Hollander's Deal

By Peter Mark Richman

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 5, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462810390

Peter Mark Richman

PETER MARK RICHMAN DRAWS FROM A WELL OF EXPERIENCE ON THE BROADWAY STAGE, FILM AND OVER 500 TELEVISION SHOWS AS A GUEST STAR. CAIN'S HUNDRED, AS NICK CAIN ON NBC WAS HIS FIRST SERIES, THEN LONGSTREET AND DYNASTY. FRIENDLY PERSUASION WITH GARY COOPER WAS HIS FIRST FEATURE. HE RECEIVED THE PRESTIGIOUS DRAMA-LOGUE AWARD FOR PERFORMANCE IN HIS ONE-MAN PLAY,4 FACES AND IT IS NOW A FILM HE ADAPTED, PRODUCED AND STARS IN. AN ACCOMPLISHED PAINTER, HE HAS HAD SEVENTEEN ONE MAN EXHIBITIONS. HOLLANDER'S DEAL IS HIS FIRST NOVEL.

Book preview

1

E rnest Schmidtluff, the venerable emeritus professor of economics at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School had a colorful way of speaking. His students sometimes forgot that he was their mentor, especially the ex-servicemen. He was addressing one of them.

Well, Robert, you horny young sonofabitch, he said, "what the hell are you going to be doing this summer? Running a whore house or managing your father’s hotel?"

Everyone laughed.

A little of both, professor, a little of both …, Robert answered, forcing a smile, knowing that Schmidtluff always had a way of implying more than he said.

Hey, Professor, old buddy, ole pal, what the hell do you do when you’re twenty-eight years old, single, by choice … and you’re almost convinced that you’ve chosen the wrong goddamn profession? That’s what Robert Rosedale kept asking himself on that beautiful sun-scorched July afternoon in the summer of 1948, as he sprinted along the water’s edge of the Atlantic City beach. He’d come home to spend another summer with his parents where he’d grown up. They owned a small family-type hotel on Virginia Avenue near the boardwalk, not far from the famed Steel Pier, where big-name bands and headliner acts appeared daily.

Robert had just been graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with a degree in business management and had halfheartedly committed himself to return in September for an attempt at a master’s in international finance. But it was a decision that he was still struggling with—wrestling, actually.

He churned his strong legs, his breath coming faster. Pretty girls in scanty bathing suits turned admiringly as the handsome, dark-haired figure zipped past, his sharp features and square jaw cutting the salty air. The high-school relay runner could still run like hell.

A late starter in college to begin with, Robert was abruptly interrupted in his education by the war. And whenever anyone asked him what his three-and-a-half years in the Navy were like, he invariably grimaced and replied: It was totally unproductive and a goddamned distasteful intrusion.

But now that he’d finally been graduated, he’d begun to feel the same way about his education: for, in reflection, it seemed that the only moments he’d truly enjoyed and found productively exciting were the unrelated extracurricular ones having nothing to do with his field. He’d been the program director and manager of the campus radio network, doubling occasionally as an announcer; booked the comic and singing talent for the Alpha Beta Zeta fraternity, staging and producing their shows; produced and directed four plays for the University Drama Society; and organized a group of student musicians, successfully managing them into a state of financially rewarding popularity.

And now, as he dodged the vacationing multitudes on the wet sand of the sunny shore, the thought of spending his life in a banking organization, or as an investment consultant on the Philadelphia Stock Exchange, suddenly seemed more than a little repugnant.

Later, after a short swim, Robert was lying on his back, his head resting on a mound of sand. From this vantage point, even with his eyes like slits against the blistering sun he could see everything. And on the sloped-down beach in front of the Chelsea Hotel that prophetic July day, there was a lot to see.

There were children splashing in the water, fat mothers and thin ones watching; lifeguards, golden bronze, cocky and muscular, perched high on their lookout thrones. There were guys just looking—and all too obviously. And everywhere there were girls, beautiful girls, hovering not only around the lifeguards but everywhere.

For the guys—and the girls, too—it was only a question of making a choice and then zeroing in, for everyone was on the make. And making it was on everyone’s mind. But Robert, at this particular time in his life—admittedly a rare one—was thinking less of fornication than of international finance.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the temptations before him. Then, unexpectedly, in a half-dozing, half-dreaming state—as chance, luck, or fate would have it—he overheard, a short distance away, a conversation that was to alter his destiny completely.

What do I need? I don’t need anything else. You talking about money? I got plenty of money, Sam … more I don’t need. What am I gonna do with it? Take it with me to the grave?

You got enough money, Ben? God bless you, you’re a lucky man.

"You’re damn right I’m a lucky man. I’ve always been a lucky man. But you need more than money to be a lucky man. You need a good wife, good children, good friends … then you’re lucky! Money … what the hell is that when you’re laying in bed with a cancer in your ass? Money will pay for the doctor bills, but it won’t cure the cancer. I don’t care what the goddamn medical profession tells you. Your family and your friends and your wife … that’s who cure the cancer! By their prayers! Without the prayers, the goddamn money to pay the doctors won’t cure the cancer!"

A religious fanatic you’re becoming in your old age, Ben.

Yeah, yeah, Ben sighed, "a religious fanatic. It was my cancer in my ass, so I know what I’m talking about."

Robert turned over and shielded the sun from his vision and watched the two old men sitting on their sand chairs philosophizing.

Listen, I’m not disagreeing with you, Sam said, raising his pudgy hands, but it takes a lot of money, too, to pray in the synagogue … a man in your position.

"The synagogue is good, Sam. It’s very good, and I contribute my share. But you don’t only pray in a synagogue. You pray in your heart and in your mind, and you can do it on the toilet. What’s the difference? You think God only listens in the synagogue?"

After a moment, Sam acquiesced with a smile, his perfect false teeth showing. Listen, I’m happy for you. As long as you’re cured, what the hell’s the difference who cured you?

Ben, the thinner of the two men, a healthy tan belying his recent illness, answered his friend with a shrug: "It makes a lot of difference, because how you think you got where you went is more important than what happens when you finally get there. By then, it’s too late. It’s the reasons for what happens that counts."

Sam’s face went blank. He wasn’t getting it.

On his belly, chin in hand, Robert listened unobtrusively, shutting out the pounding surf, his ear tuned sharply to the two old men.

So what’s the reason? Sam asked.

"I told you."

"No, I mean the reason we’re having this conversation. It has to do with money, right? You said you don’t need it. You said you want to do something else with your life, and you have the capital to do it. Isn’t that what started it?"

That’s right, the man with the cured cancer said, I want to do something else with my life.

What? What do you want to do?

Don’t laugh when I tell you what it is.

If it’s funny, I’ll laugh, Sam said.

All right, I’ll tell you. Ben’s cherubic face twinkled. "You see, Sam, I’ve got all this cash. I’ve got stocks and bonds, real estate, developed land, undeveloped land. My children are grown. They’re well taken care of. My wife, God bless her, she’s well provided for. The business is going terrific. What the hell … I’m sixty-nine years old!"

So?

So, I want to get into show business.

What? the non believer said, his mouth staying open.

Yeah, I want to get into show business. Invest … in a play. A musical. I like musicals.

New York, you mean?

"Who the hell cares where? Atlantic City. This is a good place. Philadelphia. I don’t know. Maybe a radio show, even. Eddie Cantor, Jack Benny … I love ‘em! But I think a play is what I really want to get involved in. That’s where the feelings are … the emotions. Real living people on a stage in a dark theater. To look at, to love, to hate, to laugh with … to cry with. Makes you forget yourself and your problems. At least for a couple of hours. Listen, Sam, I’ve always liked show business. I’m a pushover. And the Jewish theater … well! His head rocked from side to side, remembering. I want to tell you, Sam, a lot of good times I had watching Maurice Schwartz and Jacob Adler, Molly Picon, Boris Thomashefsky! It brings tears to my eyes to even think about it."

I think you’re crazy.

"What the hell do I care what you think? I nearly died. I should give a good goddamn what you think?"

How you gonna do this, Ben? What do you do to get into show business at your age? Put an ad in the paper? Hello, everybody … I got a lot of money, I want to be in show business?

That’s not a bad idea.

The two old men looked up, surprised, at the tall, well-built young man standing over them, his light-blue eyes blazing.

