The Carpetbaggers

Nevada returned to the present suddenly. "Let's hold it for a year," Bernie Norman was saying. "By then, we'll know which way to jump."

Dan Pierce looked across at him. Nevada knew the look. It meant that Pierce felt he'd gone as far as he could.

"Chaplin and Pickford had the right idea in forming United Artists," Nevada said. "I guess that's the only way a star can be sure of making the pictures he wants."

Norman's eyes changed subtly. "They haven't had a good year since," he said. "They've dropped a bundle."

"Mebbe," Nevada said. "Only time will tell. It's still a new company."

Norman looked at Pierce for a moment, then back to Nevada. "O.K.," he said. "I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll put up a half million toward the picture, you guarantee all the negative cost over that."

"That's a million and a half more!" Pierce answered. "Where's Nevada going to get that kind of money?"

Norman smiled. "The same place we do. At the bank. He won't have any trouble. I'll arrange it. You'll own the picture one hundred per cent. All we'll get is distribution fees and our money back. That's a better deal than United Artists can give. That shows you how much we want to go along with you, Nevada. Fair enough?"

Nevada had no illusions. If the picture didn't make it, his name would be on the notes at the bank, not Norman's. He'd lose everything he had and more. He looked down at the blue-covered script. A resolution began to harden inside him.

Jonas' father had said to him once that it wasn't any satisfaction to win or lose if it wasn't your own money, and you'd never make it big playing for table stakes. This picture just couldn't miss. He knew it. He could feel it inside him.

He looked up at Norman again. "O.K., Bernie," he said. "It’s a deal."

When they came out into the fading sunlight in front of Norman's bungalow office, Nevada looked at the agent. Pierce's face was glum. "Maybe you better come down to my office," he muttered. "We got a lot of talking to do."

"It can keep till tomorrow," Nevada said. "I got company from the East waitin’ for me at home."

"You just bit off a big nut," the agent said.

They started toward their cars. "I reckon it's about time," Nevada said confidently. "The only way to make real money is to gamble big money."

"You can also lose big that way," Pierce said dourly.

Nevada paused beside his white Stutz Bearcat. He put his hand affectionately on the door, much in the same manner he did with his horses. "We won't lose."

The agent squinted at him. "I hope you know what you're doing. I just don't like it when Norman comes in so fast and promises us all the profits. There's a monkey somewhere."

Nevada smiled. "The trouble with you, Dan, is you're an agent. All agents are suspicious. Bernie came in because he had to. He didn't want to take any chances on losin' me." He opened the door and got into the car. "I’ll be down at your office at ten tomorrow morning."

"O.K.," the agent said. He started toward his own car, then stopped and came back. "This talking-picture business bothers me. A couple of other companies have announced they're going to make talkies."

"Let 'em," Nevada said. "It's their headache." He turned the key, pressed the starter and the big motor sprang into life with a roar. "It's a novelty," he shouted to the agent over the noise. "By the time our picture comes out people will have forgotten all about talkies."

The telephone on the small table near the bed rang softly. Rina walked over and picked it up. It was one of those new French telephones, the first she'd seen since she'd returned from Europe. The now familiar insignia was in the center of the dial, where the number usually was printed. "Hello."

Nevada's familiar voice was in her ear. "Howdy, friend. You all settled in?"

"Nevada!" she exclaimed.

"You got other friends?"

She laughed. "I'm unpacked," she said. "And amazed."

"At what?"

"Everything. This place. It's fabulous. I never saw anything like it."

His voice was a quiet whisper in her ear. "It's not very much. Paltry little spread, but I call it home."

"Oh, Nevada," she laughed, "I still can't believe it. Why did you ever build such a fantastic house? It's not like you at all."

"It's part of the act, Rina," he said. "Like the big white hat, the fancy shirts and the colored boots. You're not really a star unless you have the trappings."

"With N Bar S on everything?" she asked.

"With N Bar S on everything," he repeated. "But don't let it throw you. There are crazier things in Hollywood."

"I've got so much to tell you," she said. "What time will you be home?"

"Home?" He laughed. "I am home. I’m down in the bar, waiting for you."

"I’ll be down in a minute," she said, then hesitated. "But, Nevada, how will I find the bar? This place is so immense."

"We got Indian guides just for occasions like this," he said. "I’ll send one up after you."

She put down the telephone and went over to the mirror. By the time she had finished applying lipstick to her mouth, there was a soft knock at the door.

She crossed the room and opened it.

Nevada stood there, smiling. "Beg pardon, ma'am," he said with mock formality. "I jes’ checked the entire joint an' you won't believe it, but I was the only Indian around!"

"Oh, Nevada!" she said softly.

Then suddenly she was in his arms, her face buried against the hard muscles of his chest, her tears staining the soft white front of his fancy shirt.

JONAS – 1930

____________________

Book Three

1

THE LIGHTS OF LOS ANGELES CAME UP UNDER the right wing. I looked over at Buzz, sitting next to me in the cockpit. "We're almost home."

His pug-nosed face crinkled in a smile. He looked at his watch. "I think we got us a new record, too."

"The hell with the record," I said. "All I want is that mail contract."

He nodded. "We’ll get it now for sure." He reached over and patted the dashboard. "This baby insured that for us."

I swung wide over the city, heading for Burbank. If we got the airmail contract, Chicago to Los Angeles, it wouldn't be long before Inter-Continental would span the country. From Chicago east to New York would be the next step.

"I see in the papers that Ford has a tri-motor job on the boards that will carry thirty-two passengers," Buzz said.

"When will it be ready?"

"Two, maybe three years," he answered. "That's the next step."

"Yeah," I said. "But we can't afford to wait for Ford. It could take five years before something practical came from them. We gotta be ready in two years."

Buzz stared at me. "Two years? How are we gonna do it? It's impossible."

I glanced at him. "How many mail planes are we flying now?"

"About thirty-four," he said.

"And if we get the new mail contract?"

"Double, maybe triple that many," he said. He looked at me shrewdly. "What're you gettin' at?"

"The manufacturers of those planes are making more out of our mail contracts than we are," I said.

"If you're talkin' about buildin' our own planes, you're nuts!" Buzz said. "It would take us two years just to set up a factory."

"Not if we bought one that was already in business," I answered.

He thought for a moment. "Lockheed, Martin, Curtiss-Wright, they're all too busy. They wouldn't sell. The only one who might is Winthrop. They're layin' off since they lost that Army contract."

I smiled at him. "You're thinkin' good, Buzz."

He stared at me in the dim light. "Oh, no. I worked for old man Winthrop. He swore he'd never- "

We were over Burbank airport now. I swung wide to the south end of the field where the Winthrop plant stood. I banked the plane so Buzz could see from his side. "Look down there."

Up through the darkness, illuminated by two searchlights, rose the giant white letters painted on the black tarred roof.