CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ABOUT THIS TIME Collie Munshin flew up to Desert D’Or and spent his first evening in the resort with Eitel and Elena. Collie’s explanation that he had come for a week’s vacation to think about a picture he was going to produce did not sound very convincing to Eitel, but in any case, whatever Collie’s reasons, he repeated the visit on the following evening. The next day Collie was over for late afternoon drinks. In my absence—Lulu and I had gone on a gambling binge to one of the towns across the state line—Munshin became the friend of the family.

They were cosy, the three of them. Now that Munshin had lost Elena, everything Elena did delighted him. In the middle of talking to Eitel about productions and budgets and temperaments and rivalries, at exactly those moments when Elena would begin to feel most excluded, Munshin would beam at her and say, “Doll, you’re ravishing.”

But these were only preliminaries. It took Collie less than an hour to become personal. “I hate civilization,” he said after the first silence.

“Why?” asked Eitel obediently.

“Because here we are with the most involved and intricate relationships, and what do we do? We talk about trivia.”

“What else is there to talk about?” Elena asked.

He turned to her. “Elena, you can’t know the emptiness you’ve left in the way I live. I don’t exist for you any more.” He took a swallow of his drink. “There’s a savage core to women. I’m convinced of it.” His voice became resonant, and Eitel had an idea of the rhetoric to come. “You women forget things the way a man never could,” Collie declared. “I can imagine what you’ve said about me, Elena, and it’s true, it’s all true no doubt, you’re a sensitive person, but did either of you ever think it was painful to me, and that it’s me who remembers the good things, not you, Elena, the solid things that existed between us, yes, even the passion, the passion, do you hear, Eitel?”

“Collie,” Eitel asked, “do you really think you can brag in this house?”

“Treat me like a human being,” Munshin roared, and added in a tiny voice, “I’m bleeding.”

“You can afford to,” Eitel said. “You have lots of blood.”

He knew however that Collie had been successful. What woman could not forgive an old lover who claimed to suffer? Once Collie had made his speech, Elena became vivacious, she started to tease Collie with a sharp little malice Eitel had never noticed before. Elena began to chat, she laughed her merry laugh, she put little questions to Collie. “I read in the papers,” Elena would say, “that your wife won a prize for the dogs.”

“Yeah, Lottie took it again.”

“I bet you got a big kick out of it,” Elena said.

Collie loved it. Each time Elena attacked him, the moist sheepish look would appear in his eyes. “I deserve it,” he would seem to say. “Don’t think I don’t know.”

At night when they went to sleep, Elena kept saying, “I feel so good tonight, Charley.”

She could not keep her mood however. As they were turning over in bed, she said thoughtfully to Eitel, “You know, Collie doesn’t care about me. It’s you he’s interested in.”

Drunk with the admiration of another man for her, Eitel did not want his moment spoiled. “You’re silly,” he said.

“No,” she said almost sadly, “now that it’s over, Collie likes to talk about what he lost.” She surprised him by what she said next. “Charley, if he should start telling you things about me, don’t believe them. You know how Collie gets carried away when he tells a story.”

“What could he possibly tell me about you that I don’t know?”

“Nothing,” Elena said quickly, “but you know how he is. He lies. I don’t trust him.”

Still, Munshin’s daily visits became something they waited for. After the depression of working, it was pleasant to spend a few hours this way, the three of them married in the most agreeable fiction: Eitel and Elena ten years together and Collie the bachelor friend. It was so agreeable that for the first time in all the years he had known Munshin, Eitel decided that he liked him. He had almost come to the conclusion that Collie was changing. At the very least he was the only executive at Supreme who had the courage to see him regularly. It was hard to resist this sort of attention.

Yet Eitel was still suspicious; he could not understand why Munshin had come to Desert D’Or. Therefore, it was to Eitel’s surprise that he found himself telling Collie the story of his movie. It was on the fourth visit the producer made, and they stayed up late. After Elena had gone to bed, Collie began to talk about his own problems. It was part of the technique Collie used to borrow ideas, but Eitel did not resent it this time. Collie was being frank and even confessed he was in trouble on a picture and asked Eitel’s advice.

Finally, it was Eitel’s turn. Munshin sighed, he squirmed his heavy bulk in the chair and said, “I don’t suppose you want to tell me, Charley, but I was wondering how things are going with your script.” His high-pitched voice was gentle.

Eitel thought of lying. Instead, he answered, “It’s going very badly.”

“I figured it that way,” Munshin said. “Charley, you’re used to working with people. If you want to tell me about it, maybe I can make a contribution.”

“Or steal my story.”

Collie smiled. “I got an idea I couldn’t steal this one even if I wanted to.”

Eitel was wondering why he felt tempted. Collie could not possibly like his story and yet it might prove fruitful. Perhaps in Munshin’s reaction he might find new ideas. Eitel did not really know why. “You’re trying to kill it,” he said to himself.

To tell a story was a talent he had discovered years ago, and this time he told his story well, too well indeed; he felt even as he was talking that if the story were as important to him as he had believed, he should not be able to offer it so easily. It took a sort of life as he continued to speak, it was better than anything he had written for it, and all the while Collie provided a fine audience. Munshin was known for the way he could listen to a story; he would exhale his breath heavily, he would cluck his tongue, he would nod his head, he would smile in sympathy; Collie could always leave the impression that he had never listened to a better story. From experience, Eitel knew how little this meant.

When he was done, Munshin sat back and blew his nose. “It’s a powerhouse,” he said.

“You really like it?”

“Extraordinary.”

All this meant little. Collie’s criticism would come later. “I believe,” he went on, “that this can make the greatest picture in the last ten years.”

“Not with the script I have.”

“You can’t have a script for this. You need a poem.” Munshin fingered his belly. “That’s the one weakness,” he sighed. “I don’t say I’m sure, Charley. If anybody can surprise me, it’s you, but can you put poetry on the screen?”

Eitel did not know if he was satisfied or disappointed. “Collie, why don’t you say what you really think?”

It took ten minutes for Munshin to come to the point. “I’ll tell you,” he said at last, “I like it. I like stories that are off-beat. But no one else would like this property because they couldn’t understand it.”

“I disagree. I think it would be amazing how many people would like it.”

“Charley, you don’t understand the story yourself. You’re a director, but you’re not thinking in terms of film. You’re concrete and this is mystical. I know why you’ve had trouble working. You’re trying to write a script which violates everything you know about film-making.”

“Of course. You know what I think of film-making.”

Munshin put his hand on Eitel’s arm. “I love this story,” he said, “and I know what it suffers from. At least I think I do.”

“What?”

“There’s no rooting interest.” This was the death sentence. “Charley, it’s too hip. It’s a whorehouse. Your hero is a creep. A character who’s making thousands of dollars a week on TV, and he decides to give it up. For what? To go out and help people? To end suffering? They’ll laugh your picture off the screen. You think an audience wants to pay money to be told this character is better than they are?”

Eitel did not bother to argue. With each word Collie had been burying his hopes. The masterpiece was impossible, he felt suddenly. That must have been why he told it to Munshin, to learn it was impossible, something he had probably always known, but he needed someone to tell him. Perhaps, now, he would not waste his effort. Relief came over Eitel, an old relief; he was rid of a burden.

“You know,” said Munshin, “I see a way to make this property successful. It needs a handle, that’s all.” One of Collie’s fat arms went up into the air. “Let me think about it a little.” But Collie would do his thinking aloud. “Eitel, I have it,” he said. “The solution is simple. You need a prologue to the picture. Let your hero start as a priest.”

“A priest!”

“You haven’t been using your head. A priest takes you off the hook. I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself.” Collie was talking rapidly now, the story being teased by his producer’s mind, nimble as the fingers of a puppeteer. In the beginning Eitel’s hero ought to study to become a priest. Personality-wise, he would have everything, Munshin stated, charm, intelligence, poise—everything but the most important thing. “The guy’s too cocky,” Munshin said. “I see a terrific scene where the principal or the head monk or whatever they call him at a priest school, a kind of wise old priest-type Irishman, calls in Freddie”—one of Munshin’s habits when telling a story was to call the hero “Freddie”—“and tells the kid that it’s no go, he doesn’t think Freddie ought to become a priest, not yet. Scholastically, he says, the kid’s got everything. He’s tops in Church History, in Holy Water, in Bingo Management, he’s A plus in Confessional Psychology, but he doesn’t have the heart of a priest. ‘Get out in the world, son, and learn humility,’ the old priest says. Do you see it now?”