"Hello, Ben, Sam … may I introduce myself? My name is Robert Rosedale. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. The breeze was blowing in my direction. I hope you won’t think it presumptuous of me, Ben, but I believe in Providence too. You’re right, nothing happens without reasons’"

Dropping on his knees next to the believer, Robert continued with utter conviction. "Nothing just happens, Ben. What’s meant to be is meant to be! Ships that only pass in the night just weren’t meant to share the same waters. But those that are are destined to meet. Maybe it’s direction from the Almighty!"

What are you, a preacher, kid? Sam said with a grimace.

How could a nice Jewish college boy be a preacher? Robert replied, smiling. I’m a producer.

What do you produce? the non believer asked, with eyebrows raised.

Musicals, Robert said casually, knowing a golden opportunity was waiting to be plucked.

The man called Ben sat up straight and removed his hornrimmed glasses. Musicals, he said, you produce musicals?

Yes.

This kid is a bullshit artist. He produces bullshit, Sam said, shoving a cigar in his mouth.

Wait a minute, Sam, hold your horses. It costs money to listen? The kid says he produces musicals … maybe he produces musicals. I’m in the bakery business. I make bagels and bread, musicals I can’t make. Where do you make your musicals, son?

Robert’s facile mind was clipping like a computer, but his manner remained calm, confident and creative.

In Philadelphia, at the university, he said. "There’s a lot of talent at Penn. I produce the musicals for the dramatic society. And just last month we put on a show for the Rittenhouse Women’s Club, by special invitation. An original written by a friend of mine, with music. We sold out! We’re thinking of taking the show to Broadway, with a few changes, of course, for a sophisticated New York audience. These are very talented kids, Ben, and they’re going to be doing very important things. They’re part of a group I put together."

Well, uh, what are you doing now? Uh … what did you say your name was? Ben asked, already charmed.

He’s bullshitting you, that’s what he’s doing now, the other one said.

That isn’t very nice, Robert said, unruffled, but I’ll try not to let it bother me. He turned again to Ben. My name is Robert Rosedale, and at the moment I’m preparing a new show with another friend of mine. A musical-comedy writer. He’s a relative of George S. Kaufman. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?

Oh, sure, Ben said. Isn’t he in woolen goods? He has a big store in Philly on South Street.

No, he’s a famous playwright, Ben, on Broadway. His nephew, Melvyn Kaufman, is my writer friend, and we have this idea about a bunch of college kids marooned on an island in the Bahamas.

By the time they’d finished talking, the sun had begun to set in the west. But in Robert’s brain a new and glorious dawn was breaking.

That afternoon, due to the rare graciousness of Benjamin Myer—who was a trusting, lovable, and delightfully gullible human being—Robert Rosedale became the producer of a silly musical about college kids called Bah Bah Bahama. It opened in a little theatre around the corner from Convention Hall the first week in August. The 237 seat house was sold out on opening night, and even George S. Kaufman wired heartiest congratulations to Melvyn, but it was Robert who had composed the message and had paid Western Union.

Benjamin Myer was ecstatic. Not only was his name prominently printed in the program, but the show made a profit of$76.39 after a three-and-a -half week run on an $11,000 investment.

The local critic thought the Off-the-Boardwalk production was adolescent and stupid, but the vacationers enjoyed it, and Robert learned a lot. He learned to keep a good thing going. He quickly brought in a slapped-together Yiddish theatre piece for the ethnic bunch, called Muzzled Mazel. It starred Nehemiah Jacobson and Sarah Pearl. It was a smash, even in the September after-season, when most of the tourists had evacuated to Philadelphia and New York. One night near the end of the run, Ben Myer turned to his old friend, who was sitting in the back of the theatre, laughing hysterically. You see, Sam, he said, even from a cancer in the ass something good can happen. The kid is a genius. Sam sheepishly nodded in agreement.

On an $8,500 investment, with Yiddish radio station advertising included, Mr. Myer saw a profit of $1,400 a week for three weeks. But, more than that, his association with Robert had sent his spirits soaring. He was so thrilled by it all that most of the time he shuffled around with his hands in the air, happily singing: "There’s no business like show business!" And just to express his heartfelt gratitude, every night after the performance he insisted on taking everyone in the cast to a fancy restaurant for dinner. He even kissed Robert on the mouth several times at the closing-night party.

