“Thank you, Hy. I appreciate that. Did you get a chance to read the treatment of the novel?”
“I did, and I love it. Whoever reads it is going to love it, but we’ve got to face reality here, Sid.”
“Tell me the reality.”
“If we put your name on this, nobody’s even going to read it, let alone buy it.”
“How about Centurion? I think Rick Barron would buy it.”
“It’ll be Eddie Harris’s decision, and he’s a party, however unwilling, to the statement the studio heads issued in New York a couple of days ago. Let’s use a pseudonym. I’ll tell him I’ve signed a new writer.”
“They would want a meeting to discuss the script.”
“I’ll say the writer lives in New York. No, not New York; Maine — Portland, Maine. Nobody is going to travel up there to talk with a writer. We’ll do conferences by phone.”
“So I have to give up my name?”
“This is temporary, Sid. I don’t know how temporary, but it’ll blow over eventually, believe me.”
“Can you get my price for the treatment, Hy?”
“I don’t think you should count on that; after all, we’re talking about a new writer, not an established one, like you. I’ll have the treatment retyped, so it won’t look like your usual submission.”
“Thank you.”
Hy stood up. “I’ll be in touch in a few days, Sid. Do you have a phone in the new place?”
“I forgot. I have to call the phone company. There’s a phone there; it’s just not hooked up to the exchange.”
“Call me with the number when you have one. Now go see David Sturmack.”
David Sturmack was tall and slender, with thick, dark hair and a prominent nose. He appeared to be in his early thirties. His office was a mess: the furniture was battered, and there were a lot of unfiled documents. He greeted Sid warmly. “Just kick that stuff off the sofa and have a seat,” he said. “You want some coffee?”
“Thanks.”
He pointed to a coffeemaker in the corner. “You pour while I read that letter from your wife’s lawyers.” He held out his hand.
Sid gave him the letter and poured the coffee.
“Black for me,” Sturmack said.
Sid poured another cup and handed it to him.
“This is shitty,” Sturmack said, holding up the letter. “And she cleaned out your bank and brokerage accounts, too?”
“Probably.”
“How much?”
“Over a hundred and fifty thousand in the bank account — I had deposited a big check, hadn’t even paid the taxes yet — and, maybe a quarter of a million in the brokerage account.”
“You did well during the war, then.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Too old for the draft?”
“Yes. Where were you?”
“France and Germany. I commanded an airborne regiment.”
“You made colonel?”
“Yes, at the very end; they wanted me to stay in.”
Sid was impressed.
“I’m twenty-nine,” Sturmack said, reading his mind. “Have you had any contact with your wife, other than this letter?”
“No. I went by the house straight from the airport to get my car, but the house was dark. I went there again an hour ago, and the maid said she had gone to New York and she didn’t know when she’d be back.”
“Uh-huh.” Sturmack walked behind his desk, picked up the phone and, checking the letterhead for the number, dialed. “Pick up and listen,” he said to Sid, pointing to the phone on the coffee table.
Sid picked up the instrument.
“Higgins and Reed,” an operator said.
“Thomas Reed. David Sturmack calling.”
“Mr. Reed’s office. Can you hold, Mr. Sturmack?”
“For a brief time.”
“David? Tom Reed. How are you?”
“I’m depressed, Tom. It always depresses me when I have to take an ethics complaint to the bar association, especially when it’s a lawyer I like and admire. I thought better of you, Tom.”
“Whoa, David. What are we talking about, here?”
“I’m representing Sidney Brooks, that’s what we’re talking about, and I’ve never seen a more outrageous list of actions against a client with no legal basis whatever.”
“Now, David...”
“She orders him out of his home, then leaves for New York? She expects him to move out, even when she’s not living there?”
“David, I’m sure we can...”
“And she confiscates his funds and investments with no notice, funds on which taxes have not yet been paid.”
“Listen to me, David...”
“No, Tom, you listen to me. I’m going to file the ethics complaint even before I go to a judge for an order to restore the funds, which you know I’ll get. Did you think you would be negotiating from a position of strength by doing this?”
“David, what do you want?”
“My client moves back into his home today; if Mrs. Barron wishes to visit L.A. she can stay at a hotel paid for with marital funds. She restores seventy-five percent of the funds taken from the bank account and all of the funds taken from the brokerage account, and we both stipulate that no investment transactions be made without mutual consent. Before close of business today.”
“I think I can do that.”
Sid held up a key and pointed to it. “She changed the locks,” he mouthed.
“And I want keys to the house delivered to my office before lunch, and I eat early.”
“All right, all right.”
“When all that has been accomplished we can convene a settlement conference. Call me back and confirm.” Sturmack hung up. “I think that’ll do for now,” he said to Sid.
“I certainly think so,” Sid said, stunned. “All that from the threat of an ethics complaint?”
“Oh, there was a subtext to that conversation,” Sturmack said. “Clients of mine are involved in something very big with clients of his; he didn’t want to make me angry. When the keys come, I’ll send them over to the house with my secretary. She’ll put them under the doormat, so you should be able to move in by, say, three o’clock? Give me the address.”
Sid wrote down the address.
“Phone number?”
“She changed it; I don’t know what it is.”
“I’ve got a friend who can deal with that. You’ll have your old number back by suppertime.”
“David, I can’t thank you enough. We haven’t discussed your fee.”
“Nothing, so far; it was just a phone call. I’ll bill you for my time while we negotiate the settlement; I won’t need a retainer. I doubt if the divorce will come to more than two, three grand; she can pay Higgins and Reed herself.”
Sid left David Sturmack’s office with the feeling that, for the first time in a couple of weeks, his head was above water.
26
The days in Wyoming were growing shorter, and there was frost on the ground in the mornings now; they had to wait for the temperature to rise before filming, so that the actors’ breath could not be seen. Rick accelerated the shooting schedule, and they wrapped the final exterior scene four days early.
That night there was what Rick thought of as a professional amateur show in the dining hall, where the cast of the picture provided the entertainment. The highlight of the evening was the finale, when the two costars, in hobo costumes, performed “Burlington Bertie from Bow,” accompanied by three other actors on piano, bass and guitar. They brought the house down and had to do another chorus as an encore. Rick began thinking about putting them into a musical.
It was nearly midnight when Rick and Glenna returned to the ranch house, where there was a note to Rick from Eddie Harris to call him at home, no matter how late.