The car started up again. Gordon turned and signaled for the riders to follow. "Might as well keep shooting," he said to the cameraman, looking up at the sky. "This sun doesn't look as if it will last forever."

Peter heard him and nodded approvingly to himself. Good boy, this Gordon, he didn't waste any light. Light was the most valuable thing in this business. You had to be ready to use it whenever you could. He turned in his seat and looked back.

Gordon's back was turned to him. He was leaning against the back of the car, his knees braced against its side, his body hanging over it dangerously. He waved his right hand in a circle. A rider dove from his horse and tumbled over and over on the ground.

Peter nodded his head again and turned around in his seat. He sat there silently, oblivious of the sounds and noises behind him. There were many other things on his mind. He stared ahead morosely.

There was this business of George wanting to sell out the theaters. He felt that George was worrying over nothing, and he was sure that he did not want to break up the theater chain. He felt they played an important part in establishing the Magnum name across the country. He had told Johnny that he wanted to buy George out. Johnny pointed out that it would take more cash than they had available. He had suggested they go to see Al Santos and try to borrow the capital necessary. They were to see Al today at Al's office in downtown Los Angeles. He wasn't at all sure he could get the money from him; he owed him almost four million dollars already.

The car stopped. Peter looked up, surprised the ride was over so soon. He got out of the car and turned to the unit man. "Nice work, Tom," he said to him.

Gordon corrected him. "Bob, Mr. Kessler."

Peter looked at him closely for a moment, his eyebrows pulled together. "Yes," he said absently, "Bob. Nice work." Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked down the road.

11.

Al Santos's office was in the rear of the two-storied Bank of Independence, and through the gla.s.s he could see what was going on all over the bank. The office was very plain. Al's clothes, too, were of a sober and conservative cut. Little trace remained about him of the carnival operator of fifteen years ago. He now looked like an exemplary representative of the banking profession. Only his eyes were the same, warm, brown, and twinkling. And the tanned leathery wrinkles on his face and the black, thin, Italian stogie clenched between his teeth.

Right now he was feeling good. Thin spirals of smoke arose from the end of his cigar as he leaned back in his chair and through half-lidded eyes looked at Johnny while Peter was speaking.

Johnny looked tired, he thought. He was working too hard at the studio. He had heard how much Johnny was doing out there and he knew just how much had been accomplished. Very little went on at any of the studios that did not reach his ears sooner or later. Somehow he felt proud of the job that Johnny had done. In a little more than a month Magnum was humming like a beehive and he knew a great deal of it was due to Johnny's effort. He was as glad that Johnny had been able to accomplish it as if he had done it himself.

But Johnny looked too tired. There were lines of fatigue across his face and around the corners of his mouth. He couldn't keep working at a pace like that forever. It was killing.

And Johnny's new wife. Al smiled to himself at the thought. A man sixty-two years old could think of things like that only in retrospect. There was a woman to wear out the b.u.t.tons on a man's trousers. He looked at Johnny more closely. He supposed that didn't help much either. A man had to have some rest.

He listened to Peter with half an ear. He was used to having picture people in his office asking him to lend them money. It was a peculiar business. No matter how much they had, they always needed more to do something else they couldn't manage without. It was a funny thing, too. Generally he loaned them money and it had turned out all right.

He remembered when he had first come out here. He was retired. The last thing he expected to do was to become a banker. A former carnival man a banker. He wouldn't have believed it himself if someone had told it to him then. But one day while he was sitting on the front porch of his farm talking with his brother, Luigi, and sorting out the notes he kept in the little box in the dresser, he added them up. The picture men around here owed him almost a quarter of a million dollars. He had jokingly pa.s.sed the remark to Luigi that he might as well open a bank for them since they couldn't seem to get any money through the banks already established. His bookkeeper, Vittorio Guido, a neighbor's son, who was a bookkeeper in a bank in Los Angeles during the week and helped Al on week-ends, had come out on the porch just at that moment. He had looked down at Al and had asked: "Why don't you, Mr. Santos?"

And he had, in a small store at first. Over the door they hung a small sign, made of wood, and printed on it in small raised letters were the words: "The Bank of Independence," and underneath that in smaller letters: "Loans Made to the Motion Picture Industry."