Two shows and two hits, boychick! For God’s sake, you’re better than A.T. & T!. Ben said, grinning.

Robert laughed. You know what, Ben? I think we’re both ready for bigger and better things. I can feel it in my guts!

So? I’m standing in your way?

Does that mean you’re with me?

Who ever heard of breaking up a winning combination?

When they hugged each other, Robert was floating, the university drifting farther and farther away. It had been an incredible summer. It was almost as if he had been reborn.

2

A week later, on October 3, armed with a $10,000 Ben Myer pre-production check in his wallet and a bursting ambition in his solar plexus, Robert stood on the platform saying good-bye to his parents before boarding the train to New York City. In his hand he held their gift, a black leather briefcase, his initials stamped on it in gold. Though they tried to understand, being understanding parents, they nevertheless had been perplexed by his sudden and radical decision. Cora Rosedale, a graceful, forty-nine-year-old woman with light-brown eyes in a translucent-skinned face, held her son’s hand and made one last attempt: Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Bobby? Fun is fun, but a master’s degree is something for your whole life. Are you sure you want to pass it up?

I’m sure, Mom, he said; then he turned, a dream-filled, faraway look in his eyes. There’s this burning thing I feel inside of me, Mom. I feel like … you see those tracks? They go all the way, and that’s the direction I’m going. No matter where it takes me. I’m lucky I found out what I want to do.

Oh, Bobby, first the war and now this … show business. What a waste.

He smiled. Hey, hey … come on, now … show a little optimism. It isn’t the end of the world. I can always come home on the weekend and work on Dad’s books. Right, Dad? He turned to his father, a tall, graying, genuinely obliging man with slightly stooped shoulders.

That’s right, Bobby. You’re old enough to find your own way. There ‘s no sense in us doing any more talking. Come on, Cora, give your son a kiss and let him be.

In Greenwich Village, Robert took the third apartment he looked at, a second-floor, one-bedroom walk-up on Eleventh Street near Sixth Avenue. The price was right at $74 a month and it was within easy walking distance of all the burgeoning off- Broadway playhouses.

By the end of the first week, he’d acquired two phones and a three-quarter bed (with an orthopedic mattress), and in one way or another they were always occupied. At the end of the third week, with a determination that bordered on the fanatic, he’d managed to see almost every play and musical at least once, whether uptown or down. He’d also managed to rent a 200-seat playhouse on colorful Christopher Street. And with the assistance of a transplanted Philadelphia little theatre set designer, he’d had it inexpensively and charmingly redecorated.

The day after the paint dried on the red doors, he placed an ad in Variety heralding the new production company of one Robert Rosedale. Then, after a bruising crash consultation course with thirty-two legitimate theatre agents, and after attending six acting-directing sessions with a Method teacher, as an observer (to solidify his innate knowledge of acting styles), he boldly proceeded to hire a highly talented young director, an experienced choreographer, and a lovely secretary. The cast was hired last, and it was a good New York professional one.

The secretary, whose name was Dolores, was a free soul, and when she wasn’t taking Robert’s notes she freely gave him her supple body on the three-quarter-size orthopedic mattress. The Pumpernickel Playhouse, in honor of Benjamin Myer, opened its doors on November 3, 1948, with the collaborative Robert

Rosedale—Melvyn Kaufman rehash of Bah Bah Bahama. It caused just enough excitement to keep the theatre open and going for a heady five weeks, with only minor Myer losses. The critics again thought it was adolescent and stupid, but they also said it was a lot of fun and even lauded Robert for the naive charm and innocence of his production.

And, of course, they couldn’t help but enjoy the Myer’s tiny, toasted bagels and coffee during the intermission. (The fresh bagels, shipped daily from Atlantic City, were another Rosedale innovation.)

The chic after-theatre crowd at Sardi’s were stuffing their faces and veins with beef bordelaise and booze, and Benjamin Myer sat in a booth next to his portly tinsel-headed wife, beaming. Around the upholstered curve, Robert sipped a glass of chilled white wine sitting next to his newly acquired PRW (Productive Representation Worldwide) agent, Sheldon Seymour.

