Bat moaned. He wouldn't think about his father anymore tonight.
24
1
JONAS ASSUMED PERSONAL CONTROL OF TELEVISION production. He began to fly regularly to Los Angeles, where he stayed in the Cord hotel suite and spent days at the studio. He did not fire Jo-Ann as Bat had thought he would. He ordered Arthur Mawson, now executive producer of the Glenda Grayson Show, to give him frequent and detailed reports on what she did, but he kept her in her job. He did not stop by her office to see her every time he came to Los Angeles — only occasionally.
Sometimes Angela came to Los Angeles with him. Usually she did not.
St. Patrick's Day fell on a Monday. Jonas did not celebrate it as a holiday, but he was conscious of it and regretted being alone in the suite on an evening when most people were drinking Irish whiskey, eating corned beef and cabbage, and pretending to be Irish. He had arranged not to be alone. Margit Little was with him.
They sat on a couch, where he had invited her to sit, with a bottle of Old Bushmill's, two glasses, and some crackers and cheese. Margit was wearing what was characteristic of her: black dance leotards with a maroon skirt. Her light-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She frowned over the whiskey in her glass.
He had been working on this for some time — that is, on getting her to come alone to his suite. She had been just eighteen when Bat signed her up for the Glenda Grayson Show, and she was not yet twenty-two now. She looked sixteen, which was the age she was represented to be on the show. She had the lithe body of a dancer and a pretty, open, innocent face. It was hard to believe Bat had not had this girl, but he swore he hadn't.
"It's traditional," he said of the Irish whiskey.
She pinched her lips and wrinkled her nose. "It's strong," she said.
"Well ... just a toast and then you can have something more to your liking. A toast— To you, Margit. To your career."
"Thank you," she said softly after she took a small and cautious sip.
"Can we talk in confidence?" he asked. "I mean in complete confidence. Neither of us will ever tell anybody anything we may say in the next few minutes."
"Yes ..." she said hesitantly.
"Fine," he said, nodding. "In confidence. I took over Cord Productions because I decided my son had run out of ideas. The Glenda Grayson Show is a success, and it makes some money, but it's getting a little stale. Glenda is getting a little stale. And her money demands are becoming unreasonable."
"Mr. Cord— "
"Jonas," he interrupted.
"Oh, sir, I couldn't!"
"Please. Hearing you call me Mr. Cord or, worse yet, sir makes me feel a hundred years old." He put a hand on hers. "Please, Margit."
She nodded. "Jonas."
"Okay," he said with a reassuring smile. "Now. In any case, Cord Productions can't go on forever with all its eggs in one basket. Whatever we do about the Glenda Grayson Show, we've got to start producing new shows. Can you guess what I've got in mind?"
She shook her head, but her widened eyes suggested she had guessed what he was about to say.
"The Margit Little Show," said Jonas. "Maybe a half hour weekly. Say you did a comedy skit every week, with a guest star. Not a continuing family situation like on the old show but a different idea with you as a different character each week. With dancing, of course. I'm thinking of you as a solo, in a simple classic dance number to open the show, then something of a production number with your guest to close the show — with the sketch in between. I bet you can sing, too, huh?"
"Well ... I have taken voice lessons."
"Okay. The Margit Little Show. You know, when I say I'm going to produce something, I'm going to produce it. I don't just play around."
Margit sampled the Old Bushmill's again, a little more boldly.
Jonas poured himself a second drink. "We will have to address a little problem," he said.
She nodded solemnly and fixed her eyes on him, waiting to hear what the problem was.
"What kind of a contract do you have with Sam Stein?"
She frowned. "None. He took me on as a kid and promoted a career for me, and we've never had a written agreement. I mean, he's been something like a father to me."
Jonas grinned. "He didn't want you to come up here alone, did he?"
"No, he didn't."
"And I bet you're supposed to call him when you get home."
She smiled and nodded.
"All right. I like Sam, but I don't know how he'll react to your leaving the Grayson show. There could be a conflict of interests there, if you see what I mean. He might think it will damage the Grayson show when I take you out of it, and after all Glenda's his chief client."
"I see what you mean. But I don't think Sam would stand in the way of my— "
"No, but he might lose Glenda. I'll talk to him. We'll talk to him together. If the whole thing is okay with him, then it's okay with us. If he has a problem, I think you should get another agent."
"Do you have somebody in mind?" she asked, and he could hear in her muted voice that she guessed he did. Margit was small, and she was quiet and modest, but she was shrewd. Far from being overwhelmed by the proposal he was putting before her, she was even thinking ahead of him.
"Yes, I do. My daughter is married to Ben Parrish. I don't like the guy, and I don't trust him. And you shouldn't either. But we can stick him out front as your ostensible agent. You and I will write the contract ourselves, whether he likes it or not. You can ask Sam to review it in confidence, if you want to. Or get a Hollywood lawyer to look it over. I'm thinking of a two-year contract. If the show flops, we'll put you back on the Glenda Grayson Show, with bigger billing, and I'll see to it that they write better stuff for you."
"Mr.— Jonas. I'm grateful to you."
He put his hand on hers again. This time he closed his fingers around her hand. "Will you do something for me? If you say no, it's okay. A no won't kill the deal we've been talking about. But ever since I first saw you on television I've thought about what a vision it would be if you danced nude. Would you do that for me, Margit?"
Her face flushed, and she nodded.
"I have all kinds of records," he said, pointing to a stereo system. "Pick out something for your music."
She undressed first, pulling the skirt over her head, then pulling off the leotards. She had no pubic hair. She saw his surprised stare at her naked pudenda, and she self-consciously covered herself with her hand. "I can't risk wisps of hair showing around the edges of leotards," she said. "So I shave it."
He nodded. "You're a vision," he said.
She went to the stereo cabinet and looked through his collection of records.
She chose the song "I'm in Love with a Wonderful Guy" from South Pacific. It was lively music, and she performed a lively dance. The next band on the record was "Younger Than Springtime," and to that she danced sinuously. Jonas was enthralled.
She came to the couch, sat down, and took another swallow of Irish whiskey. Her skin gleamed with a trace of perspiration. She made no move toward putting her clothes back on.
"Margit, you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," Jonas said in complete sincerity.
"I guess it's gonna be just like Sam told me," she said softly.