Eitel saw it. He had no need to listen. “Let’s take it from Freddie’s point of view,” Munshin said with the pleasure of a man digesting a good meal. “If you want motivation for Freddie, you can present the priest as a sort of father-figure to him. The kid takes the advice like a rejection. He’s bitter. He feels unloved. So what does he do? He goes out from the priest school, and one way or another—we’ll work it out—he gets into television, a bitter kid, the kind who plays the angles. Yet at the same time we can drop hints that he’s feeling full of guilt for the slop he feeds people. And all the while his career is going up like a skyrocket.” Munshin interrupted himself, holding his hands forward expressively. “You build him up as a heel, and then you give the switch. Something happens to give him humility. I don’t know what we can find, but I wouldn’t even worry about it. Something with a crucifix or a cross. Show a Christ motif on the screen and who cares about motivation? The audience will buy it. Once Freddie starts his binge-sequence, we can give him a Wanderjahr, stumbling around bums with tears in his eyes, lots of business where he just loves everybody. I’m telling you even the kids will stop eating their popcorn. You get what I mean. I don’t even have to elaborate it. At the end …” Freddie didn’t have to die in the gutter, Collie explained; he could go back to the seminary and be accepted. An up-beat ending. “Something with angel’s voices in the background. Only not full of shit.”

Munshin was so excited he could not sit still. “This story’s got me,” he said as he walked back and forth. “I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

Eitel laughed. “Collie, you’re a genius.”

“I’m serious, Eitel, we have to do this picture. H.T. will love it.”

“I could never do it.”

“Of course you could.”

“I don’t approve of the Church,” Eitel said.

“You don’t approve of the Church? Baby, when I was a kid in the slums, one cut above a hoodlum, I used to spit on the street when I passed a church. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, for one thing, you know and I know the Church might just have a little bit to do with these subversive committees.”

“If they weren’t interested, somebody else would be. Charley, I’ve been a liberal all my life, but for God’s sake keep politics out of this.”

“Let’s leave the story,” Eitel said, “for tonight.”

“For tonight we’ll drop it. All right. But you think about what I said, Charley. I swear, I want to do it with you. This property is a gold mine.” He patted Eitel’s shoulder. “You don’t realize what you have here,” Munshin said again before he left.

Eitel never found out whether Collie could sleep that night, but it was certain he did not. Everything seemed turned on its head. The professional in Eitel lusted for the new story; it was so perfect for a profitable movie, it was so beautifully false. Professional blood thrived on what was excellently dishonest, and Collie had given him the taste of that again.

In the morning when he tried to work, he found that his mind was fertile with ideas for what was already titled Masterpiece-Sub-Two. Had the story to which he had given such pain disappeared already? Was his dislike of the Church unreal, was he himself unreal? He was even wondering what financial terms he could make with Munshin. “I won’t appear before the Committee again,” he found himself thinking, “I’ll do the script black market first, no matter how much I lose that way.” And all the while he was wondering how serious Collie had been.

Munshin did not visit them that day, and when Eitel called the Yacht Club, he learned the producer had taken a plane to one of the gambling resorts. So it was clear enough. Collie could afford to wait twenty-four hours and let him worry. It was an obvious tactic, but Eitel was still uneasy.

Early evening Marion Faye stopped by their house. Eitel and Elena were used to seeing him once or twice a week; the tension which had existed for a time after Elena’s episode with Marion was now less noticeable. Lately, Eitel had even enjoyed Faye’s visits.

Marion had a habit of appearing at odd times; a week might go by without even a telephone call and then he would show up suddenly. It may have been the marijuana, but Faye was capable of sitting in their living room for half an hour without saying a word, sometimes not even answering their few polite questions. Then he would get up and go out the door.

Other times, he would talk a lot, and once in a while he might give them glimpses of his charm. It was extraordinary, Eitel often thought. When Marion was pleasant he seemed more than pleasant; the relief one felt helped to exaggerate his amiability.