The picture business grew and so did the bank, almost hand in hand, it seemed. It was a long step from that first little store to this big building in Los Angeles of today. The gold letters on the door now read: "Capital $50,000,000."

Peter had finished talking and was waiting for him to answer. Al pulled himself away from his thoughts and looked at Peter shrewdly. He had heard enough of Peter's request to understand it. He wanted to borrow an additional two million dollars to buy out George's share of the theaters they owned jointly. "Why does George want to sell?" he asked.

"He wants more time to devote to his own theaters," Peter answered quickly.

Al leaned back and thought about it. He didn't think that was the whole reason behind George's willingness to part with his share of the Magnum theaters, but there were other factors to be considered before he made the loan. "You owe me three and a quarter million dollars now," he said pleasantly. "I persuaded the board to renew it last year when the notes came due. It will be hard to get them to approve an additional two million on top of that."

"But there was a reason for it last year," Peter said. "We were building up our foreign exchanges and it took money." He opened the briefcase on his lap and rummaged through it looking for some papers. He found them and placed them on Al's desk. "This year, however, we won't have those expenses and we'll be able to meet the notes."

Al didn't look at the papers. He never did. They were always ready to show him papers containing budgets and plans and results. He turned them over to his loan and collateral departments for study. Let them try to figure it out and make sense of it. He never could. Whether he lent a man one dollar or one million he always based his loan on his personal opinion of the borrower. "How are you going to do it?" he asked Peter.

Peter cleared his throat nervously. Sometimes he wondered why he kept pushing himself to make more money in this business. The bigger he got, the more he had to worry about. He didn't understand it, but that was the fascination the business had for him. There seemed to be no limit to how far a man could go. "This is my idea." He leaned toward Al and unconsciously lowered his voice. "We'll convert the present loan into seventy-five-thousand-dollar notes, one payable each week. That way this loan would be paid off within the year and would go through a process of reduction that your board can't object to. Against the new loan we'll give you a ten-year chattel mortgage on all the Magnum theaters. They're worth approximately twice what I want to borrow and I don't think your board would mind that." He sat back in his chair and looked at Al, satisfied with himself.

"Seventy-five thousand is a lot of money to pay off every week," Al said thoughtfully. "You sure you can do it?"

"I'm sure I can," Peter said, more confidently than he felt. "We're grossing three hundred thousand and better each week now, and by the end of the year, when the foreign offices are moving in full swing, we should be doing four."

In his mind Al checked the figures Peter quoted against the figures he knew. They were right. Magnum was grossing fifteen million a year. "Who would run the theaters if George left?" he asked.

Peter answered: "Johnny," his head nodding toward him.

Al turned to Johnny. "And you think this will be okay?"

Johnny looked at him. He had been silent while Peter presented his request. "It will take a lot of hustling," he answered honestly, "but I think it will work out all right."

Al turned back to Peter and puffed his cigar thoughtfully. He wasn't entirely satisfied about George's viewpoint, but the other bases for the loan were good. Four million collateral against a two-million mortgage was reasonably safe. He stood up, indicating the interview was at an end. "It sounds all right to me," he said to Peter, picking up the papers on his desk. "I'll turn these over to Vittorio and I'll let you know in a day or two."

Peter smiled in relief. Past experience had taught him that when Al said it would be all right, it generally was, no matter what Vittorio thought. He got to his feet and held out his hand. "Thanks, Al," he said.

Al shook his hand and they started toward the door. At the door Al put his hand on Johnny's shoulder and said reproachfully: "You've only been out to the farm once since you been here."

Johnny looked at him swiftly. It was true, but he had been busy and Dulcie didn't want to go out to the farm. She said the place depressed her because it was so quiet. "I've been working pretty late," he said apologetically.

Al smiled at him. His eyes were warm and fond as they looked at Johnny. "Well, don't be a stranger," he said. "After all, I'd like to see more of your pretty wife. I'm an old man, but I'm not that old I can't appreciate a beautiful woman, especially when she's practically in the family."

Johnny's face colored and Al smiled at it. He turned to Peter and laughed. "These newlyweds are all alike."

