legs made it obvious she wore nothing beneath it.

The smile had gone from Monica's face. Her eyes were cold as she turned to me. "I beg your pardon, Jonas," she said stiffly. "I should have known from experience to call before I came up."

She crossed the room and took the child's hand. "Come on, Jo-Ann."

They were almost to the door before I found my voice. "Wait a minute, Monica," I said harshly.

Amos' voice cut me off. "Ah, just in time, child," he said calmly. "We can leave together."

I turned to look at him. The sick, dirty old man we had found in the bar last night had disappeared. It was the Amos of old who stood there, dressed neatly in a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit, with a dark chesterfield thrown casually over his arm. He was every inch the senior executive, the man in charge.

There was a faintly malicious smile on his lips as he crossed the room and turned, his hand on the door. "My children and I do not wish to impose- " He paused and bowed slightly in the direction of Jennie. Angrily I started toward the door. I opened it and heard the elevator doors open and close, then there was silence in the hall.

"I’m sorry, Jonas," Jennie said. "I didn't mean to louse things up for you."

I looked at her. Her eyes were large with sympathy. "You didn't do anything," I said. "Things were loused up a long time ago."

I went to the bar and poured myself a drink. All the good feeling had gone. This was the last time I'd ever play the good Samaritan. I swallowed the drink and turned back to Jennie. "Did you ever get laid in a mink coat?" I asked angrily.

There was sadness and understanding on her face. "No."

I poured myself another drink and swallowed it. We stood there, looking at each other silently across the room for a moment. Finally, I spoke. "Well?"

Her eyes still on mine, she nodded slowly. Then she raised her arms and held them out toward me, the coat falling open, away from her naked body. When she spoke, there was a note in her voice as if she'd always known that this was the way it was going to be. "Come to mother, baby," she whispered gently.

____________________

1

Jennie walked through the curtained doorway into the camera and the director shouted, "Cut! Wrap it up!" And it was over.

She stood there for a moment, dazed, blinking her eyes for a moment as the powerful kliegs dimmed. Then the oppressive August heat came down on her and she felt faint. She reached out a hand to steady herself. As if from a distance, she heard the giant sound stage turn into bedlam. It seemed that everybody was laughing and talking at once.

Someone pressed a glass of water into her hands. She drank it quickly, gratefully. Suddenly, she began to shiver, feeling a chill, and the dresser quickly threw a robe over her shoulders, covering the diaphanous costume. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're welcome, Miss Denton," the dresser said. He looked at her peculiarly for a moment. "You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," Jennie said. She felt cold perspiration breaking out on her forehead. The dresser gestured and the make-up man hurried up. He swabbed at her face quickly with a moist sponge. The faint aroma of witch hazel came up in her nostrils and she began to feel better.

"Miss Denton," the make-up man said, "you'd better lie down for a while. You're exhausted."

Docilely she let him lead her back to the small portable dressing room. She looked back over her shoulder as she went in. The bottles were out and the whisky flowing. Everyone was gathered around the director, shouting congratulations, supplying him with the adoration they felt necessary to insure their employment on his next picture. Already, they seemed to have forgotten her.

She closed the door behind her and stretched out on the cot. She closed her eyes wearily. The three months the picture was supposed to take had stretched out into five. Five months of day-and-night shooting, of exhaustion, of getting up at five o'clock in the morning and falling into bed like a stone at midnight, and sometimes later. Five months, until all the meaning that had been in the script was lost in a maze of retakes, rewrites and plain confusion.

She began to shiver again and pulled the light wool blanket up over her and lay there trembling. She closed her eyes. She turned on her side, drawing her knees up and hugging herself. Slowly the heat from her body condensed around her and she began to feel better.