Curiously, he was often nice to Elena. He would even flirt. Nights when Faye had been attentive, she would preen a little bit and tease Eitel once Marion was gone. “Oh, would he love to cause trouble between us,” Elena might say.

“I’ve never seen him so interested in a woman.”

Elena would become sullen again. The compliment had been too direct. “He would just like to make me one of his prostitutes.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. That’s what he thinks of me. I don’t like him,” Elena said.

“Never think too poorly of yourself,” Eitel said angrily.

He was so anxious for Elena to grow. Once, just once, she had a success on one of the evenings at the émigrés. Someone put an alegrias on the phonograph, and Eitel saw her dance her flamenco. Her head was proud, her teeth white, her skin golden, and she danced with a kind of scorn, her skirts flying, her sharp little heels beating out the rhythm with a precision, a fury, and a confidence that had him watching her in admiration. Then she became too drunk and stopped dancing, but the glow he felt at her triumph lasted through the night. In the morning he scolded her for not practicing dancing, and for a few days she began to do exercises, she even talked about trying to find a night-club career again. But in watching her practice he knew she would never be a professional, and he had a picture of how unhappy she must have been in those shoddy engagements her agent had been able to get for her, no more than an excuse for drinks between two strip-teasers. Probably everyone talked while she danced.

No, she could never grasp the first requirement for a professional. No matter one’s mood, there was always a minimum to the performance. One was never terrible. Elena could not be like that. Watching her work, he knew she was gifted, but she had the wild gifts of the amateur. No wonder she took her talents to bed; love was for amateurs. So he knew, although he hated to believe it, that the more he wanted to make of her, the less she would become. She had only her one cry, “Love me, really love me, and maybe I can do what you want.”

Faye told him as much. The night Eitel spent waiting for a phone call from Munshin, Marion stayed for hours. At the beginning of the evening, while Elena was in the kitchen making coffee, Eitel told him about Munshin’s idea for his story, sensing uneasily even as he spoke that he wanted Marion to encourage him.

“It sounds like one of Collie’s contributions,” Marion said.

“I find it so awful that I’m half-intrigued,” Eitel murmured.

“Don’t like being out of things, do you?” Marion said, and was silent until Elena came back into the room. He remained silent, and it made Elena uncomfortable. When, finally, Faye mentioned a new girl he had taken on whose name was Bobby, Elena was eager to hear everything about her. To each detail Faye offered—that Bobby had tried modeling, that she hoped to be an actress, that she had been married and divorced and had two children—Elena would listen with absorption.

“But how did she get started?” Elena interrupted. “I mean what was she doing before?”

“How do I know?” Faye said. “She sold ties at a hatstand, or she took photographs in a night club. What does anybody do?”

“No, I mean, how did she make up her mind to go into it?”

“Do you think it’s complicated? Jay-Jay took her over the bumps, and then I talked to her.”

“But how did she feel?” Elena insisted.

“How would you feel?” Faye said.

Elena giggled for her answer. “It’s terrible,” she said to Eitel. “I guess a girl like her gets started because she can’t have a decent relationship with a man.”

“And you can,” Faye said. Eitel knew the signs. Marion was becoming ugly.

“Yes, I can,” Elena said. “Don’t you think so?”

Faye laughed. “Sure I do, sure. Just find the right man. That’s every girl’s trouble.”

“What do you mean by that?” Elena said.

Eitel smiled. “He means, get rid of me.”

“Marion hates you, Charley.” She made this announcement defiantly as if they both would turn on her. Eitel could only laugh. For years he had protected himself with that laugh. “Is she right, Marion?” he said lightly.

Faye inhaled on his cigarette and then flipped it into the fireplace. “Sure, I hate you,” he said.

“But why?”

“Because you might have been an artist, and you spit on it.”

“And what is an artist?” Eitel asked. He felt a pang at the venom in Faye’s voice.

“Do you want to start a discussion?” Marion jeered. “I thought I wouldn’t have to tell you what it is.”

“I’m sorry you see it this way,” Eitel said. He had a feeling of loss that Marion no longer respected him. “Another protégé gone,” he told himself drily.

“If you feel that way about Charley,” Elena said, “why do you come here all the time?”