He walked them through the bank and watched them get into Peter's car and drive away. Then he turned and walked back to his office, shaking his head a little. Something was bothering Johnny. It wasn't only business, either. He knew Johnny too well for that. Maybe it was his wife, he guessed shrewdly. She didn't look like the kind of woman who would stay at home and raise a family. Especially after once working in a picture. He closed the door of his office behind him and walked over to his desk and sat down heavily. He picked up the papers on his desk and pressed the buzzer for Vittorio.

While he waited for Vittorio, he thumbed idly through the papers. They were covered with figures, but he wasn't looking at them. He was thinking about Johnny. Too bad he hadn't got anywhere with Peter's kid. For a while it looked like they would. She was more his style. The door opened and Vittorio came in.

"What do you want, Al?" Vittorio asked, standing in front of his desk.

He held the papers toward him. "Take a look at these and let me know if they look all right," he said heavily. "We're going to lend Kessler another two million dollars."

Vittorio didn't answer. He took the papers from his employer's hand and went out the door.

Al stared at the closed door. He let out a heavy sigh and lighted up a fresh cigar. He felt suddenly depressed. He looked at his thin cigar. It was his fourth of the day already. The doctor had told him not to smoke more than three. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. "I guess I'm getting old," he said aloud in the empty room.

Peter was quiet almost all the way back to the studio. When they neared the studio gates he finally spoke to Johnny. "I walked down the back lot this morning," he said, "and I found out Marran wasn't out with his crew. A kid named Gordon was running it. He was doing good, too."

"I know," Johnny answered. "Marran was c.o.c.keyed when he came in this morning."

Peter looked at him in surprise. Johnny didn't miss much. "I guess I'll have to fire him," he said heavily. He didn't like to fire anybody.

"I already did this morning," Johnny answered shortly.

Peter looked at him, relief showing on his face. "We'll put Gordon in charge, then."

"Yeanh," Johnny answered. "I've watched him. He's a worker."

They were silent again as the car rolled through the gates and stopped in front of the administration building. They got out of the car and Johnny followed Peter into his office. In the office Peter turned to him. His voice was humble. "I guess you'll have to hustle back to New York right away if we get that loan. We'll have to keep after business to make that seventy-five every week."

Johnny looked at him. He didn't answer. He walked over to a window and looked out. From the window he could see a truck rolling over to Stage Number One.

Peter walked over and stood beside him looking out. "You've done everything here that needed to be done. I'll be able to manage all right now. We need you back in New York to make sure things will be all right."

"What about Dulcie?" The words sprang bitterly from Johnny's lips.

Peter looked at him uncomfortably. It was a shame to break up their honeymoon. They had been married just a little over a month. He walked back to his desk and sat down. "I'll look after her," he said awkwardly. "I'll send her back as soon as the picture is finished."

Johnny walked over to the desk and looked down at him. He knew there wasn't anything he could do about it. The picture had been working two weeks already and too much money had gone into it to be thrown away. Besides, Peter was right. If they got this loan he had to return to New York. They couldn't take any chances, having to pay out seventy-five thousand every week.

He looked down at Peter. "Remind me not to bring any of my wives out here in the future," he said angrily. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. It wasn't Peter's fault. It was this crazy business. You never knew what was going to happen next.

12.

"Rock!" His voice seemed to echo in the lighted apartment. He stood there listening for an answer, a puzzled look on his face. There was no answer.

He turned and went back into the hall and brought in his valise. He closed the door behind him and, valise still in hand, walked to Rocco's room and opened the door. "Rock," he called softly.

There was no answer. He turned on the light. The room was empty.

He carried the valise to his room and put it on the bed. Rocco wasn't home. Strange. Maybe Jane forgot to tell him about the wire he had sent, but no, Jane wouldn't forget. He wondered where Rocco had gone.

Still puzzled, he took off his hat and coat and began to unpack. The first thing he took out was a photograph of Dulcie, which he placed on the dresser, and then he stood back smiling fondly.

It had been taken by one of the still photographers out at the studio just a few days ago. It was a good photograph, bringing out the depth of her eyes, the attractive curve of her lips over the even white teeth, and the careless line of her hair falling down to her shoulders.

Good kid, he thought as he turned back to his unpacking. She had been upset over his having to leave so suddenly. She wanted to quit the picture. He smiled to himself as he thought of how he had had to argue to persuade her to stay on while he went back. A few weeks before, she wanted to make the picture more than anything in the world and he didn't want her to. Now she wanted to quit and he had to persuade her to stay with it.

