Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

Mildred, not wanting to assume risk when she had a certainty, was in no hurry about it. But she drove over to Beverly and made inquiries, and began to suspect that Ida was right. Then, snooping around one afternoon, she ran into a vacant property that she knew would be right for location. When she found out she could get a lease for an absurdly small rental, she made up her mind. There followed another hectic month of furniture, fixtures, and alterations. She wanted the place done in maple, but Ida obstinately held out for light green walls and soft, upholstered booths where people would find it comfortable to sit. Mildred gave way, but on the day of the opening she almost fainted. Without consulting her, Ida had ordered a lot of preserves, cakes, health breads, and other things she knew nothing about. Ida however said she herself knew all about them, at any rate all that was necessary to know. By the end of the week, Mildred was not only convinced, but completely flabbergasted. Ida’s report was ecstatic: “Mildred, we’re in. In the first place I got a lunch trade that’s almost like the Brown Derby. People that don’t want planked whitefish and special hamburgers. They want those little sandwiches I got, and the fruit salads, and you just ought to hear the comment. And I don’t hardly get them cleared out before I got a college trade, wonderful refined kids on their way home from Westwood that want a chocolate soda or a malt before they start playing tennis. And when they go my tea trade starts, and on top of that I got a little dinner trade, people that want to eat light before they catch a preview or something. And then on top of that I got a late trade, people that just want a cup of chocolate and a place to talk. From twelve noon until twelve midnight I got business . And the take-out trade from those people, it’s enough to take your breath away.” The receipts bore her out. Ida was to get $30 a week, plus 2 per cent of the gross. She had hoped, in time, to make $50 a week. That very first Saturday night Mildred wrote her a check for $53.71.

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Mrs. Gessler, when she heard what Mildred was up to, flew into a rage, and wanted to know why Ida had been singled out to manage the Beverly branch, instead of herself. Mildred tried to explain that it was all Ida’s idea, that some people are suited to one thing, some to another, but got nowhere. Mrs. Gessler continued bitter, and Mildred grew worried. She had come to depend on her tall, thin, profane bartender as she depended on nobody else, not only for shrewd business advice but also for some sort of emotional support that her nature demanded. Losing her would be a calamity, and she began to consider what could be done.

At that time there was considerable talk about the rise of Laguna Beach, a resort along the coast, a few miles below Long Beach. Mildred began to wonder if it would be a good place for still another branch, with Mrs. Gessler in charge. She drove down a number of times and looked it over. Except for one place, she found no restaurants that impressed her, and unquestionably the resort was coming up, not only for summer trippers, but for year-round residents as well. Again it was the lease that decided her. She found a large house, with considerable land around it, on a bluff, overlooking the ocean. With an expert eye, she noted what would have to be done to it, noted that the grounds would be expensive to keep up. But when the terms were quoted to her, they were so low that she knew she could make a good profit if she got any business at all. They were so low that for a brief time she was suspicious, but the agent said the explanation was simple enough. It had been a private home, but it couldn’t be rented for that, as it was entirely too big for most of the people who came down from the city just to get a coat of tan. Furthermore, the beach in front of it was studded with rocks and was therefore unsuitable to swimming. For all ordinary purposes it was simply a turkey, and if she could use it, it was hers at the rate quoted. Mildred inspected the view, the house, the grounds, and felt a little tingle inside. Abruptly, she paid $25 cash for a ten-day option, and that night held Mrs. Gessler after closing time for a little talk. But she barely got started when Mrs. Gessler broke in: “Oh shut up, will you for God’s sake shut up?”

“But — aren’t you interested?”

“Does a duck like water? Listen, it’s halfway between L.A. and San Diego, isn’t it? Right on the main line, and Ike still has his trucks. It’s the first honest-to-God’s chance he’s had to get started again, in a legal way, since — well, you know. And it gets him out of this lousy place. Do you want me bawling right on your shoulder?”

“What’s the matter with this place?”

“It’s not the place, it’s him. O.K., I’m working, see, and he has to find something to do with himself, at night. So he finds it. He says it’s pool, and he does come home with chalk all over him. I’ll say that for him. But he’s a liar. It’s a frazzle-haired blonde that works in one of those antique furniture factories on Los Feliz. Nothing serious maybe, but he sees her. It’s what I’ve been so jittery about, if you’ve got to know. And now, if I can just get him out of here, and in business again so he can hold his head up — well, maybe that’ll be that. Go on, tell me some more.”

So once again Mildred was in a flurry of alterations, purchases of inventory, and arguments about policy. She wanted a duplicate of the Glendale place, which would specialize in chicken, waffles, and pies, and operate a small bar as a sideline. Mrs. Gessler, however, had other ideas. “Do they come all the way to the ocean just to get chicken? Not if I know them. They want a shore dinner — fish, lobster, and crab — and that’s what we’re giving them. And that’s where we make the dough. Don’t forget: fish is cheap. But we’ve got to have a little variety, so we give them steak, right from our own built-in charcoal broiler.”

When Mildred protested that she knew nothing about steaks, or fish, or lobster, or crab, and would be helpless to do the marketing, Mrs. Gessler replied she could learn. It wasn’t until she sent for Mr. Otis, the federal meat inspector who had been romantic about her in her waitress days, that her alarm eased a little. He came to the Glendale restaurant one night, and confirmed her suspicions that there were about a hundred different ways to lose money on steaks. But when he talked with Mrs. Gessler he was impressed. He told Mildred she was “smart,” and probably knew where she was coming out. It depended mainly, he said, on the chef, and to Mildred’s surprise he recommended Archie, of Mr. Chris’s establishment. Archie, he assured her, had been wasted for years in a second-class place, but “he’s still the best steak man in town, bar none. Any bum can cook fish and make money on it, so don’t worry about that. But on steaks, you’ve got to have somebody that knows his stuff. You can’t go wrong on Archie.”

So Mildred stole Archie off Mr. Chris, and under his dour supervision installed the built-in charcoal broiler. Presently, after signs had been put up along the road, and announcements inserted in the Los Angeles papers, the place opened. It was never the snug little gold mine that Ida’s place was, for Mrs. Gessler was careless of expenses, and tended to slight the kitchen in favor of the bar. But her talent at making a sort of club out of whatever she touched drew big business. The ingenuity with which she worked out the arrangements drew Mildred’s reluctant admiration. The big living room of the house was converted into a maple-panelled bar, with dim lights. The rooms behind it were joined together in a cluster of small dining rooms, each with a pleasant air of intimacy about it. One of them opened on a veranda that ran around the house, and out here were tables for outdoor drinkers, bathing suiters, and the overflow trade. But the most surprising thing to Mildred was the flower garden. She had never suspected Mrs. Gessler of any such weakness, but within a few weeks the whole brow of the bluff was planted with bushes, and here, it appeared, was where Mrs. Gessler spent her mornings, spading, pruning, and puttering with a Japanese gardener. The expense, what with the water and the gardener, was high, but Mrs. Gessler shrugged it off. “We’re running a high-class dump, baby, and we’ve got to have something. For some reason I don’t understand, a guy with an old-fashioned on the table likes to listen to the bumblebees.” But when the flowers began to bloom, Mildred paid without protest, because she liked them. At twilight, just before the dinner rush, she would stroll among them, smelling them and feeling proud and happy. On one of these strolls Mrs. Gessler joined her, and then led her a block or two down the main road that ran through the town. Then she stopped and pointed, and across the street Mildred saw the sign: