Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [36]
AS WE LEFT the Colonel’s office, Sal Sensibar was breathing orgasmically. By the time we reached the parking lot he was having hot flashes, groaning, and his eyes were wild like he’d just seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
“Romanoff’s tonight,” Sal said, “eight-thirty.” Sal was a toucher, a knee slapper. He gazed into my eyes with all the pathos of a pleading German shepherd and pinched my cheek. “Bubele,” he said. That’s all he could say, “Bubele, bubele.” Sal had a stable of over twenty writers, most of them working. I had just replaced the reigning king.
As Sal reached his car, he was hit with a sudden gas attack and doused the fire with an antacid. “Romanoff’s, eight-thirty, and don’t be late, bubele, we’ve some heavy celebrating to do. Tonight with the wives. Tomorrow, who knows?”
“Aren’t you celebrating a little early, Sal?”
“No jokes, no fucking jokes, Gideon.”
“I didn’t tell Gold I was taking his offer.”
Sal’s face expressed pain, deep, terrible pain. “Don’t make with the jokes.”
“Why don’t we skip Romanoff’s. Let’s have lunch tomorrow and well talk about it. Calm down, Sal, you look like you’ve just been liberated from Auschwitz.”
Sweat broke out simultaneously on Sal’s shirt front, his face, and his armpits. He fished around his jacket pocket for his date book.
“Lunch. How about breakfast? Why not let’s talk it over at your house tonight? Why wait for tonight, how about now?”
“See you tomorrow for lunch,” I said. “Frascati’s, Beverly Hills, okay? One o’clock.”
Sal was having a difficult time getting the key into his Jaguar door. I turned and without further word headed back to my office.
“Don’t you even want to ...”
“See you tomorrow.”
The writers’ building at Pacific was set up so that it could be observed from all directions by the studio police. The only thing missing was guard towers. The Colonel had a number of petty obsessions. One of them was to keep his writers penned in. A few writers around town were beginning to work at home. I planned to make a stand on it, if and when I did another screenplay.
My secretary Belle Prentice was on pins and needles waiting for me to return from my meeting with Gold. A summons from Gold’s office was a chilling thing. I stopped at her desk in the outer office.
“Any calls, anything?”
I shuffled through the notes. One from a young lady who wanted me to have dinner with her. She would be the dinner. Another from a tennis partner, Johnny Brookes. Another from a visiting relative who wanted a tour through a studio.
“Call them back. Tell them I’ve gone for the day.”
Belle trailed me into my office. I flopped on the couch. “Will you tell me what happened?” she demanded.
“The Colonel wants me to remain at the studio. A three-year writer/producer deal.”
“Congratulations!”
“I told him I’d think it over.”
Belle’s face saddened. “You’ve already made your mind up, haven’t you?”
“Six months ago. I’ll get my crap out of here tomorrow. Do you want me to put in a word for you with anyone in particular?”
“No, I’ll just go back to the secretarial pool and take my chances.”
“I’m sorry, Belle. You’ve been real thunder and lightning.”
She shed a few tears. We’d had a heavy year together. She’d covered for me a dozen times and even marched into von Dortann’s office and chewed him out on my behalf.
She closed the door behind her and returned to her office. I gave a sentimental look around the room. The office had once been occupied by William Faulkner on one of the thousand and one studio projects that never got off the ground. Belle had been his secretary. She used to siphon him out of the gutter, blind drunk. He apparently needed the money.
This wasn’t a difficult decision for me. All I had to do was spend an evening with Kurt von Dortann to see what I’d become in three years. What I didn’t want to face was the coming shoot-out at home, tonight.
Val and I were having a lot of heavy arguments. A half-dozen times, when I was waging trench warfare at the studio, Val had disappointed me. She blew up at me for refusing to sign the loyalty oath. She could