“Because I’m in love with you,” answered Gabriel, with absolute honesty.
7: THE AGREEMENT
Bernard Finger was not the kind of narrow-minded man to let his personal life interfere with business.
“Go on back to bed, Rita,” he said in as fatherly a tone as he could produce.
She blinked once in Gabriel’s direction. Finger could see the effect her long lashes had on the writer: the Cagney makeup seemed to be melting and Gabriel shuddered violently.
“Goodnight,” she breathed.
Gabriel watched her go back into the bedroom. To Finger, he looked like a puppy watching its master take a train to Australia. Gabriel was no longer a free-swinging, independent, irreverent sonofabitch. He wanted something that Finger possessed. That was a basis for doing business.
“Ron,” he said, as the bedroom door closed behind Rita Yearling.
Gabriel stared at the door. His eyes seemed to be unfocused.
“Ron!” Finger called more sharply.
The writer shook himself, as if suddenly awakening from an incredible dream.
“Who is she?” Gabriel asked. “Where did you find her?”
Finger indicated the sofa with a gesture and Gabriel obediently sat down. Pulling a chair close to him, Finger said to Fad, “Get us some brandy and cigars.” The producer nodded once, briskly, and went to the phone.
“I’ve never seen anyone like her.” Gabriel’s voice was still awestruck. “Who is she?”
“Titanic’s always searching for fresh talent,” Finger said. “We have scouts everywhere. But we found Rita right here in L.A.; right under our noses.” It was even the truth, Finger realized with an inward laugh.
“She’s fantastic!”
Fad sat at the end of the sofa, close enough to be included in the conversation if Finger so chose, yet far enough away so that he could continue a private-seeming talk with Gabriel. Kid’s got some good sense, Finger noted.
“What would you say,” Finger asked Gabriel, “if I told you that Rita is one of the most accomplished actresses I’ve ever seen?”
“Who cares?” Gabriel said.
With a knowing grin, Finger added, “What would you say if I told you that I’m considering her for the female lead in ‘The Starcrossed’?”
Gabriel actually gulped. Finger could see his Adam’s Apple bob up and down. To a lesser man, what was about to happen would seem like taking milk away from an infant; but Bernard Finger was equal to the situation. False scruples had never interefered with his business acumen—nor true scruples, for that matter.
“I think she’s a natural for the part,” Finger went on, enjoying the perspiration that was breaking out on Gabriel’s Cagneyish face. “She’s got looks, talent, exper… eh, youth.”
“The show couldn’t miss with her in it,” Fad chimed in.
“Yeah,” said Gabriel.
Finger slapped his palms on his thighs, a sharp cracking sound that startled the other two men. “Listen,” he said. “Let’s let bygones be bygones. I know you and I have had our differences in the past, Ron. But let’s work together to make ‘The Starcrossed’ a big hit. Titanic needs a hit and you need a hit. So let’s work together, instead of against each other.”
Gabriel nodded. He still seemed to be stunned. “Okay,” he mumbled.
Looking over at Fad, Finger said: “Our producer’s come up with the idea of doing the show in Canada. It’ll let us stretch our money further. What we save in production costs we can add to production values: better sets, better scripts, better talent…”
Gabriel was visibly trying to pull himself together, get his brain back in gear.
“This is going to be an expensive show to produce. Starships and exotic planets every week… expensive sets, expensive props, big-name guest stars every week… it’s all very expensive.”
“And costly,” Fad echoed. Finger shot him down with a sharp glance.
Gabriel frowned. “Artistic control.”
“What about it?”
“I want artistic control,” Gabriel said. He was returning to the real world. “This show has got to have one strong conceptual vision, a consistent point of view… we can’t have directors and assistant producers and script girls screwing things around from one week to the next.”
Finger was too experienced to give in immediately, but after fifteen minutes of discussion, he had his arm around Gabriel’s shoulders as they walked together toward the door.
“You’ve convinced me,” Finger was saying expansively. “When you’re right, you’re right. Artistic control will be in your hands. One guy has got to keep the central vision of the show consistent from week to week. That’s important.”
“And it’ll be written into my contract,” Gabriel said warily.
“Of course! Everything down in black and white so there’s no misunderstanding.”
They shook hands at the door. Gabriel still looked uneasy, almost suspicious. Finger had his friendliest smile on.
“My agent will get in touch with you tomorrow,” Gabriel said.
“Who you got… still Jerry Morgan?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man, We’ll work out the clauses with no trouble.”
Gabriel left and Finger closed the door firmly. Fad was standing in the middle of the living room, shaking his head. He looked like Gary Cooper with an ulcer.
“What’s the matter?”
“You let him have artistic control of the series! He’ll want to do everything has way! The expense…”
Finger raised a calming hand. “Listen. Right now he’s on the other side of that door, going through his pockets to see what I stole from him. And he won’t find a thing missing. Tonight he’ll have wet dreams about Rita and tomorrow morning he’ll phone Jerry Morgan and tell him to be sure to get a clause about artistic control into his contract.”
“But we can’t…”
“Who gives a damn about artistic control?” Finger laughed at the perplexed producer. “There’s a million ways to get around such a clause. We’ll have clauses in there about financial limits and decisions, clauses that tie him up six ways from Sunday. And even in his artistic control clause we’ll throw in the line about no holding up production with unreasonable demands. Ever see anybody win a lawsuit by proving his demands were not unreasonable? We got him by the balls and he won’t know it until we go into production.”
“In Canada?”
“In Canada.”
Sheldon’s worried-hound face relaxed a little.
Someone tapped timidly at the door. Finger yanked it open. A waiter stood there, bearing a tray with three snifters of brandy and three cigars on it.
“S… sorry to take so long, Mr. Finger. Your special cigars were in the vault and…”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Finger ushered him in with a sweping gesture of his arm. “It’s good timing. I’d hate to waste a good cigar on that little punk.”
It was dawn.
Finger sat on the edge of his bed and gazed down at Rita Yearling. Even under the bedclothes she looked incredibly beautiful.
Best money I ever spent, he told himself.
Her lovely eyelids fluttered and she awoke languorously. She smiled at Finger, stretched like a cat, then turned and looked out the porthole at the gray-white sky.
“Ain’t it kinda early?”
“I want to go up to the bridge and see the sunrise over the mountains. Were almost back in port.”
“Oh.”
“How’re you feeling?”
She stretched again. “Fine. Not an ache or pain anywhere.”
He stroked her bare shoulder. “They did a beautiful job on you. When I had my Vitaform operations I was in agony for months.”
“You didn’t take good care of your original body,” she chided, almost like Shirley Temple bawling out Wallace Beery. “I may have been older than you, but I took care of myself. The girls always said I had the best-kept body since Ann Corio.”