Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

Then why did he feel so lousy?

“What time is that screening?” he asked Martha.

“Four o’clock.”

“It’s almost that now. Why didn’t you give me a warning? I’ve still got a dozen calls to make.”

“I told you this morning, David.”

“How am I supposed to remember something you told me this—”

“Hey, take it easy, birthday boy. This is me, Martha Washington. Tony’s on the line. Wants to know whether it’s true the show has been canceled.”

“Tell him yes, the show has been canceled.”

“It was a good show, David.”

“Are you starting on me, too?”

“I only said—”

“I heard what you said. Where’s the screening?”

“In 1204.”

“I’ll be there if you need me.”

“All right. Do you want me to make those calls for you?”

“I’ll handle them myself when I get back. You’ve got a run.”

“What?” Martha glanced at her nylons. “Oh, damn it,” she said, “goddamn it,” and she seemed on the verge of tears over something as simple as a run in her stocking.

The agent’s name was Ed Goff. He was waiting in room 1204 when David got there. He rose and extended his hand.

“Goff,” he said. “I think we’ve spoken on the phone.”

“How do you do?” David said. “What have you got for me?”

“A pilot. We thought Sonderman, Inc., might be interested in handling it for us. It’s pretty good, if I say so myself.”

“Why bring it to us? If you’ve already laid out thirty to forty grand to shoot a pilot—”

“No, no, nothing like that. This was part of a deal for an anthology. My clients—”

“Who?”

“Ralph Mordkin and Dave Katz. You know them?”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“Sure, well they produced five out of thirty-nine shows for this anthology. Filmed stuff, you understand. They thought this particular one would make a good series. So we added titles and some theme music and we’re showing it as a pilot. I think you’ll like it. It’s pretty good, if I say so myself.”

“You already said so yourself.”

“What?” Goff blinked. “Oh, yeah.”

“What kind of a show is it?”

“Private eye.”

“Another ‘Man Against Crime’?”

“Yeah, exactly like it, only different. This is pretty good if I—” Goff cut himself short. “Why don’t we run it, huh? You can see for yourself.”

“What kind of deal did you have in mind, Goff?”

“Well, we can talk about that after we see the show, huh?”

“Let’s talk now, and maybe save a half hour of each other’s time.”

“You had a rough day, Mr. Regan?”

“Are you my doctor, Mr. Goff?”

“No, but I want a fair showing. If you’re not feeling so hot, let’s call it off until another time.”

“I’m feeling hot enough,” David said. “I asked what kind of deal you had in mind.”

“Fifty-fifty?” Goff asked tentatively.

“We wouldn’t consider anything less than sixty-forty. If it’s good. If it’s what it sounds like, our cut would have to be even—”

“What do you mean, what it sounds like? I haven’t even given you the title of the thing. How do you know what it sounds like?”

“You said it was private eye, didn’t you?”

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“Television needs another private eye like a hole in the head. This is 1953, Goff. Private eyes are on their way out. Television’s growing up.”

“Look, take a peek at it, will you? It’s a good show. Quality.”

“Private eyes are trash.”

“Yeah, but this is quality trash. Look, can we run it?”

“All right, let’s run it,” David said.

They turned out the lights and sat in the leather-upholstered chairs facing the mock television set at the front of the screening room. The movie projector inside the set began to whir, and the film flashed onto the fake television tube, just the way it would be seen in a viewer’s living room. David made himself comfortable. The leader flashed six, five, four, three, two, one onto the screen. The theme music started.

David recognized the legs. He told himself it was impossible to recognize a person by her legs alone, but he knew those legs in an instant, knew them the moment they flashed onto the screen, the moment the camera panned up that long sweeping Beverly Hills staircase to catch the girl’s legs on the first landing, knew instantly from the walk, knew from the way one foot followed the other, the narrowness of ankle, the curve of her calf, even the thighs beneath the black skirt, he knew those legs. He watched the girl come down the steps, watched her legs as if they provided all the suspense, a suspense more exciting than the quality trash Mordkin and Katz, Kin-Kat Productions, had assembled out of a trunkful of 1930 Black Mask novelettes. The girl was walking into a medium shot, legs giving way to hips and waist and bosom. David wiped his hand across his mouth. The camera was pulling in tight on the girl’s face, she was walking directly into another close shot, that mouth, the green eyes, color leaped from the black-and-white screen, he could see russet hair in black-and-white, the same bangs, the same sleek mane brushed to the nape of her neck, the same defiant thrust of lip and nose and...

“Gillian Burke,” Goff whispered beside him. “Maybe you know her from that underwater series she did.”

“I know her,” David said. His voice came in a whisper. He was suddenly covered with sweat.

He sat watching her. He listened to her voice. She sounded much the same, that same wonderful voice that was Gillian’s alone, he almost began to weep when she said the word “ marrr -velous,” rolling her r’s like an Irish washerwoman, she seemed to have lost a little weight, there was a good sparkle in her eyes, he watched her and listened to her. She was the only person on the screen. She pranced through the inanities of the script like a pro in a high-school senior play, she moved through that empty charade like a queen, and his eyes never left her for a moment. And while she worked hell out of a witless script, he watched another drama unfolding in his mind’s eye, the drama that had been Gillian and him, and he felt an empty sadness because the real Gillian was as far away from him as was the celluloid Gillian whose image was cast on the blank glass square resembling a television tube. He wanted to speak to her, wanted to say, “How have you been, Gilly? What have you been doing? Are you in love, Gilly? Have you found someone else?” but the girl on the screen was named Bess Carter, his Gillian in a Bess Carter costume, and the girl mouthed absurd clichés, played the private eye’s superglossed secretary, the wisecracking playmate of the hard-drinking, two-fisted, fast-shooting, quick-thinking Johnny Thunder. And yet Gillian showed through, the warmth of Gillian, and the incredible beauty of Gillian, and Bess Carter came alive because of her, Bess Carter romped through the insipid dialogue and the ridiculous action but she was warm and alive and sympathetic and lovable because Bess Carter was only a part pulled over the head of Gillian Burke.

The reel came to an end. The blank glass face in the phony television set was blank again. The lights snapped on.

“How’d you like it?” Goff asked.

“I liked the girl.”

“Burke. Great girl. We’ve already signed her for the series.”

“ If you sell the pilot.”

“Naturally. There’s no series unless we sell the pilot.” Goff paused. “What do you think, Mr. Regan?”