James Cain - Serenade

“Why not?”

“I prefer to work by the picture.”

“O.K., then. Let’s see, this is on a six-week shooting schedule, that’ll make seven and half for the picture. I’ll have new contracts drawn up this afternoon with corresponding options.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do either.”

“What the hell are you getting at?”

“I want fifty thousand for the picture, with no options. I want to work, but I want every picture a separate deal. For this one, fifty thousand. When we see how that goes, we’ll talk again.”

“Talk like you had good sense.”

“Listen, I’ve been out here a little while now, I know what you pay, and fifty thousand is the price. Very low it is, too, but as you say, I’m new here, and I’ve got to be reasonable.”

London left, talking over his shoulder as he went. “Stop work on the sets. I’ll wait for Thomas. If I can’t get him I’ll take Tibbett, and if I can’t get him I’ll put an actor in and dub the sound. But I’ll be goddamned if I’m paying fifty grand to this punk.”

“Well, you heard him, Mr. Sharp. He’s the producer. Fifty thousand is out of the question. We might up that seven and a half to ten, but that would be top. The picture can’t stand it, Mr. Sharp. After all, we know what our productions cost.”

“I heard him, and now in case you didn’t hear me, I’ll say it over again. The price is fifty thousand. Now beginning tomorrow I’m taking a little rest. I’ve been working hard, and I’m tired. But one week from today, if I don’t hear from you, I’m taking the plane for New York. I’ve got plenty of work waiting for me there, and get this: I’m not just talking. I’m going.”

“I hate to see you be so foolish.”

“Fifty, or I go.”

“Why — pictures could make you rich. And you can’t get away with this. You’re trying to put one over on us. You’ll be blackballed all over Hollywood. No studio will have you.”

“To hell with that. Fifty or I don’t work.”

“Oh, to hell with it, hey? I’ll goddam well see that you don’t work in Hollywood. We’ll see if a lousy ham actor can put one like that over on Rex Gold.”

“Sit down.”

He sat, and he sat pretty quick. “Once more. Fifty or I’m going to New York. You got a week.”

“Get out of my office.”

“On my way.”

I had bought a little car by then, and every day we would start out early for the beach or some place, and every day when we got back, around one o’clock, so she could take her siesta, there would be a memo to call Mr. Ziskin, or Mr. London, or somebody. I never called. Around five o’clock they would call again, and it would turn out that if I would go over and apologize to Mr. Gold, there might be an adjustment on the price, say up to fifteen thousand or something like that. I did like hell go over and apologize. I said I had done nothing to apologize for, and the price was still fifty thousand. Somewhere around the fifth day they got up to twenty-five. We were at the Burbank airport, going out to the plane, before they came around. A guy ran up, waving signed contracts. I looked them over. They said fifty thousand, but called for three pictures, one each at that price. I thought fast, and said if they’d pay for my tickets it was all right. He snatched them out of my hand before I even finished. Next day I went into Gold’s office and said I heard he wanted to apologize. He took that for a gag and we shook hands.

All that time I was making “Woolies,” I hardly saw her at all. By the time I got in from the lot, around seven or eight o’clock, she would be gone to night school. I’d eat dinner alone, then go and get her, and we’d have a little snack at the Derby or somewhere. Then it would be time to go home and go to sleep. Believe me, you work on a picture lot, and don’t let anybody tell you different. She’d be still asleep when I left in the morning, and the next night it would be the same thing over again. But that week I took off, we did go out and buy her some clothes. We got four or five dresses, and a fur coat, and some more hats. She loved the fur coat. It was mink, and she would stroke it the way she stroked the bull’s ears. And she looked swell in it. But the hats she couldn’t get the hang of at all. Between me and the saleswoman, we managed to fix her up with a few that seemed to be all right, a kind of soft brown felt hat that would do for regular dresses and that went nice with the coat, and a big filmy one for night, and a little one for knocking around in the morning, or at night school, and two or three that went with what the saleswoman called sports dresses, the kind of thing they wear at the beach. But she never could get it through her head which hat went with which dress. We’d start out for the beach, and she’d come out of the bedroom with white dress, white shoes, white handbag, and the big floppy evening hat. Or she’d start out in the afternoon with a street dress on, and the fur coat, and one of the sports hats. And I’d have a hard time arguing her out of it, make her put on what she ought to have. “But the hat is very pretty. I like.”

“It’s pretty, but you can’t wear evening hats to the beach. It looks funny. It’s all wrong.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know why. You just can’t do it”

“But I like.”

“Well, can’t you just take my word for it?”

“I no understand.”

And then this thing happened that finished me with Hollywood, and everything about Hollywood, for good. Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to be a big Hollywood actor. Well, it’s about like being the winning jockey in the Irish Sweepstakes, only worse. You can’t turn around that somebody isn’t asking you to some little party he’s giving, or begging your autograph for some kid that is home sick in bed, or to take space in some trade paper, or to sing at some banquet for a studio executive. Some of that stuff I had to do, like the banquet, but the parties, I ducked by saying I had to work. But when “Paul Bunyan” was finished, and I was waiting around for retakes, I got this call from Elsa Chadwick, that played opposite me in it, asking me to a little party at her house the next night, just a few friends, and would I sing? She caught me with my mouth hanging open, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I mumbled something about having an engagement to take a lady to dinner, and she began to gurgle that I should bring her. Of course I should bring her. She would expect us both around nine.

I didn’t know what Juana was going to say, but instead of balking, she wanted to go. “Oh yes. I like, very much. This Miss Chadwick, I have seen her, in the cinema. She is very nice.”

Next day, early, I was called over to re-shoot a scene, and I forgot about the party till I got home. Juana was under the shower, getting ready to go. By that time I had a Hollywood suit of evening clothes, and I put them on, and went out in the living-room and waited. In about a half hour she came out, and I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. She had gone out, all by herself, and bought a special dress for the party. Do you know what a Mexican girl’s idea of a party dress is? It’s white silk, with red flowers all over it, a red rose in her hair, and white shoes with rhinestone buckles. God knows where she found that outfit. It looked like Ramona on Sunday afternoon. I opened my mouth to tell her it was all wrong but took her in my arms and held her to me. You see, it was all for me. She wanted to wear a red rebozo , instead of a hat. It was evening, and didn’t call for a hat, so I said all right. But when she put it on, that made it still worse. Those rebozos are hand-woven, but they’re cotton, like everything else in Mexico. I’d hate to tell you what she looked like with that dress, and those shoes, and that cotton shawl over her head.