I want to tell you, Sheldon, Ben said, I’m having such a good time I can’t believe it. It’s like I just opened up an old closet I never saw before and it’s full of beautiful new clothes that fit me perfectly! Then he turned to Robert. You know how I met this kid, Sheldon? Ben’s smiling face was a Christmas tree. I’ll tell you how I met this boychick! On the beach in Atlantic City, a few months ago, a gift from the ocean!

Yes, Robert told me, Sheldon said, with a pinched smile. That’s a marvelous story. It should be made into a movie. It’s funny."

What’s funny about cancer? Reba Myer said. "Would you want to see a movie about a man with a cancer? In such a dumb place, yet. If I go to a movie, I want to be entertained, not suffer."

Robert couldn’t help laughing, and Reba gave him a look. Sheldon tried to smooth it out.

"I didn’t mean that it’s funny funny, Mrs. Myer, but just that the situation is funny. You know, with Robert listening to your husband … lying there on the beach … uh, observing … un- derstanding. Of course, it’s only because he’s the tremendous talent that he is that he was able to …"

You can see he’s my agent, Robert said, winking.

Listen, my young genius, Ben said, "what’s next? I saw that musical already. I’m gettin’ sick of it and the Bahamas! There isn’t any tune I could hum, even … Bah bah Bahaaaah-ma!"He made a face. I’ve never even been there. My wife doesn’t want to go.

Why should I want to go? If I’m in Miami, I want to stay in Miami. Who wants to go to an island?

So New York is an island, too, Ben said. You’re sittin’ on an island and you didn’t even know it.

"Yeah, well, New York is one thing, but do I have to go to an island where everybody’s a shvartz?"

Ben looked at the two young men guiltily. You shouldn’t say that, Reba, people will get the wrong impression.

Okay, Ben, just so nobody should get the wrong impression. Ethel Waters, I like a lot. Lena Horne, I’m not so crazy about.

Reba, you’re not a prejudiced woman.

I’m not prejudiced, but I know who I like!

Ben knew that it was useless to pursue such a discussion with his wife any further, so he lifted a chunk of his cherry cheesecake to his eager mouth. You know, this isn’t a bad cheesecake, he said. I wonder if they use the same bakery as, uh, from Jack Dempsey’s? I used to know, but I forgot.

Would you like me to find out for you? Sheldon, the good agent, asked.

No, it’s not important. He swallowed another forkful, watching Robert, who was a million miles away. And you, boychick … what are you thinking about with your eyes in the clouds?

Sex, Robert answered without missing a beat, which caught Reba by surprise.

I hope you’re having a good time, young man, she said. Maybe we should all leave?

Robert smiled. "You know, Mrs. Myer, I have definitely come to the conclusion that you’re a comedienne. Most of the things you say are funny. And because you don’t know they’re funny, that makes it even funnier. I’ve got a hell of an idea. I’m going to put you in my next show."

For the first time that evening, she smiled broadly, pulling at her dress collar with her slightly arthritic hands.

I don’t think I’m funny, she said, "but I have a good sense of humor. To live in this world today, you have to have a good sense of humor. But I don’t think I’m funny. Do you think I’m funny, Ben?"

I love you, Reba, what do you want from me?

What do I want? I want to know if you think I’m funny.

Talk to the producer … it’s his opinion.

Never mind what your husband says, Reba, Robert said. "You’refunny! And I’m going to put you in my next show!"

Then Robert reached across the table and pinched Mrs. Myer playfully on the cheek. She giggled and slapped his hand. I couldn’t be in a play. Are you crazy? I was never in a play in my life.

You’ll see, Robert said.

I don’t even talk good.

You’re perfect!

"What would I do? What would I say? What would I wear?"

A golden crown. You’re a queen.

A queen? She smiled happily. Are you serious?

Yes!

Reba, enjoying the sudden attention, straightened her posture and began playing the role: "A queen I like … but who’s the king? I have grown children, you know. How would it look? It wouldn’t be so nice without a nice king."

A famous movie star. Robert said enticingly, as a trickle of perspiration from inner tension dropped onto his button-down collar.