Faye stared at her as if she were a specimen. “Do you mean that,” he asked, “or do you say it because you think maybe I’m right?”

“I think you’re … Get out of this house!” Elena shouted at him, and like all commands which have no threat, she could only carry it out by leaving the room herself.

“What in the name of heaven did you have to say that for?” Eitel groaned.

“Because,” Faye said, “I see more in that little chick than you do.”

“Ah, well, I expect you’re right,” Eitel said coolly, and went to the bedroom. Elena was in tears; he had known as much. She would not listen to him, she only lay on the bed. “You shouldn’t let anybody talk to you like that,” she sobbed. “And they shouldn’t talk to me that way either.” He reasoned with her; Marion had not meant what he said, his nerves were tense, she should not have asked so many questions. Hopelessly, Eitel continued. All the while he knew that what he was really trying to do was convince her that Marion was wrong; they would not break up, he would always take care of her.

At a given moment, Elena turned on him. “You think so much of your friend out there. You ought to know the kind of friend he is.”

By the way she said it, he knew there was more to follow. “What are you talking about?” Eitel asked.

“Every time your back is turned, Marion says he wants me to go live with him.”

“Did he say that?”

“He even said he loved me.”

If Eitel was startled, he could tell that he was also pleased. Let someone else care for her, and perhaps his own responsibility was less. “Then can’t you understand why Marion was so nasty?” he heard himself asking.

“Aren’t you even angry?”

“Elena, let’s not make too much of it.”

“You’re cold, Charley,” she said.

“Oh, come on back. You can’t really be angry at Marion if he has a crush on you.”

Finally she consented to say good night. Sheepishly, with red-rimmed eyes, she came back for a moment and smiled at Marion. “You’re beautiful, sweetie,” Marion said, and threw her a dry kiss. “What I mean, you’re better than all of us.”

When Elena had gone to bed, and they were alone, Marion’s mood was bad. “Why won’t you believe I love her?” Eitel said to him.

“What do you want me to say? I’ll say it.”

“You see something in her yourself,” Eitel went on. “You said so. She has such a need for dignity,” he exclaimed.

“Dignity!” Marion leaned forward as though to drive himself through an obstruction. “Charley, you know like I know, she’s just a girl who’s been around.”

“That’s not true. That’s not all of it.” And Eitel was offended at the calmness of his voice. “If I loved her, I wouldn’t talk to him now,” he thought.

“You can do anything with Elena,” Faye said almost dreamily. “She’s the kind of girl you could wipe your hands on.” He stared into space. “Provided you lead the way. You got to lead that girl, Charley. That’s what she’s got.”

Eitel made one more attempt. “In certain ways she’s the most honest woman I’ve ever known. My God, her parents brought her up with a meat cleaver.”

“Absolutely,” said Faye. “Do you know why you stay with her?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re scared, Charley. I’ll bet you’ve been faithful.”

“I have.”

“And you’re the one who used to say that faithfulness is an outrage to the human instincts.”

“Perhaps I still believe that.”

“You’re really scared. You’re even scared to take one of my girls.”

“I’ve never been interested in call girls,” Eitel said.

“What are you trying to tell me? That it’s a matter of taste?”

As Faye spoke, Eitel felt again something of the rage he had known during the first weeks at Desert D’Or when he had come to realize that the kind of women he once had known would never enter an affair with him now, certainly not the ambitious ones, nor the young ones, nor the ones he might desire; for him had been left only the wives of the émigrés and those second-rate call girls and downright prostitutes so low in the scale of Desert D’Or that he would still be important to them. Or was Faye right? Was he frightened even of such women? As he thought these things, Eitel had a glimpse of the contempt he felt for Elena. But instead he answered, “If you think so little of my girl, why are you interested in her?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet. It must be the animal in me.” Faye yawned and got up. “Do yourself a favor,” he said as he was about to leave, “ask Elena if she ever did it for money.”

Eitel felt an unmistakable thrill. “What do you know?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Charley. I just got an instinct for this.” And Faye sauntered out the door.

