"Not the way you want it," Jonas said flatly. "No business can run with two heads."
David was silent.
Jonas' words cut sharply through the dark like a knife. "All right, make your deal with Bonner," he said. "But it'll be up to you to get rid of Dan."
He turned in the jump seat. "You can take us back to Mr. Woolf's car now, Robair."
"Yes, Mr. Cord."
Jonas turned back to them. "I saw Nevada earlier," he said. "He'll make that series for us."
"Good. We'll begin checking story properties right away."
"You don't have to," Jonas said. "We settled that already. I suggested to him we pick up the character Max Sand from The Renegade and take it from there."
"How can we? At the end of the picture, he rode off into the hills to die."
Jonas smiled. "We'll presume he didn't. Suppose he lived, took another name and got religion. And that he spends the rest of his life helping people who have no one else to turn to. He uses his gun only as a last resort. Nevada liked it."
David stared at Jonas. Why shouldn't Nevada like it? It captured the imagination immediately. There wasn't a Western star in the business who wouldn't jump at the chance of making a series like that. That was what he'd meant by creative conceit. Jonas really had it.
The car came to a stop in front of the hospital. Jonas leaned over and opened the door. "You get off here," he said quietly.
The meeting was over.
They stood in front of his car and watched the big black limousine disappear down the driveway. David opened the door and Rosa looked up at him. "It's been a big night, hasn't it?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "A very big night."
"You don't have to take me back. I can get a cab here. I’ll understand."
He looked down at her, his face serious, then he smiled. "What do you say we go someplace for a drink?"
She hesitated a moment. "I have a cottage at Malibu," she said. "It's not far from here. We could go there if you'd like."
They were at the cottage in fifteen minutes. "Don't be upset at how the place looks," she said, putting the key into the lock. "I haven't had time lately to straighten up."
She flicked on the light and he followed her into a large living room that was very sparsely furnished. A couch, several occasional chairs, two small tables with lamps. At one end was a fireplace, at the other a solid glass wall facing the ocean. In front of it was an easel holding a half-finished oil painting. A smock and palette lay on the floor.
"What do you drink?" she asked.
"Scotch, if you have it."
"I have it. Sit down while I get ice and glasses."
He waited until she went into another room, then crossed to the easel. He looked at the painting. It was a sunset over the Pacific, with wild red, yellow and orange hues over the almost black water. He heard ice clink in a glass behind him and turned. She held out a drink to him.
"Yours?" he asked, taking the glass from her.
She nodded. "I'm not really good at it. I play the piano the same way. But it's my way of relaxing, of working off my frustrations over my incapabilities. It's my way of compensating for not being a genius."
"Not many people are," he said. "But from what I've heard, you're a pretty good doctor."
She looked at him. "I suppose I am. But I’m not good enough. What you said tonight was very revealing. And very true."
"What was that?"
"About creative conceit, the ability to do what no other man can do. A great doctor or surgeon must have it, too." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm a very good workman. Nothing more."
"You might be judging yourself unfairly."
"No, I’m not," she replied quickly. "I’ve studied under doctors who were geniuses and I've seen enough others to know what I'm talking about. My father, in his own way, is a genius. He can do things with plastics and ceramics that no other man in the world can. Sigmund Freud, who is a friend of my father's, Picasso, whom I met in France, George Bernard Shaw, who lectured at my college in England – they are all geniuses. And they all have that one quality in common. The creative conceit that enables them to do things that no other man before them could do." She shook her head. "No, I know better. I'm no genius."
He looked at her. "I’m not, either."
David turned toward the ocean as she came and stood beside him. "I’ve known some geniuses, too," he said. "Uncle Bernie, who started Norman Pictures, was a genius. He did everything it now takes ten men to do. And Jonas Cord is a genius, too, in a way. But I’m not sure yet in what area. There are so many things he can do, it's a pity."
"I know what you mean. My father said almost the same thing about him."
He looked down at her. "It's sad, isn't it?" he said. "Two ordinary nongeniuses, standing here looking out at the Pacific Ocean."
A glint of laughter came into her eyes. "And such a big ocean, too."
"The biggest," he said solemnly. "Or so some genius said. The biggest in the world." He held up his glass. "Let's drink to that."
They drank and he turned again to the ocean. "It's warm, almost warm enough to swim."
"I don't think the ocean would object if two just ordinary people went for a swim."
He looked at her and smiled slowly. "Could we?"
She laughed. "Of course. You'll find swimming trunks in the locker in the utility room."
David came out of the water and collapsed on the blanket. He rolled over on his side and watched her running up the beach toward him. He held his breath. She was so much a woman that he had almost forgotten she was also a doctor.
She dropped beside him and reaching for a towel, threw it across her shoulders. "I didn't think the water would be so cold."
He laughed. "It's wonderful." He reached for a cigarette. "When I was a kid, we used to go swimming off the docks in the East River. It was never like this." He lit the cigarette and passed it to her.
"Feel better now?" she asked.
He nodded. "It's just what the doctor ordered." He laughed. "All the knots came untied."
"Good," she said. She dragged on the cigarette and passed it back to him.
"You know, Rosa," he said, almost shyly, "when my mother asked me to dinner to meet you, I didn't want to come."
"I know," she said. "I felt the same way. I was sure you'd be a real slob."
She came down into his arms, her mouth tasting of ocean salt. His hand found her breast inside her bathing suit. He felt a shiver run through her as the nipple grew into his palm, then her fingers were on his thigh, capturing his manhood.
Slowly he reached up and slipped the suit from her shoulders and drew it down over her body. He could hear her breath whistling in her chest as he pressed his face against her breasts. Her arms locked around his head, closing out the night. Suddenly, her fingers were frantic, leading him to her, her voice harsh and insistent. "Don't be so gentle, David. I'm a woman!"
13
Rosa came into the cottage and went directly into the bedroom. She glanced at the clock on the night table. It was time for the six-o'clock news. She turned on the radio and the announcer's voice filled the room as she began to undress:
Today the pride of the German army, Rommel, the "Desert Fox," got his first real taste of what it felt like to eat desert sand as, in the midst of a whirling, blinding sandstorm, Montgomery began to push him back toward Tobruk. Obviously inadequately prepared for the massive onslaught, the Italians, supporting Rommel's flanks, were surrendering en masse. With his flanks thus exposed, Rommel had no choice but to begin to fall back to the sea. In London today, Prime Minister Winston Churchill said-
She flicked off the radio. War news. Nothing but war news. Today she didn't want to hear it. She turned and looked at her naked body in the mirror over the dresser.
She pressed her hand to her stomach. It felt strong and somehow full to her. She turned sideways and studied herself. She was still flat and straight. But in a little while, she would begin to get round and full. She smiled to herself as she remembered the surprise she had heard in Dr. Mayer's voice. "Why, Doctor, you're pregnant!" There had been a look of amazement in his eyes.