ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

I got into the car. "Good luck with the picture!" Buzz yelled after me as I pulled away.

I turned into the main gate at the Norman studios. The guard looked out and waved me on. "Good morning, Mr. Cord," he called. "Good luck, sir."

I smiled and drove toward the parking lot. There was a small marker with my name on it. mr. cord. They didn't miss a trick when it came to sucking ass. There was a reserved table with my name on it in the executive dining room. I also had a private bungalow with a suite of offices and two secretaries, a liquor cabinet stocked to the brim, an electric refrigerator, a private can and shower, a dressing room, a conference room and two secretarial offices in addition to my own.

I went through the back door of my bungalow and directly into my office. I wasn't at the desk more than a moment when one of the secretaries came in. She stood in front of the desk, looking very efficient with her notebook and pencil. "Good morning, Mr. Cord," she said brightly. "Any dictation?"

I shook my head. You'd think by this time she'd know better. For the past five weeks, this had been going on every morning. I never write anything – messages, memos, instructions. If I want anything written, I call McAllister. That's what lawyers are for.

The telephone on my desk buzzed. She picked it up. "Mr. Cord's office." She listened a moment, then turned to me. "They've completed rehearsal on Stage Nine. And they're ready for their first take. They want to know if you'd like to come down."

I got up. "Tell them I’m on my way."

Stage Nine was at the far end of the lot. We built the New Orleans set there because we figured it was quieter and there wouldn't be any interfering sounds coming across from the other stages. I began to hurry along the brick paths, cursing the distance, until I saw a messenger's bicycle leaning against one of the executive bungalows. A moment later, I was pedaling like mad down the path. I heard the messenger start yelling behind me.

I pulled around to front of Stage Nine and almost clashed into a man opening the door. He stood there and looked at me in shocked surprise. It was Bernie Norman. "Why, Mr. Cord," he said. "You didn't have to do that. You could have called for a car to bring you down here."

I leaned the bike against the wall. "I didn't have time, Mr. Norman," I said. "They said they were ready to start. It's my money and my time they're spending in there."

They were ready to play the first scene, the one where Max, as a young man, is having his first interview with the madam of the fancy house. That wasn't the opening of the picture, but that's the way they shoot them. They make all the interior scenes first, then the exteriors. When it's all finished, an editor splices it together in its proper sequence.

The actress playing the madam was Cynthia Randall, Norman's biggest female star. She was supposed to be the sexiest thing in the movies. Personally, she didn't do a thing for me. I like my women with tits. Two make-up men and a hairdresser were hovering over her as she sat in front of the dressing table that was part of the set.

Nevada was standing over in the other corner, his back to me, talking to Rina. He turned around as I came up and a chill ran through me as memory dragged up a picture of him from my childhood. He looked even younger than he did when I first saw him. I don't know how he did it; even his eyes were the eyes of a young man.

He smiled slowly. "Well, Junior. Here we go."

I nodded, still staring at him. "Yeah," I said. "Here we go."

Somebody yelled, "Places, everybody!"

"I guess that means me," Nevada said.

Rina's face was turned toward the set, a rapt expression in her eyes. A man pushed past carrying a cable. I turned away from him and almost bumped into another man. I decided to get out of the way before I did any damage.

I wound up near the sound booth. From there I could see and hear everything. Now I knew why pictures cost so much money. We were on our eleventh take of that same scene when I noticed the sound man in the booth. He was bent over the control board, his earphones tight to his head, twisting the dials crazily. Every other moment, I could see his lips move in silent curses, then he would spin the dials again.

"Something wrong with the machine?" I asked.

He looked up at me. I could tell from his look he didn't know who I was. "There's nothing wrong with the machine," he said.

"Something's bothering you?"

"Look, buddy," he said. "We both need our jobs, right?"

I nodded.

"When the boss tells yuh to make somebody look good, yuh do what he says – yuh don't ask no questions. Right?"

"Right," I said.

"Well, I'm doin' my best. But I ain't God. I can't change the sound of voices."

I stared at him, a kind of dismay creeping over me. I had only Rina's word that Nevada's voice test had been O.K. "You mean Nevada Smith?"

He shook his head. "Naah," he said contemptuously. "He's O.K. It's the dame. She comes over so nasal it sounds like her voice is coming out of her eyeballs."

The sound man turned back to his machine. I reached over and snatched the earphones off his head. He turned angrily. "What the hell's the idea?"

But I had them on by then and there was nothing he could do but stand there. Nevada was speaking. His voice came through fine – there was a good sound to it. Then Cynthia Randall began to speak and I didn't know whether to believe my eyes or my ears.

Her voice had all the irritating qualities of a cat wailing on the back fence, with none of the sexual implications. It shivered its way down my spine. A voice like that could put an end to sex, even in the fanciest house in New Orleans. I ripped the earphones from my head and thrust them into the sound man's astonished hands. I started out on the set. A man grabbed at me but I angrily pushed him aside.

A voice yelled, "Cut!" and a sudden silence fell over the set. Everyone was staring at me with strangely startled expressions.

I was seething. All I knew was that someone had played me for a patsy and I didn't like it. I think the girl knew why I was there. A look of caution appeared in her eyes, even as she tried to bring a smile to her lips.

Bernie Norman hurried onto the set. A flicker of relief showed in her face and I knew the whole story. She reached for Bernie's arm as he turned toward me. "Mr. Cord," he asked, "is anything wrong?"

"Yeah," I said grimly. "Her. Get her off the set. She's fired!"

"You just can't do that, Mr. Cord!" he exclaimed. "She has a contract for this picture!"

"Maybe she has," I admitted, "but not with me. It wasn't my pen she squeezed the last drop of ink out of."

Bernie stared at me, the pale coming up underneath his tan. He knew what I was talking about. "This is highly irregular," he protested. "Miss Randall is a very important star."

"I don't care if she's the Mother of God," I interrupted. I held out my wrist and looked down at the watch and then back up at him. "You've got exactly five minutes to get her off this set or I’ll close down this picture and hit you with the biggest lawsuit you ever had!"

I sat down on the canvas chair with my name on it and looked around the now deserted set. Only a few people hovered about, moving like disembodied ghosts at a banquet. I looked over at the sound man hunched over his control board, his earphones still glued to his head. I closed my eyes wearily. It was after ten o'clock at night.

I heard footsteps approaching and opened my eyes. It was Dan Pierce. He'd been on the phone trying to borrow a star from one of the other studios. "Well?" I asked.

He shook his head negatively. "No dice. MGM wouldn't lend us Garbo. They're planning a talking picture for her themselves."

"What about Marion Davies?"

"I just hung up on her. She loves the part but it isn't the kind of thing she feels she can do. Maybe we should've stuck with Cynthia Randall. It's costing you thirty grand a day to sit around like this."