A movie star? Oh, I’ll die from you, she said, pushing at her hair with her hands. Why are you teasing me like this?

Sheldon, wearing a tolerantly bored expression and knowing enough not to interfere with his client’s tactics, ordered another martini. Suddenly Reba snapped her fingers in her husbands face.

Ben, you didn’t know you had a queen for a wife, did you?

I always knew, Reba, he said sweetly. "I tell everybody I have a queen for a wife. Haven’t I always been the king? You and me … king and queen. But, Reba … a movie star you’re not!"

At that moment, Sheldon said, Would you excuse me for a few minutes ? Then he jumped up to pursue an important client exiting the bar. Robert, knowing for certain that he’d softened up Mrs. Myer, probably to the maximum of her pliability, felt less inhibited with Sheldon gone. He came right out and said what he had to say, for she was the one who actually approved the committal of Mr. Myer’s money—that is, any monies beyond the sum of $20,000, and certainly Robert’s next venture would be well beyond that figure.

Ben … Ben, I love you like … like I’m your grandson, he began sincerely. And you’re my grandfather. That’s how close I feel to you. You’re the most wonderful, trusting, delicious old cocker I’ve ever met. I mean it. And you’ve been very generous. I love your wife, too. She’s a funny lady … and, boy, is she going to look terrific wearing a golden crown of jewels.

You’re starting again? she said, amused.

The iron was hot. Robert took a deep breath and let it roll.

Ben, this is the story. I need $85,000 to open a magnificent play in a house uptown. There isn’t anything else burning in my heart that I want to do more. It’ll be a blockbuster! And you, Ben, you’ll be in the show business you’ve always dreamed about, that we’ve both dreamed about. Remember when you told me how you used to stand next to the bagel oven on Atlantic Avenue down the shore and dream about show business? This is your chance! You’ll be in the big time, Ben … a full-fledged professional … a Broadway big-shot!

Reba her smiles gone, chimed in like an alarm clock.

"You know where he’ll be, Robert darling? Home counting his money that he didn’t throw away on a fah-cock-dah play!

Eighty-five thousand dollars! Now I know you’re crazy. I wasn’t sure before."

Reba, this is where we’ve been heading, Robert said. The opportunity of a lifetime, and it’s right at our fingertips!

You know what’s at my fingertips? Old age, she said, and I don’t want to spend it worrying about wasting away my husband’s money that he spent a whole lifetime to make.

You won’t have to worry, Reba, Robert chimed. It’s a sensational play. The author is very hot. Three other producers are trying to get their hands on the script, but Sheldon is holding out for me. The whole agency is behind it!

"So why don’t they put up the money!" she shrewdly countered.

Ben Myer, enjoying the exchange, puffed on his Havana and then leaned over and took his wife by the hand. Reba, he said, kissing her on the cheek, How many years have I got left? Two? Five? Ten, God willing? I’m almost seventy years old. How long can I live? I got a lot of money. You’ll never want for anything, even if I went tomorrow. I’m having such a wonderful time, Reba, even my blood pressure is down. I found a new interest. It’s making a young man out of me.

"Yeah … a young man. A child, maybe … a baby … and you need a mother to change your diapers! I’m your wife and I’m telling you enough is enough, already!"

Robert knew when to keep his mouth shut, as Mr. Myer continued with his heart: God works in strange ways, Reba.

God isn’t in show business … the one with the horns is.

Have a little faith, sweetheart. This is a bright young man. He’s got a lot on the ball. You heard what Sheldon said.

"Yeah … another peddler without a pushcart. Him I wouldn’t trust with a two-cent stamp!"

Reba, keep an open mind.

"My mind is open. It’s my pocketbook I want to keep closed. Eighty-five thousand? Insanity!"

Robert found his opening and gently eased a move. "Listen,

I certainly don’t want to cause any rift between you two. I care for you too much for that."

You’re not causing a rift, Ben said.

But if it would give you more confidence, I’d be very happy to raise part of the money needed from other corners. And, in addition, I’ll put up all the cash I have from my own account, and some stocks, which might amount to about five or six thousand.

Chicken feed, she said.