She had no idea of how much there was involved once a picture got under way. It wasn't only the money, he had told her, there were a lot of other things too. The people that worked with her would suffer if she pulled out. What really convinced her was what he said about pictures being like the theater. The-show-must-go-on business and all that kind of c.r.a.p. He remembered the way her face had lighted up. She could understand that. Not for nothing had her family been in the theater for so long.

Her face smiled warmly at him from the photo on the dresser, where it leaned against the mirror. He smiled back at it. Good kid. He'd have to get a frame for it in the morning. He'd do it before he went into the office. She deserved it. She had even cried a little before he left. She had tried to hide it from him, but he had noticed it. He felt good remembering it.

His unpacking was done. He straightened up and began to take off his shirt. Unconsciously he glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. It was after two in the morning. His brows knitted together. Where the h.e.l.l was Rocco?

Suddenly he laughed aloud. "You're getting to be a regular old woman," he told himself accusingly. "A guy's ent.i.tled to have some fun out of life."

He finished undressing and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he came out he put on his pajamas and sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his leg. He paused for a moment. He felt uncomfortable. Alone.

He looked over at the clock on the night table. It was nearing three o'clock. Maybe Rock had left a note for him in his room. He got up and walked back to Rocco's room.

The light was still on; he had forgotten to turn it off. He walked into the center of the room and looked around. No note. Acting on impulse, he pulled open a dresser drawer. It was empty. He pulled open the other drawers. They were empty too.

He turned and walked over to the closet and looked in. Rocco's clothes were gone. He shut the door slowly and walked out of the room thoughtfully. Where had Rock gone and why hadn't he told him, he wondered.

Rocco couldn't tell him, he remembered; they hadn't spoken to each other since they had parted that night in California, and when he had called New York he had had no occasion to speak with him. He lit a cigarette and sat down on the edge of his bed.

It was strange not having Rocco around. The apartment seemed empty without him. It was almost lonely.

Suddenly he brightened up. That was the answer. Of course, Rocco had thought he would return with Dulcie, and that was why he had moved out. Silly of him not to think of it before. It was like Rock to do something like that.

He smiled to himself as he put out the cigarette. He would tell the guy off when he saw him in the morning down at the office. What was the idea of worrying him half to death?

He loosened the straps that held the leg in place and lay down on the bed. He reached over and turned off the light. For a long time he lay there in the dark staring upward in the room. He would miss having Rock around all the time. Dulcie's face intruded on his thoughts. "h.e.l.l, you can't have everything," he thought as he drifted off into slumber.

But all the same he slept restlessly. There was a feeling of being alone in the world that haunted him even in his sleep. Strange that Dulcie's face in his dreams didn't drive that feeling away.

He walked into the office briskly. "Good morning, Janey," he said, smiling.

She got up from her desk and ran over to him. She held out her hand. "So you went and done it." She laughed with mock seriousness. "You got away from me, dammit."

He laughed aloud. He looked pleased as he took her hand. "Is that the way you talk to your boss when he gets married?" he asked.

She looked at him for a moment. Her eyes were still laughing as she pretended to look behind him. "Well, the coast seems clear enough," she said. "I don't see your wife around. I guess I could kiss you."

He still held her hand. "I guess you could," he nodded.

She kissed his lips swiftly and then looked up at him. Her gaze was serious now. "Good luck, Johnny," she said sincerely. "I hope you'll be very happy."

"I will be," he said confidently, "I'm a very lucky guy." He took off his hat and coat, gave them to her, and walked to the door of his office. He looked back at her. "Tell Rock to see me when he comes in," he said, still smiling. "I got something to tell that guy."

She nodded as she hung up his coat, and he disappeared into his office.

He sat down at his desk. The mail was spread out before him. He began to look through it. His phone rang. He picked it up.

"Irving Bannon wants to talk to you," Jane's voice said.

"Okay," he answered. "Put him on." He heard the click of the phone. "h.e.l.lo, Irv."

"Johnny, you old son of a b.i.t.c.h, you been holding out on us." Irving's voice was effusive.

Johnny smiled into the phone. He supposed he would have to listen to this all day. He might as well get set to expect it. "I wasn't, Irving," he said. "It was as much a surprise to me as anybody."