Beverly Hills Dead

7

Hyman Greenbaum took a chair across from Rick’s desk, while Vance Calder cooled his heels in Rick’s reception room.

“I want to see his test,” Hy said immediately.

“The screening room is tied up right now,” Rick said. “I’ll run it for you later.”

Hy smiled a little smile. “It was that good, huh?”

“It was all right.”

“No seven-year contract,” Hy said.

“What do you want, Hy?”

“A two-picture deal with an option; fifty grand for the first one, a hundred for the second.”

“Not a chance,” Rick said.

“What are you offering?”

“A five-picture deal, starting at ten grand, adding another ten grand every time we pick up his option. And I’ll give him a nice dressing room.”

“Three pictures; twenty-five, fifty and a hundred. And he gets a cottage. And he gets the lead in the Sid Brooks picture.”

“All right,” Rick said. “Three pictures; fifteen, twenty-five and fifty. He gets the lead, and he’ll share a cottage. That’s it, Hy.”

“The kid needs a car,” Hy said. “He’s riding around on a bicycle with a motor, something called a Whizzer. He’ll get killed.”

“I’ll loan him one until he gets on his feet.”

“Oh, and he gets script approval.”

“Not for the first three pictures, Hy. We want him to do as well as you do, and I promise you I’ll handle him carefully. It’s not in our interests for him to appear in a mediocre movie.”

“No more than two pictures a year,” Hy said. “Let’s not wear him out.”

Rick shook his head. “It’s important for him to be seen a lot early in his career. Later, we’ll see.”

“You’ll pick up his dental bill.”

Rick nodded. “We’ve got a good man right down the street; he gets all our business.”

“This kid is going to be very big, Rick.”

“I hope so.”

“All right, you’ve got a deal.”

The two men stood and shook hands. “I’ll send you a contract tomorrow morning and a check for five grand,” Rick said.

“Done.”

“Let’s get him in here,” Rick said, pressing a button on his intercom. “Show Mr. Calder in, please.”

Vance walked into the room, and Rick shook his hand. “Welcome to Centurion, Vance,” he said. “I think you’re going to do very well here.”

“Thank you, Rick,” Vance said.

“Sit down, I want to tell you about the next few weeks.”

Everybody sat down.

“We’re in preproduction for a new script by Sidney Brooks, called Bitter Creek. It’s going to be a tough, gritty western with a lot of fresh faces, yours among them. You’re going to play the lead, and you’ll have a script when you leave here. We’ll start shooting the exteriors in about four or five weeks — sooner if we find an amenable location in a hurry. You’ll probably be living in a tent for a month. In the meantime, you have a lot of work to do. I want you to ride as much as you can out on the back lot. You looked good in the test, but I want you perfectly at home in the saddle, and I don’t want you saddle sore on location. Our head wrangler will teach you a lot of stuff you don’t know yet, including roping cattle, and you’ll spend some time on the firing range, working with guns.

“You’ll need some dental work to make you look good in the closeups, and we’ll send you to the studio’s dentist for that. You’ll be rehearsing with other members of the cast, with an acting coach, learning your lines, and you’ll spend a couple of hours every day in the gym; we want to strengthen your upper body a bit and put a little more muscle on you for the part. After this film, you can decide how much working out you want to do, but it’s important to your career that you be fit. Any questions?”

“When do I start all this?”

“Be in the gym at nine tomorrow morning. My secretary will give you a map of our lot, so you can find your way around.” Rick reached into a pocket and tossed him a set of keys. “There’s the key to your dressing room and a ’38 Ford convertible outside in my parking spot; you can use it until the film is over, and after that I’ll sell it to you if you like it.”

“Thank you, Rick.”

“Your dressing room will be half a duplex cottage at number 4A G Street. You’ll see it on the map. You can sleep there, if you like, and save some money on rent. You’ll have a pass for your car that will get you through the gate, but the guards will know you almost immediately. If you need clothes for a special occasion, see Marge in wardrobe, and she’ll loan you what you need. Get fitted for a tuxedo today; you’re invited to dinner at Eddie Harris’s house tomorrow evening at seven. Don’t bring a girl; Eddie’s wife, Suzanne, will pair you with somebody. Is there anything else you need?”

“I’m probably going to need a lawyer,” Vance said.

“Hy will recommend somebody, I’m sure. Anything else?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Don’t hesitate to call me if you do. In the meantime, don’t get into any traffic accidents, don’t get anybody pregnant and, generally speaking, keep your nose clean. You’ll get into the columns soon, but we want it to be at a time of our choosing. One of the publicity people will interview you for a studio bio, and we’ll have a lot of still pictures taken. If you need a date for an event, publicity will fix you up with a contract player. Be nice to her.”

“Of course.”

“Your screen test is put up in my screening room next door.” Rick handed him an envelope. “Here’s your script. Good luck.” He stood up, shook the actor’s hand and showed him and his agent to the screening room, leaving them there.

Rick called Eddie Harris and sketched out the deal for him.

“Fine with me,” Eddie said. “Good job, and you keep that kid happy.”

“Don’t worry; he’s happy, and he’s going to stay that way.”

“He’s going to be our Clark Gable and our Clete Barrow, all wrapped up in one.”

“He just might be. He’ll be at your house for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Good. Did you give him Glenna’s car?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t bother to pick out a new one; it’s already in the parking lot next to your spot, by way of thanks for her spotting Calder.”

“Thanks Eddie.”

“You heard from Manny, the location maven, yet?”

“He’s probably still in the air. Don’t worry; he’ll come up with something.”

“I expect so. See you later, kid.”

Rick hung up and turned his attention to the pile of mail on his desk. He went through a few things, then he came to an internal mail envelope, sealed with wax.

“Now what?” Rick said aloud. He broke the seal and shook out the single sheet of paper onto his desk. It was another photostat of a Communist Party of America card.

The name on it was that of one Louise Brecht, of a Milwaukee address. Rick sat, frozen, staring at the card. He didn’t burn this one.