It’s a lot for me, Reba, Robert said. "It’s all I have. But that’s how convinced I am of a success. I could raise maybe twenty thousand from some other source, but if I did you’d be giving up quite a bit of your percentage. And that I don’t think would be a wise thing to do, because it’s a sure thing."

I agree, it would be stupid, Ben said. Partners I don’t need. They’re a pain in the ass. The old man’s smile spread to his ears. "Robert, I’m so excited I can’t tell you! What is it? Another musical? I love musicals. But, please, boychick, get the hell away from the Bahamas already!"

No, it’s a straight play, but it’s a comedy, too. The last play he wrote, the author … they made a movie out of it. ‘The Boy from Hide-away Mountain.’ Did you see it? It was very successful.

Yeah, yeah, I think so, Reba reluctantly said. Robert Taylor had a son, in the country—

No, it was made in England and Sir Matthew Campbell starred in it. Him, and a little Scottish kid.

Oh, a foreign picture. I don’t like foreign pictures. I get a headache from trying to read the titles.

It was an English picture. There were no titles.

Oh, she said. I didn’t see it.

Anyway, Robert said, I’ve already optioned the play with a thousand dollar advance out of my own pocket. I read it and flipped. It’s just marvelous. And my intention is to go first class all the way. A couple of big stars, film names, maybe, like Edward G. Robinson or Paul Muni. Open in a plush house.. a lot of advance publicity …

Ben’s eyes we’re glowing. Paul Muni … oh, my! I remember him as a young man with the Jewish theatre. Tell me, what’s the play about?

A junk dealer in Detroit, and his family, during the Second World War. It’s called ‘All That Glitters Is Not… .’

Not? Not what? Reba asked.

Not anything, Robert said. "It’s a play on the word gold. You know, he’s a junk dealer. Detroit … cars … junk!"

Some title … you have to explain it to everybody.

‘All-That-Glitters-Is-Not …’ Ben repeated. Then he paused thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. All That Glitters… . I love it! It’s terrific. Such a clever title. So many things come into your head.

Yeah, like what the hell is it? she said disdainfully.

Reba, shut up already. Robert, how much do you need to get started?

Robert was so close he could almost taste it, but he soft-pedaled.

"I don’t want you to get involved, Ben, if it’s too much for you. Our relationship is too beautiful to louse up in a conflict with your wife. I certainly don’t want to come between you two. I’ll tell you what … let me try to get what I need another way first. Maybe a picture company, like, uh … MGM or Paramount. They get involved when it’s important enough, and they’re already interested. It’ll make a hell of a film."

How much do you need right now, Robert? Ben asked pointedly.

Ben, you’re crazy!. Reba said. A crazy man … that’s what you are! You already lost money in the Bahamas, for God’s sake!

Peanuts! Ben Myer took out his checkbook. How much?

Twenty thousand now, and I can swing. Another twenty in two weeks. I have to post a bond with Actor’s Equity and negotiate for a theatre.

Ben’s hand was trembling when he unscrewed his Parker pen. He moved the coffee cups to lay the checkbook down.

I don’t like this, Ben! Reba said. You’re not listening to me! Then, like a warning voice from the Messiah, she announced: MY APPROVAL YOU DON’T HAVE!

Ignoring his wife, Ben said, I’ll give you ten now and ten next week. The rest we’ll work out later. You can count on me.

Then the old man reached out to take his young producer’s hand. And Robert, in response, triumphant and overjoyed, impulsively jumped from his seat and threw his arms aroung the old gentleman’s small shoulders, hugging him warmly. Then, in front of the startled onlookers, they unashamedly kissed, while Reba sat stonily in gray-haired silence, the queen dethroned.

When Sheldon Seymour returned, Robert gleefully waved the check. The agent’s face lit up like a surprised sweepstakes’ winner, percentages dancing merrily in his head.

3

On his way back to the apartment, Robert asked the cabdriver to wait while he dashed into a liquor store on Forty- Seventh Street and splurged for an iced bottle of Dom Perignon. He had been thinking about sex when Ben had interrupted his thoughts in Sardi’s. And now, back in the cab, bottle in hand, sex was all he could think about. A celebration for his good fortune. Champagne and sex, with Dolores! A hell of a combination, he