Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“So? So that would be perfect, wouldn’t it?”

“The girl in the script has black hair.”

“So she’s got red hair, what difference does that make? We’ll change two words in the script, and she’s a redhead.”

The coughing man put an inhaler to one nostril and sniffed deeply.

“What’d you say her name was?”

“Gideon Burke. Wait a minute, I wrote it down someplace.” He fished into his jacket pocket and consulted a slip of paper. “No, it’s Gillian. With l’s.”

“That’s even worse,” the man with the cigar said.

“Well, what do you think?”

“She cries nice,” the man with the inhaler said, and he sniffed menthol into the other nostril.

“I was hoping for another name we could stick over the title.”

“That costs money.”

“What’d Floren give her for this?”

“He wouldn’t say. We can find out. She’s nobody, she’ll work for coupons.”

“What do you think, Eddie?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie said. “What do you think?”

“What color were her eyes again?” the man with the cigar said.

“Blue, I think.”

“No, green.”

“Then the color was a little off. That’s the new fast film they’re using.”

“I thought they were blue.”

“She’s got buck teeth, did you notice that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah.” Eddie paused. “You think she’s pretty?”

“She’s okay. She’s no raving beauty, if that’s what you mean.”

“Gideon Burke?”

“Gillian, Gillian.”

“Where’d she dig up that one?”

“Look, what do you think?”

“She married or what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that could make a difference, you know. We’re not shooting this around the corner. She may be married with a houseful of kids, who knows?”

“I can find out.”

“Did you hear from New York yet?”

“This morning.”

“What’d they say?”

“Sheila won’t come out to take a test.”

“What?”

“She’s too big to test. The hell with her.”

“Big television shmearcase, she’s too big to test!”

“Look, what do you think of this girl?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“She’s not bad, you know.”

“No, she wasn’t bad, that’s for sure. She cries nice.”

“So what do you think?”

“How much does she get?”

“You want me to call her agent and find out?”

“What do you say, Eddie?”

“She’s supposed to have black hair.”

“Maybe she’ll be willing to dye it.”

“And she’s got buck teeth.”

“So she’ll see a dentist. Look, we know she’s not a beauty.”

“You asked my opinion, didn’t you? I’m telling you. Her hair’s supposed to be black, and her teeth are bucked. If we have to take her all apart and put her together again, we might as well look for somebody else.”

“If you’re finished with that cigar, would you please put it out?”

“I’m not finished with it.”

“So what do you think?”

“Gillian Burke, what a name!”

“This is a big part, Harry. You think we can fool around with an unknown?”

“Who else have we got?”

“What about that one from Fox? What the hell’s her name?”

“She’s such a big star, you can’t even remember her name!”

“If you know a name, and you forget it, that’s one thing. But if you forget it without ever having heard of it, that’s another. Who can remember a phony name like Gillian Burke?”

“Anyway, Fox is out. They want thirty grand and over-the-title for her, and I know she got only eighteen-five on her last lendout, so I told them to go screw. They said we were making a big mistake, they said she was a big star. I told them if she was really big, she’d be asking a hundred grand and a cut, and not thirty grand which she isn’t even worth. So she’s out. What do you think?”

“I’ll tell you the truth, I had in mind somebody like Liz Taylor.” He paused. “ She’s got black hair.”

“She’s doing Butterfield 8 .”

“She finished that. She’s doing Cleopatra now.”

“Whatever she’s doing, we couldn’t afford her anyway. We got three stars already. Come on, what do you think?”

“We can get her cheap, huh? This Gillian Burke?”

“I think so.”

“What’s cheap?”

“Two grand, twenty-five hundred, maybe three tops.”

“That’s reasonable, Eddie.”

“Floren says she’s gonna be very big once this picture is released.”

“Yeah, they said that about me, too, when I was playing juveniles at Metro.”

“What do you think?”

“There’s more of her in this picture?”

“No. You want me to run the reel again?”

“No, no, that’s okay. Why don’t you call her agent, sniff around a little?”

“What do you want me to sniff around about? Do I offer the part or not?”

“See how much she wants.”

“How high can I go?”

“Offer her a thousand a week.”

“The part’s too big, Eddie. Her agent would laugh at me.”

“Okay, then two grand. Two grand is the highest I’ll go for an unknown with buck teeth when she’s supposed to have black hair.”

“And find out if she’s married!”

“And if she agrees to two grand, do I sign her?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“What do you think?”

“I say sign her.”

“Eddie?”

“Sign her, sign her.”

Her agent called that night. It was eleven o’clock, and she was asleep when the telephone rang. At first she thought it was Monica. She pulled the phone to her and said, “Hello?”

“Gillian?”

“Yes?”

“Sid.”

“Oh, hello, Sid.”

“Did I wake you, Gilly?”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you got out of Hollywood?” he asked.

“What?”

“Get away from this place, huh? Change of scenery? Be good for you, don’t you think?”

“What’s the matter, Sid?”

“I just thought you might like to get away from this town.”

“Oh, God,” she said, “don’t tell me! Please don’t tell me.”

“What, baby, what?”

“They cut me out of the picture.”

“No, no. Matter of fact, Herbert Floren arranged for some people to see that last reel today. Some very important people, Gilly. Some people who are shooting a very big picture with three stars in it, and they need another girl for the picture, a big fat supporting part, and they offered fifteen hundred bucks a week which I grabbed instantly.”

“What?” she said.

“Yeah, baby, yeah.”

“Me?” she said.

“Yeah, who else?”

“Sid, if you’re joking...”

“Baby, I never joke where it concerns money.”

“Me?” she said again.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You ready to leave this town?”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“Can you leave Hollywood?”

“I’m packed,” she said.

“Good, ’cause shooting starts on June fifteenth.”

“Where, Sid?”

“Rome,” he said.

Maybe it came too late.

And maybe it was not what she expected. Maybe, after years of working, and hoping, and waiting, there should have been more. There should have been spectacular fireworks, perhaps, shooting up into the sky in a blaze of trailing sparks and dripping incandescence, there should have been brass bands playing rousing golden marching-songs with heartbeat bass drums pounding out the rhythm, there should have been hordes of people screaming approval. She should have arrived overnight, the overnight success, the miracle of America, she should have arrived in a burst of glittering white teeth smiling in a radiant lovely face, arms outstretched to accept the bushels of offered love, success should have been an overnight shimmering thing, a golden thing, a throbbing, wonderful exciting thing. But it wasn’t.