The Dream Merchants Page 11

  He made a mental note to have Joe feature the name of the players on the title card of the picture. It would make it easier for the patron to identify the player he liked and would prove of help to the exhibitor in publicizing his attractions.

  Peter looked at Johnny strangely. Johnny had been silent for so long that Peter thought he had stumped him. “Stopped you, hah?” he asked triumphantly.

  Johnny shook himself out of his reverie. He reached for a cigarette and lit it and looked at Peter through the smoke. “No,” he answered, “you didn’t. But you just supplied the one thing I needed to guarantee the success of a big picture. A big name. A name that everybody knows. If you get the right actor, you can’t object to making a big picture.”

  “With a big name I could see it,” Peter admitted. “But who are you going to get?”

  “The actor that plays The Bandit on the stage, now,” Johnny answered, “Warren Craig.”

  “Warren Craig?” Peter cried incredulously. “And why not John Drew while you’re at it?” He looked at Johnny sarcastically.

  “Warren Craig is good enough,” Johnny answered seriously.

  Peter lapsed into Yiddish: “Zehr nicht a nahr!” he said. He noted the blank look on Johnny’s face and he repeated: “Don’t be a fool! You know they all look down on the movies. You can’t get them.”

  “Maybe now that Bernhardt is making a picture, they won’t be so hard to get,” Johnny said.

  “Maybe you could get me John Jacob Astor’s money to pay them while you’re at it,” Peter said sarcastically.

  Johnny paid no attention to Peter’s last remark. He got to his feet excitedly, his cigarette forgotten in his hand. “I can see it now as it comes on the screen. ‘Peter Kessler presents… Warren Craig… in the famous Broadway stage success… The Bandit… a Magnum Picture.’” He stopped, his hand pointing dramatically toward Peter.

  Peter looked at him. Unconsciously he had been leaning forward in his chair as Johnny spoke, trying to visualize what Johnny was saying. Now the spell was broken and he leaned back. “And I can see it now,” he said, trying to cover his previous display of interest, “‘Peter Kessler files petition in bankruptcy!’”

  Esther watched the two of them. First one, then the other, a vague surprise running through her mind. “Peter really wants to do it,” she thought.

  Peter got to his feet and faced Johnny. He spoke with finality. “Nothing doing, Johnny, we can’t take a chance like that. There are too many risks involved. The combine won’t like it, and if they take away our license, we’re out of business. We haven’t enough money to take a chance like that.”

  Johnny eyed him speculatively, a tiny pulse hammering in his temple. He looked at Esther, she was watching Peter. He looked through the door into the living room. Mark was playing on the floor with some blocks. As he watched, Mark scattered them over the floor with one hand, and Doris put down the book she was reading and went to help him pick them up.

  Slowly Johnny turned back to Peter. The words came out evenly; no trace of inner struggle showed in his voice. His mind was made up.

  “You producers are all alike! You’re all afraid of the combine! You bellyache all the time, you cry they’re not letting you live, they’re starving you out. But what are you doing about it? Nothing! You’re all willing to hang around the edges of their table and feed on the crumbs and scraps they throw you. And crumbs is what you get. Nothing more. Do you know how much money they made last year? Twenty million dollars! Do you know how much all you independents made last year? Four hundred thousand dollars between forty of you. That’s about ten thousand apiece on an average. Yet during that time you independents paid the combine more than eight million dollars to stay in business. Eight million dollars! Money you made and couldn’t keep! Twenty times as much as you kept for yourselves. And there’s only one reason for it! You’re all afraid to buck the combine!”

  His cigarette burned his fingers. He put it out in the tray on the table and went on without paying any attention to it. His voice had grown hard and intense. It was dramatic; the emotion he called on came into his voice as it was needed, and quickly was supplanted by another when its time had gone.

  “Why don’t you guys get wise to yourselves? This is your business as well as theirs. You made the money. Why don’t you keep it? Sooner or later you’ll have to fight ’em; why don’t you fight ’em now? Fight ’em with better pictures. They know you can make ’em, that’s why they limit what you can do. They run the business that way because they’re afraid of what you will do if you ever move out on your own. Get together. Maybe you can fight them in the courts. Maybe what they’re doing is against the new anti-trust laws. I don’t know. But the stakes are worth the fight.

  “Back in Rochester I wanted you to get into this business, remember? I had a reason then, a good one. I could have gone to work for Borden or maybe one of the others, but I wanted you. Because I felt you were the man, the only man with courage enough to fight when the time came. There were times since that I’ve been offered jobs elsewhere, but I stuck with you. For the same reason. And now I got to know whether I was right or wrong. Because now is the time. You either fight now, or soon the combine will put you all out of business!”

  He stood there looking at Peter, trying to gauge the effect of his words. Peter’s face told him nothing, but there were other things Johnny saw that made him feel the fight was won. Peter’s hands were clenched like a man’s about to go into battle.

  Peter was silent for a long while. He didn’t argue with Johnny. He couldn’t. He had long felt that what Johnny had said was right. In the last year he had paid the combine one hundred and forty thousand dollars while keeping about eight for himself. But Johnny was young and too ready to tilt at the windmill. Maybe when he was a little older he would realize that sometimes a man had to have patience.

