The Dream Merchants by Harold Robbins

Stanley Farber the minute you left and he’s flying out here tomorrow to meet him.”
    “Is that all?” I asked.
    “Isn’t that enough?” he asked.
    I grinned at him. “I thought it was important.”
    He was pouring himself another drink when I told him that. He almost dropped it. “Look, I’m not joking, Johnny. This is damned serious. He hasn’t kept Dave Roth on the lot for love.”
    Gordon wasn’t wrong about that. Dave was Farber’s right-hand man, and Ronsen placed him on the lot as Gordon’s assistant to act as a psychological threat to me. It added up too. Farber wouldn’t let Roth stay there if he wasn’t sure that something would come of it.
    “What’s Dave been doing?” I asked.
    “You know Dave,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Tight as a clam when he wants to be. But he seems pretty damn sure of himself.” He held out a drink to me.
    I took it and sipped it reflectively. Maybe Ronsen was coming out to see Farber, but I was the guy that knew the whole organization. I knew the weak spots and the strong spots. I knew what had to be done, and until I finished the repair job, my position was good.
    “Look, Gordon,” I said, “stop worrying. I’ll be at the studio in the morning and we’ll go over the situation.”
    He looked at me doubtfully. “All right, but I hope you know what you’re doing.”
    Joan came into the room with a pot of coffee. Doris followed her with a tray of tiny sandwiches. Hollywood wives and diplomats’ wives have to develop a sense of timing. They have to know just when to excuse themselves and just when to re-enter a room. I often wonder how they know just when to come back.
    Doris and I were too full to eat, but we had some coffee and left. It was almost two thirty when we got to her house.
    The house was quiet; only a small light was lit in the living room. Doris threw off her coat and went upstairs. She came down a moment later.
    “He’s still sleeping,” she said. “Mother is too. The nurse told me that the doctor gave her a sedative. Poor thing, she just can’t comprehend everything that’s been happening. It’s been one shock after another.”
    I followed her into the library. There was a big fire going in there. It felt good; the night had turned cold, with a sudden frost that would have the smudge pots going in the fruit groves. We sat down on a couch.
    I put my hand around her shoulder and drew her head toward me. I kissed her. She put both hands on my cheeks and held my face close to hers.
    “I knew you’d come, Johnny,” she whispered.
    I looked at her. “I couldn’t stay away even if I wanted to.”
    She turned around and rested her head against my shoulder and we looked into the fire. After a little while I spoke. “Feel like talking about it, sweetheart?”
    “You know a lot, for a man,” she said, her voice low. “You knew I didn’t want to talk about it before.”
    I didn’t answer.
    After a few minutes she spoke again. “It started yesterday. A telegram was delivered and the butler took it. I was near the door when it came, so I took it from him.
    “It was from the State Department, addressed to Father. I read it first. It’s a good thing now that I did, for it read: ‘We are informed by our Embassy in Madrid that your son, Mark Kessler, was killed in the fighting near Madrid.’ It was as plain as that. I stood there for a moment, my blood running cold. We knew that Mark was in Europe even though we hadn’t heard from him for almost a year, but we never thought he’d be in Spain. We thought he might be in Paris with some of his old cronies, but we weren’t worried. Not really. We knew Mark. When he was up against it, we figured we’d hear from him. Meanwhile Papa figured it was a good thing for him to be away for a while after what had happened.”
    She took a cigarette from the end table near her and leaned forward for me to light it. Then she settled back again, letting the smoke drift slowly from her mouth. Her