The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [178]
As he described what he had in mind, she nodded approvingly. At twenty she was a shrewd professional who had been working in movies since she was fourteen. She came from a family of vaudevillians and knew exactly how to construct a gag, and she knew he did too.
“Let’s go,” she said, sauntering outside into the sunshine.
They finished at seven that night. Though it had been a long, grueling day, Dick wasn’t the least bit tired and he just hated to leave. When he was told to report again tomorrow for another test he couldn’t believe his luck. He was called back the next day and the next—six in all, working on different movies or bits of movies and loving every minute of it. At the end of the week they handed him a pay packet containing a hundred dollars and told him they would let him know.
Two days went by, then three, a week … that weekend was the longest he had ever known. He knew he had screwed up and C. Z. wasn’t interested in him anymore. Then on Sunday night Beulah called him to the phone. “Some man says he’s C. Z. Abrams,” she said, thrusting the receiver at him.
“Abrams!” Dick grabbed the phone to his ear. “Yes, sir?” he said, his voice suddenly squeaky with nerves.
“I have been viewing your films here at my house,” Abrams said quietly. “There is something I would like to discuss with you. Please be at my office tomorrow at nine.”
“Nine! Yes, sir, I’ll be there!” he yelled, but Abrams had already put down the phone.
The office was cool, the white walls bare, the big solid desk immaculately tidy. And C. Z. Abrams, dark, cleanshaven, and unsmiling, in a cool gray suit and pale-blue shirt, looked tanned and rested and powerful.
“I have a deal to make with you,” he said, leaning forward across the desk and clasping his hands together. “And I will tell you why. I am a man who acts on instinct, a gut reaction to circumstances and people around me. You may have heard that I fire men I cannot trust. Now my instincts tell me I can trust you. I liked what you did last week. All of it was good, some of it brilliant. I am offering you the job as director of Scheherazade.”
Dick gulped. “Jeez,” he whispered, taking off his glasses and polishing them agitatedly, “but that’s gonna be one of the most expensive movies ever made!”
“So it is,” C. Z. said coolly. “And you had better do a helluva job on it because both your future and mine will rest on its outcome.” He stood up and said briskly, “My lawyers will discuss the terms of the contract with you. It will be fair, you can be sure of that. I will be producing the movie myself and we will assemble the cast together. My secretary will escort you to the attorney’s office. Good day, Mr. Nevern.”
Dick turned at the door and said, “Why me, C. Z.? When you could have anybody you wanted?”
Abramski smiled. “When I was just beginning someone asked me how I knew I could be a moviemaker. I told him ‘I just know I can.’ That man believed me. You answered my question the same way, and now I believe you.”
Dick walked out of the office on air, barely hearing what the lawyers said to him and caring even less. He was to direct Scheherazade and C. Z. was to produce. He had died and gone to heaven.
O’Hara bought four magnums of the best French champagne for the celebration. “A young buck like you directing a grand picture like Scheherazade,” he marveled, slapping Dick on his puny back with a mighty hand. “Sure and this C. Z. must be some kinda special guy, picking you off the streets like that.”
“He’s special all right,” Dick said, edging away from him, coughing, “and you got it in one, Mr. O’Hara. He told me yesterday that he’d picked himself off the streets more than once and that’s why he felt good about giving an unknown a chance.”
“What is he like?” Missie asked curiously.
“Like? Oh, medium height, thick black hair, dark eyes that can be cold as ice or soft as a roe deer. Handsome, I’d say—and he’s the best-dressed man I