  He turned away from Johnny, walked over to the sink, and drew a glass of water. He sipped it slowly. Still, there was something in what Johnny had said. If all the independents got together, they could fight the combine and maybe they would win the fight. Sometimes fighting was better than waiting; maybe Johnny was right. Maybe this was the time. He put the tumbler back on the sink and turned to Johnny.

  “How much did you say it would cost to make a picture like that?” he asked.

  “About twenty-five thousand dollars,” Johnny replied. “That is, if you wanted Warren Craig to play the lead.”

  Peter nodded his head. Twenty-five thousand dollars—a lot of money for one moving picture. Still, if it went over, there was a fortune to be made. “If we made a picture like that,” he said, “we must have Warren Craig to play the lead. We can’t afford to take any extra chances.”

  Johnny pounced on his opportunity. “You won’t actually need twenty-five thousand of your own,” he said eagerly. “Joe and I can put up five thousand between us, you put up eight, and we can borrow the rest. I was thinking some of the exhibitors would take a chance on a thing like that. They’re always crying for something different. If we can give it to them, maybe we can get the dough from them.”

  “But we got to get Warren Craig,” Peter said.

  “Leave that to me,” Johnny answered confidently. “I’ll get him.”

  “Then I can put up ten thousand,” Peter said.

  “You mean you’re going to do it?” Johnny asked, the pulse now hammering wildly in his forehead.

  Peter hesitated a moment. He turned to Esther and looked at her. The words came out very slowly. “I’m not saying I’m going to do it and I’m not saying I ain’t. What I’m saying is that I’ll think about it.”

  4

  Peter waited for Borden to come out of the synagogue. The synagogue on lower Broadway was the morning meeting-place for many of the important independent picture men. He fell into step with him as he walked down the street.

  “Morning, Willie,” he said.

  Borden looked over at him, “Peter,” he said, smiling, “how’s geschäft?�
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  “No complaints,” Peter answered. “I want to talk to you. Got time for a cup of coffee?”

  Borden took out his watch and looked at it importantly. “Sure,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “You read yesterday’s papers?” Peter asked as they sat down at a table in a near-by restaurant.

  “Sure,” Borden answered. “To what are you referring?”

  “Specifically,” Peter said, “the Bernhardt picture and Quo Vadis?”

  “Yeah, I saw it.” Borden was wondering what Peter wanted.

  “You think bigger pictures are coming?” Peter asked.

  “Could be,” Borden answered cautiously.

  Peter was silent while the waitress put down the coffee and left. “Johnny wants me to make a six-reeler.”

  Borden was interested. “A six-reeler, huh? About what?”

  “He wants me to buy a play and make a picture out of it and hire the leading man to play in it.”

  “Buy a play?” Borden laughed. “That’s silly. Who ever heard of such a thing? You can get all the stories you want for nothing.”

  “I know,” Peter said, sipping at his coffee, “but Johnny says the play’s name means customers at the boxoffice.”

  Borden could see the sense in that. His interest quickened. “How will you get around the combine’s regulations?”

  “Johnny says we should save enough film to make the picture and then do it secretly. They won’t know about it until the picture comes out.”

  “If they find out they can put you out of business.”

  “Maybe,” Peter said. “Maybe they will and maybe they won’t. But somewhere we got to draw the line and fight them. Otherwise we’ll still be making two-reelers when the rest of the world is making bigger pictures. Then the foreign producers will come in and take over our market. When that happens we’ll suffer more than the combine. We’ve been feeding on the crumbs from their table long enough. It’s time we independents got together to fight them.”

  Borden thought that over. What Peter had said was the common sentiment of all the independent producers, but none of them had the desire to buck the combine. Even he would not want to take a chance on a venture as risky as this promised to be. But if Peter was willing to do it, he could see the benefits that would accrue to him if Peter should succeed. “How much would a picture like that cost?” he asked.

  “About twenty-five thousand.”

  Borden finished his coffee. He was trying to figure out just how much money Peter had. After a few moments of silent calculation he arrived at the conclusion that Peter had about ten thousand dollars. That meant he would have to borrow the rest. He put a quarter on the table and stood up. “You going to make the picture?” he asked when they reached the street.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Peter replied, “but I ain’t got enough money. Maybe if I could see my way clear on that, I might take a chance.”

  “How much you got?”

  “About fifteen thousand,” Peter answered.

  Borden was surprised. Peter must have been doing better than he had figured. He looked at him with a new respect. “I can let you have about twenty-five hundred,” he said impulsively. It was a small amount for him to risk on a venture that might lead to as much opportunity for him as this promised. He felt very smug about it. It would be better for him if Peter took the chance.

  Peter looked at him appraisingly. This was what Peter wanted to know—whether Borden liked the idea enough to risk his money on it. The small amount that Borden had offered made no impression on Peter; the fact that Borden could advance him the balance of the money needed if he wanted to was lost to him. “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I decide to do it.”

  Now Borden wanted Peter to do it. “That’s right,” he said slyly. “If you don’t do it, let me know. Maybe I’ll do it. The more I think about it, the more I like it.”