Eitel didn’t have a chance to ask Elena until the following afternoon. She was asleep when he went to bed and awake before him in the morning. No call came through from Munshin, and while Eitel tried to work, desire for Elena teased him powerfully. In the middle of the afternoon they had an exciting half-hour, doubly exciting for Elena, he knew, because his desire seemed so spontaneous. Afterward, it seemed harmless to ask her the question. Had she ever taken money? Well, never exactly, she told him, except for once. Except for once? he had said, and how was that? That was a funny time, Elena reminisced. How had it happened? he asked, his chest frozen. Well, there had been a man, and he had wanted to, and she had refused, and then the man had offered money, twenty dollars he had offered.

“So what did you do?” Eitel asked.

“I took it. It made the man seem exciting to me.”

“You’re a dirty little girl,” Eitel said.

Elena’s eyes were alive. “Well, you know I am,” she said. “You are, too.”

“Yes.” The worst of it was that these stories aroused him so.

“I enjoyed spending the twenty dollars,” Elena went on.

“It didn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“It bothered you,” Eitel insisted.

“Well, I did get hysterical the next night, but I’m so loused up anyway.” Her face became distant for a moment. “Charley, let’s not talk about it. When I was sixteen, I used to worry I would end up a whore.” Then she laughed as if to chase all memory away, and sat on his lap. “You remember when we were talking about two girls?” Eitel nodded. “Well, maybe we can find a girl sometime. It would have to be the right kind of girl though. The kind I wouldn’t be jealous of.” Elena laughed at herself. “Isn’t it terrible talking like this and planning?”

He squeezed her to him, feeling so many things he could never have told her, excitement at the memory of himself with two women, sensuous pain that she had sold herself for twenty dollars, and with it all, concern, a concern for Elena which almost forced the tears to his eyes. What would happen if he didn’t take care of her?

A little later they decided to go for a swim. While they were having a drink he remembered that Collie was still missing. It was so easy to believe anything; equally possible that they would never see Collie again, or instead see him that night. Playfully, Eitel flipped a coin in the air, and it came down tails. “I’ll never see him again,” he told himself, and the thought was not pleasant. Did it mean he had decided to depend on Collie?

What for superstition? The coin was wrong and Munshin came to their house that evening. It took hours before Elena would go to sleep, and not a word was said about movie scripts. When she finally left them, Munshin became reflective. “We’re in a fantastic occupation,” he said.

Eitel had no patience for this. “How’s the head monk?” he asked.

Munshin smiled. “Charley, I hope our little conference the other night was productive.”

“It gave me an idea or two.”

“I’m still wild about it,” Munshin said. “I haven’t felt enthusiasm like this in years.” Collie often said such things; he would use them as a way of passing from one subject to another. “ ‘What are you gambling here for?’ I said to myself last night. ‘The real gamble is back with Eitel in Desert D’Or.’ ”

“Where’s the gamble?” Eitel said. “Last time we talked you seemed to think the story couldn’t miss.”

“Charley, let’s not negotiate at arm’s length. We’re each too smart for that. Your story, even with my contribution, is a gamble. It’s straight gamble all the way down the line.”

Eitel made a small performance of mixing a drink. “Maybe we ought to drop the idea then,” he said.

“Cut out the sparring, Charley.” Munshin was nibbling on his upper lip with all the pleasure of a fat little boy. “I’ve given a lot of thought to this. Lover, if you want to go it alone, the suggestion I made is yours, and I hope it helps you to pull down a fortune for the script when you want to sell it.”

Eitel made a bored face. “You know very well, Collie, that nobody in the industry will go near me.”

“All you got to do is clear yourself with the Government.”

“Just that little thing. I have my pride, Collie.”

“Then you ought to work with me.”

“Maybe there are other possibilities.”

“Who are you kidding? If you want to make it in Europe, you got to get a passport.” Munshin beamed. He had a better deal worked out, he said. Eitel would do the script, and he would contribute editorial advice, and when it was done—did Eitel think he could do it in twelve weeks?—Collie would present it to Teppis as his own screenplay. He didn’t have to remind Eitel, he went on, what a Munshin original was worth.

“You ought to be able to get between seventy-five and a hundred thousand for it,” Eitel said.

“Charley, why talk about money now?”

“Because I want to know how we’ll split.”

