ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

Norman looked down at his desk for a moment, his hand toying with the blue-covered script. He assumed an earnest expression. "It isn't the script, believe me, Dan," he said, turning to Von Elster for assurance. "We think it's great, don't we?"

The lanky, bald director nodded. "It's one of the greatest I ever read."

"Then why the balk?" the agent asked.

Norman shook his head. "The time isn't right. The industry is too upset. Warner's has a talking picture coming out soon. The Lights of New York . Some people think that when it comes out, silent movies will be finished."

Dan Pierce laughed. "Malarkey! Movies are movies. If you want to hear actors talk, go to the theater, that's where talk belongs."

Norman turned to Nevada, his voice taking on a fatherly tone. "Look, Nevada, have we ever steered you wrong? From the day you first came here, we've treated you right. If it's a question of money, that's no problem. Just name the figure."

Nevada smiled at him. "It isn't the money, Bernie. You know that. Ten thousand a week is enough for any man, even if income taxes have gone up to seven per cent. It's this script. It's the first real story I've ever read out here."

Norman reached for a cigar. Nevada leaned back in his chair. He remembered when he had first heard of the script. It was last year, when he was making Gunfire at Sundown .

One of the writers, a young man with glasses and a very pale skin, had come over to him. "Mr. Smith," he asked diffidently. "Can I trouble you for a minute?"

Nevada turned from the make-up man. "Why, sure- " He hesitated.

"Mark Weiss," the writer said quickly.

Nevada smiled. "Sure, Mark, what can I do for you?"

"I’ve got a script I'd like you to read," Weiss said quickly. "I spent two years researching it. It's about one of the last gun fighters in the Southwest. I think it's different from anything that's ever been made."

"I'd be glad to read it." That was one of the hazards of being a star. Everyone had a script they wanted you to read and each was the greatest ever written. "What's it called?"

" The Renegade ." He held out a blue-covered script.

The script felt heavy in his hand. He opened it to the last page and looked at the writer doubtfully. The script was three times standard length. "Pretty long, isn't it?"

Weiss nodded. "It is long but there was no way I could see to cut it. Everything in there is true. I spent the last two years checking old newspaper files through the entire Southwest."

Nevada turned back to the make-up man, the script still in his hand. "What happened to him?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Nobody seems to know. One day he just disappeared and nothing was ever heard about him again. There was a posse after him, and they think he died there in the mountains."

"A new story's always good," Nevada said. "People are getting tired of the same old heroes. What do you call this guy?"

The writer's voice seemed to hang in the air. "Sand," he said. "Max Sand."

The script slipped from Nevada's fingers. He felt the blood rush from his face. "What did you say?" he asked hollowly.

Weiss stared at him. "Max Sand. We can change it but that was his real name."

Nevada shook his head and looked down at the script. It lay there in the dust. Weiss knelt swiftly and picked it up. "Are you all right, Mr. Smith?" he asked in a concerned voice.

Nevada took a deep breath. He felt his self-control returning. He took the script from the outstretched hand and forced a smile.

A look of relief came into Weiss's face. "Thanks, Mr. Smith," he said gratefully. "I really appreciate this. Thanks very much."

For a week, Nevada couldn't bring himself to read it. In some strange way, he felt that if he did, he'd be exposing himself. Then one evening, he came into the library after dinner, where Von Elster was waiting, and found him deeply engrossed in this script.

"How long have you been sitting on this?" the director asked.

Nevada shrugged. "About a week. You know how it is. These writers are always coming up with scripts. Is it any good?"

Von Elster put it down slowly. "It's more than good. It's great. I want to be the director if you do it."

Late that night, the lamp still burning near his bed, Nevada realized what the director meant. Weiss had given depth and purpose to his portrait of a man who lived alone and developed a philosophy born of pain and sadness. There was no glamour in his crimes, only the desperate struggle for survival.

Nevada knew as he read it that the picture would be made. The script was too good to be passed up. For his own self-protection, he had to make the picture. If it escaped into someone else's hands, there was no telling how much further they'd delve into the life of Max Sand.

He bought the script from Weiss the next morning for one thousand dollars.

Nevada returned to the present suddenly. "Let's hold it for a year," Bernie Norman was saying. "By then, we'll know which way to jump."

Dan Pierce looked across at him. Nevada knew the look. It meant that Pierce felt he'd gone as far as he could.

"Chaplin and Pickford had the right idea in forming United Artists," Nevada said. "I guess that's the only way a star can be sure of making the pictures he wants."

Norman's eyes changed subtly. "They haven't had a good year since," he said. "They've dropped a bundle."

"Mebbe," Nevada said. "Only time will tell. It's still a new company."

Norman looked at Pierce for a moment, then back to Nevada. "O.K.," he said. "I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll put up a half million toward the picture, you guarantee all the negative cost over that."

"That's a million and a half more!" Pierce answered. "Where's Nevada going to get that kind of money?"

Norman smiled. "The same place we do. At the bank. He won't have any trouble. I'll arrange it. You'll own the picture one hundred per cent. All we'll get is distribution fees and our money back. That's a better deal than United Artists can give. That shows you how much we want to go along with you, Nevada. Fair enough?"

Nevada had no illusions. If the picture didn't make it, his name would be on the notes at the bank, not Norman's. He'd lose everything he had and more. He looked down at the blue-covered script. A resolution began to harden inside him.

Jonas' father had said to him once that it wasn't any satisfaction to win or lose if it wasn't your own money, and you'd never make it big playing for table stakes. This picture just couldn't miss. He knew it. He could feel it inside him.

He looked up at Norman again. "O.K., Bernie," he said. "It’s a deal."

When they came out into the fading sunlight in front of Norman's bungalow office, Nevada looked at the agent. Pierce's face was glum. "Maybe you better come down to my office," he muttered. "We got a lot of talking to do."

"It can keep till tomorrow," Nevada said. "I got company from the East waitin’ for me at home."

"You just bit off a big nut," the agent said.

They started toward their cars. "I reckon it's about time," Nevada said confidently. "The only way to make real money is to gamble big money."

"You can also lose big that way," Pierce said dourly.

Nevada paused beside his white Stutz Bearcat. He put his hand affectionately on the door, much in the same manner he did with his horses. "We won't lose."

The agent squinted at him. "I hope you know what you're doing. I just don't like it when Norman comes in so fast and promises us all the profits. There's a monkey somewhere."

Nevada smiled. "The trouble with you, Dan, is you're an agent. All agents are suspicious. Bernie came in because he had to. He didn't want to take any chances on losin' me." He opened the door and got into the car. "I’ll be down at your office at ten tomorrow morning."