“I’ll talk to him,” Sam said.
Bert Firestone was outside, in back of Stage Twenty-Three, playing basketball with the crew. They had rigged up a court and had painted in boundary lines and put up two baskets.
Sam stood there, watching a moment. The game was costing the studio two thousand dollars an hour. “Bert!”
Firestone turned, saw Sam, smiled and waved. The ball came to him, he dribbled it, feinted, and sank a basket. Then he strolled over to Sam. “How are things?” As though nothing were wrong.
As Sam looked at the boyish, smiling young face, it occurred to him that Bert Firestone was a psycho. Talented, maybe even a genius, but a certifiable lunatic. And five million dollars of the company’s money was in his hands.
“I hear there’s a problem with the new set,” Sam said. “Let’s straighten it out.”
Bert Firestone smiled lazily and said, “There’s nothing to straighten out, Sam. The set won’t work.”
Sam exploded. “What the hell are you talking about? We gave you exactly what you ordered. You did the sketches yourself. Now you tell me what’s wrong with it!”
Firestone looked at him and blinked. “Why, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want a castle. I’ve decided that’s not the right ambience. Do you know what I mean? This is Ellen and Mike’s farewell scene. I’d like to have Ellen come to visit Mike on the deck of his ship as he’s getting ready to sail.”
Sam stared at him. “We don’t have a ship set, Bert.”
Bert Firestone stretched his arms and smiled lazily and said, “Build one for me, Sam.”
“Sure, I’m pissed off, too,” Rudolph Hergershorn said, over the long-distance line, “but you can’t replace him, Sam. We’re in too deep now. We have no stars in the picture. Bert Firestone’s our star.”
“Do you know how far over the budget he’s—”
“I know. And like Goldwyn said, ‘I’ll never use the son of a bitch again, until I need him.’ We need him to finish this picture.”
“It’s a mistake,” Sam argued. “He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this.”
“Sam—do you like the stuff Firestone has shot so far?”
Sam had to be honest. “It’s great.”
“Build him his ship.”
The set was ready in ten days, and Bert Firestone put the There’s Always Tomorrow company back into production. It turned out to be the top grosser of the year.
The next problem was Tessie Brand.
Tessie was the hottest singer in show business. It had been a coup when Sam Winters had managed to sign her to a three-picture deal at Pan-Pacific Studios. While the other studios were negotiating with Tessie’s agents, Sam had quietly flown to New York, seen Tessie’s show and taken her out to supper afterward. The supper had lasted until seven o’clock the following morning.
Tessie Brand was one of the ugliest girls Sam had ever seen, and probably the most talented. It was the talent that won out. The daughter of a Brooklyn tailor, Tessie had never had a singing lesson in her life. But when she walked onto a stage and began belting out a song in a voice that rocked the rafters, audiences went wild. Tessie had been an understudy in a flop Broadway musical that had lasted only six weeks. On closing night, the ingenue made the mistake of phoning in sick and staying home. Tessie Brand made her debut that evening, singing her heart out to the sprinkling of people in the audience. Among them happened to be Paul Varrick, a Broadway producer. He starred Tessie in his next musical. She turned the show, which was fair, into a smash. The critics ran out of superlatives trying to describe the incredible, ugly Tessie and her amazing voice. She recorded her first single record. Overnight it became number one. She did an album, and it sold two million copies in the first month. She was Queen Midas, for everything she touched turned to gold. Broadway producers and record companies were making their fortunes with Tessie Brand, and Hollywood wanted in on the action. Their enthusiasm dimmed when they got a look at Tessie’s face, but her box-office figures gave her an irresistible beauty.
After spending five minutes with her, Sam knew how he was going to handle her.
“What makes me nervous,” Tessie confessed to Sam the first night they met, “is how I’m gonna look on that great big screen. I’m ugly enough life-sized, right? All the studios tell me they can make me look beautiful, but I think that’s a load of horseshit.”
“It is a load of horseshit,” Sam said. Tessie looked at him in surprise. “Don’t let anyone try to change you, Tessie. They’ll ruin you.”
“Yeah?”
“When MGM signed Danny Thomas, Louie Mayer wanted him to get a nose job. Instead, Danny quit the studio. He knew that what he had to sell was himself. That’s what you have to sell—Tessie Brand, not some plastic stranger up there.”
“You’re the first one who’s leveled with me,” Tessie said. “You’re a real Mensch. You married?”
“No,” Sam said.
“Do you fool around?”
Sam laughed. “Never with singers—I have no ear.”
“You wouldn’t need an ear.” Tessie smiled. “I like you.”
“Do you like me well enough to make some movies with me?”
She looked at him and said, “Yeah.”
“Wonderful. I’ll work out the deal with your agent.”
She stroked Sam’s hand and said, “Are you sure you don’t fool around?”