Munshin pursed his lips. “Charley, talking like this is not your style at all.”

“It may not be my style, but I want ten thousand dollars on advance, and I want us to divide three quarters to me, one quarter to you.”

“I’m bewildered, Charley,” Munshin said. “I don’t understand your point of view.”

“Make an effort.”

“You make the effort. What’s in this for me except worries? If Teppis ever found out I was working with you, he’d hand me my head. You think I’d take a chance for a lousy few bucks?”

“Plus the prestige of a Munshin original.”

“Not worth it.” Munshin shook his head. “No, Charley, no. I see it the other way. Since you’re short of ready money, I’ll give you twenty-five hundred for the script, and then we’ll split three quarters to me.”

“Collie, Collie, Collie.”

“We’ll also forget that loan I gave you.”

“Don’t think I don’t know why you gave it to me.”

They went on for another hour before the rough treaty was drawn. Later—Munshin explained he would have to discuss it with his lawyer—they might or might not draw up a contract, and the best way to pay Eitel would have to be devised for income-tax purposes. But these were details; they could trust each other.

The perfect contract, Eitel thought. Collie would have the money, and he would have photostats of the script in his own handwriting. He took the best terms he could get. Collie would give him four thousand dollars for writing the script, two thousand tonight, two thousand when it was done. If the script was not sold, it would belong to Munshin; if it was sold, Collie would take two thirds of the sale price. Subsidiary rights would belong to Collie, but he would make certain Eitel got a percentage. It was a simple arrangement. Eitel would do the work and Collie would get the money. In return, if Eitel would cooperate with the Subversive Committee, Collie would do his best to have him direct the picture. They might even share credit for the story.

“So, now,” Eitel thought bleakly, “I’m one of the peons Collie keeps locked in a hole.” He was furious. Collie knew people; all of Collie’s peons were honest; he would never make an arrangement like this with a man he could not trust. “After all these years I’m still honest,” Eitel said bitterly as Collie passed over twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. The bargain was made. Eitel felt a tingling in his hand.

Yet if he thought their business was finished for the night, he was to learn that it had only begun. Collie went off on a long account of how he had met Lulu in the gambling casino. “She was with that man. Your flier friend. What’s his name?”

“Sergius.”

“That’s right, Sergius.” Collie sighed. “He’s a nice kid. Not as smart as he thinks.”

“Perhaps.” Eitel merely waited.

“Charley,” Munshin said, “I could cry every time I think of how you ruined your career.”

Eitel refused to answer.

“Did you have to flaunt Elena under H.T.’s nose the night he gave the party?” Collie asked. “You don’t know what a mistake that was. Why do you think he invited you in the first place?”

“I’ve never understood why.”

“Charley, for all your intelligence and all your perception, you’ve always treated H.T. the wrong way. H.T. wants to act like a father to people, and you never give him a chance. Two hours before that party started, before I even knew you were invited, he said to me, ‘I want to do a rehabilitation on Charley-boy.’ Those were his words.”

“No less!” Eitel finished his drink and poured another. “I suppose he was going to take me off the black list?”

Munshin nodded wisely. “He would have fixed it so you testified in secret session. Nobody would ever have known what you said.”

How clever they were, Eitel thought. A secret session, a few lines in the back of a newspaper, and he could have his career again. The word would be out for the gossip columnists to be kind.

“H.T.’s a hard man,” Munshin said, “but he’s a lonely man. Deep down, he misses you. He gave that invitation to the party because he had an idea for a picture that only you could make.”

“Sergius told me,” Eitel said. “A desert musical.”

“Baby, you’re wrong. You don’t understand H.T., I keep telling you.” Collie stuck out a finger. “What he had in the back of his mind was to make a picture about Sergius O’Shaugnessy.”

This was worth a drink. “I’m blind,” Eitel said, “I don’t see it.”

“You’re just rusty. The beau is a war hero with ten planes to his credit.”

“Three planes, Collie, not ten. If you ask Sergius, maybe he’ll tell you it almost made him a mental case.”

“Sue me if I build it up a little,” said Munshin. “The essence of the yarn is not how many planes, but the fact that Sergius is an infant who was left on the steps of an orphan asylum. Movie-wise, could you have anything more viable?”