  “I don’t know yet,” Peter answered quickly. “Like I said, I got to make up my mind. But I’ll let you know.”

  ***

  Johnny looked at the door. The lettering on the glass read: “Samuel Sharpe,” and underneath it in smaller letters: “Theatrical Representative.” He turned the knob and went in.

  The room he entered was a small one. Its walls were covered with pictures, all of them inscribed to “Dear Sam.” Johnny looked closely at them. They all seemed to be in the same handwriting. He smiled to himself.

  A girl came into the room from another door and sat down at a desk near the wall. “What can we do for you, sir?” she asked.

  Johnny walked over to her. She was pretty. This Sharpe could pick them. He threw a card down on the desk in front of her. “Mr. Edge to see Mr. Sharpe,” he said.

  The girl picked up the card and looked at it. It was a simple card, carefully engraved. “John Edge, Vice-President—Magnum Pictures.” She looked up at Johnny with a quick respect. “Won’t you take a seat, sir?” she said. “I’ll see if Mr. Sharpe is free.”

  Johnny smiled at her as he sat down. “You ought to be in pictures.”

  Her face was flushed as she left the room. She was back in a moment. “Mr. Sharpe will see you in a few minutes,” she said. She sat down at the desk and tried to look busy.

  Johnny picked up a copy of Billboard and glanced through it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her watching him. He put the paper down. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered. She put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and began to type.

  Johnny got out of his seat and walked over to her. “Do you believe that your handwriting will reveal your character?” he asked.

  She looked puzzled. “I never thought of it.” Her voice was pleasant. “But I guess it could.”

  “Write something on a sheet of paper,” he told her.

  She took a pencil in her hand. “What shall I write?”

  He thought for a moment. “Write: ‘To Sam from’—whatever your name is.” He smiled at her disarmingly.

  She scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed it to him. “There it is, Mr. Edge, but I don’t know what you can make of it.”

  Johnny looked at the sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up at her in sudden surprise. She was laughing. He grinned back at her and read the writing on the paper again.

  “You could have asked me,” it read. “Jane Andersen. Further details upon request.”

  He joined her laugh. “Jane,” he said, “I might have known you were wise to me.”

  She started to answer, but a buzzer sounded next to her desk. “You may go in now,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Sharpe is free.”

  He started toward the inner door. At the door he stopped and looked back at her. “Tell me something,” he said in a stage whisper. “Was Mr. Sharpe really busy?”

  She tossed her head indignantly, then a bright smile crossed her face. “Of course he was,” she replied in the same kind of whisper. “He was shaving.”

  Johnny laughed and went into the other room. The second room was a duplicate of the first, only a little larger. The same pictures were on the wall, but the desk was a bigger one. A small man in a bright gray suit sat behind it.

  As Johnny came into the room, he got up and held out his hand to him. “Mr. Edge,” he said in a thin, not unpleasant voice, “I’m glad to meet you.”

  They exchanged greetings and Johnny came right to the point. “Magnum Pictures is purchasing the motion-picture rights to The Bandit and we would like Warren Craig to play the lead in the motion picture.”

  Sharpe shook his head sadly and didn’t answer.

  “Why do you shake your head, Mr. Sharpe?” Johnny asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Edge,” Sharpe replied. “If it had been any one of my clients other than Warren Craig, I would say you might have a chance of getting him. But Warren Craig—” He didn’t finish his sentence, but spread his hands expressively on the desk.

  “What do you mean, ‘Bu
t Warren Craig’?”

  Sharpe smiled at him soothingly. “Mr. Craig comes from one of the first families of the theater, Mr. Edge, and you know how they feel about the flickers. They look down upon them.

  “And besides, from a more practical point of view, they don’t pay enough money.”

  Johnny looked at him speculatively. “How much money does Warren Craig rate, Mr. Sharpe?”

  Sharpe returned the look. “Craig gets one hundred and fifty dollars per week and you flicker people won’t pay more than seventy-five.”

  Johnny leaned forward in his seat; his voice dropped to a confidential tone. “Mr. Sharpe,” he said, “what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence.”

  Sharpe looked interested. “Sam Sharpe will respect that confidence, sir,” he said quickly.

  “Good.” Johnny nodded, and pulled his chair closer to Sharpe’s desk. “Magnum does not intend to make an ordinary flicker out of The Bandit. Magnum is going to make a brand-new high-type production, something that is so new it will be fit to take its place among the finest works of the theater. That is why we want Warren Craig to play the role he created on the stage.” He paused impressively.

  “For playing that role we are prepared to pay him four hundred dollars a week, with a minimum guarantee of two thousand dollars.” Johnny leaned back in his chair and watched the effect of his words on Sharpe.

  From the look on his face Johnny could tell that he was interested, that it was the kind of deal Sharpe would like to make. Sharpe sighed heavily. “I must be honest with you, Mr. Edge,” he said regretfully. “Your offer seems to me a most generous one, but I don’t believe I can persuade Craig to accept it. I repeat again, he does not approve of the flickers. He even goes so far as to despise them. He believes them beneath the dignity of his art.”