“It sounds revolting.”

“Take the girl who’s his mother,” said Munshin. “I see her cast as a bobby-soxer. It’s got a perfect beginning. You could open on her setting a two-month-old baby on the steps of this orphan home and ringing the bell. Then she runs away crying. Somebody opens the door, an old janitor say, and there’s a note pinned to the baby’s diapers. This was H.T.’s idea. ‘I wish I could give my baby a family name,’ the note says, ‘but since I can’t, please call him Sergius because that’s beautiful.’ ” Munshin’s face showed the delight of a man who stares at the Kohinoor diamond. “How can you miss?” he said. “ ‘Sergius, because that’s a beautiful name.’ Take it from there. He goes on to become a war ace. The orphan is a hero.”

Eitel could well believe it. Once, twice, three times a year Herman Teppis would get an inspiration, and then it was up to somebody to develop a movie from his idea. The origins could consist of less than ‘the orphan is a hero’; years ago, Teppis had called Eitel one morning and said, “I have a movie in my mind. ‘The Renaissance.’ Make that movie.” He had managed to divert Teppis to another director, and the movie as it was finally made had another title, but the inspiration had been enough to keep people at Supreme worried for a year. When all was said, it was as good a way to make movies as any other; most of Teppis’ inspirations showed a profit.

“What do you think?” Munshin asked.

“This story has nothing to do with Sergius. I don’t understand why you even want to bother to buy the rights from him.”

“He could never sue us. That’s not the point. Only look at the story. It stinks. Nobody would believe it unless you could build around a real-life person. That’s what’s got H.T. excited. The publicity values.”

“I don’t believe Sergius will give you the rights,” Eitel said.

“You think so,” said Munshin, “I think differently. There’s twenty thousand dollars in it for him.”

“Then why don’t you have a talk?”

Munshin sighed. “It’s too late. You know how H.T. is with his enthusiasms. He wanted you to make the picture because Sergius would co-operate with you. Now it’s all ruined. You had to insult H.T. gratuitously.”

“Collie, why are you bringing up old history?”

“Why? I don’t know.” Munshin put a finger in his ear and rubbed vigorously. “Maybe it’s because I have an idea in the back of my mind.” he announced. “If we could get the kid to okay this project, I feel, Charley, that I could still talk H.T. into letting you direct it.”

Eitel laughed. “In other words you want me to prove to Sergius that it’s a good idea.”

“I want you to help me and to help yourself as well.”

“Everybody benefits,” Eitel said. “Sergius is rich again, I direct, and you bring back what H.T. sent you here for.”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“What if H.T. won’t let me direct?”

Munshin looked the least bit tentative. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “What we might be able to do in that case is change the terms of our agreement on your script. I don’t want you left out in the cold.”

“How lucky we’re partners already,” Eitel said. Collie was marvelous, he decided. He had come to Desert D’Or because H.T. had told him to buy the life of Sergius O’Shaugnessy. But if Collie went down to the market, it was to borrow with one hand while he sold with the other. So it did not matter what happened now: Collie could hardly lose. Eitel found himself wondering how many other deals Collie had made this week.

“Sergius doesn’t want your twenty thousand dollars, does he?” Eitel asked abruptly.

“We left it an open question.”

“What did you do, discuss it over a roulette wheel?”

“It’s as good a place as any.”

“And is Lulu working on Sergius too?”

Collie had to smile. “Well, it’s a little complicated. H.T. is just morbid on the subject that she should get married.”

“To Teddy Pope?”

Collie nodded. “The thing is, however, given favorable circumstances, I believe H.T. could see his way clear to Lulu marrying Sergius.”

“What a beautiful end to the movie.” Eitel roared with laughter. “For a fat man, Collie,” he managed to say at last, “you can certainly squeeze into a lot of narrow places.”

Munshin laughed with him. They sat in Eitel’s living room, laughing and laughing, but Collie was the first to finish. “I’m crazy about you, baby,” he said, wiping his eyes, “you’re the only character I know who can see through me.”

“That is a compliment,” Eitel said genially.

“You’ll give me a hand with Sergius, won’t you?”

“No,” said Eitel, “I won’t lift a finger.”