Hollywood was a three-ring circus filled with wild, insane characters, a minefield with a parade of idiots dancing across it. Most actors, directors and producers were self-centered megalomaniacs, ungrateful, vicious and destructive. But as far as Sam was concerned, if they had talent, nothing else mattered. Talent was the magic key.
Sam’s office door opened and Lucille Elkins, his secretary, came in with the freshly opened mail. Lucille was a permanent fixture, one of the competent professionals who stayed on forever and watched her bosses come and go.
“Clifton Lawrence is here to see you,” Lucille said.
“Tell him to come in.”
Sam liked Lawrence. He had style. Fred Allen had said, “All the sincerity in Hollywood could be hidden in a gnat’s navel and there’d still be room for four caraway seeds and an agent’s heart.”
Cliff Lawrence was more sincere than most agents. He was a Hollywood legend, and his client list ran the gamut of who’s who in the entertainment field. He had a one-man office and was constantly on the move, servicing clients in London, Switzerland, Rome and New York. He was on intimate terms with all the important Hollywood executives and played in a weekly gin game that included the production heads of three studios. Twice a year, Lawrence chartered a yacht, gathered half a dozen beautiful “models” and invited top studio executives for a week’s “fishing trip.” Clifton Lawrence kept a fully stocked beachhouse at Malibu that was available to his friends anytime they wanted to use it. It was a symbiotic relationship that Clifton had with Hollywood, and it was profitable for everyone.
Sam watched as the door opened and Lawrence bounced in, elegant in a beautifully tailored suit. He walked up to Sam, extended a perfectly manicured hand and said, “Just wanted to say a quick hello. How’s everything, dear boy?”
“Let me put it this way,” Sam said. “If days were ships, today would be the Titanic.”
Clifton Lawrence made a commiserating noise.
“What did you think of the preview last night?” Sam asked.
“Trim the first twenty minutes and shoot a new ending, and you’ve got yourself a big hit.”
“Bull’s-eye.” Sam smiled. “That’s exactly what we’re doing. Any clients to sell me today?”
Lawrence grinned. “Sorry. They’re all working.”
And it was true. Clifton Lawrence’s select stable of top stars, with a sprinkling of directors and producers, were always in demand.
“See you for dinner Friday, Sam,” Clifton said. “Ciao.” He turned and walked out the door.
Lucille’s voice came over the intercom. “Dallas Burke is here.”
“Send him in.”
“And Mel Foss would like to see you. He said it’s urgent.”
Mel Foss was head of the television division of Pan-Pacific Studios.
Sam glanced at his desk calendar. “Tell him to make it breakfast tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. The Polo Lounge.”
In the outer office, the telephone rang and Lucille picked it up. “Mr. Winter’s office.”
An unfamiliar voice said, “Hello there. Is the great man in?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Tell him it’s an old buddy of his—Toby Temple. We were in the army together. He said to look him up if I ever got to Hollywood, and here I am.”
“He’s in a meeting, Mr. Temple. Could I have him call you back?”
“Sure.” He gave her his telephone number, and Lucille threw it into the wastebasket. This was not the first time someone had tried the old-army-buddy routine on her.
Dallas Burke was one of the motion-picture industry’s pioneer directors. Burke’s films were shown at every college that had a course in movie making. Half a dozen of his earlier pictures were considered classics, and none of his work was less than brilliant and innovative. Burke was in his late seventies now, and his once massive frame had shrunk so that his clothes seemed to flap around him.
“It’s good to see you again, Dallas,” Sam said as the old man walked into the office.
“Nice to see you, kid.” He indicated the man with him. “You know my agent.”
“Certainly. How are you, Peter?”
They all found seats.
“I hear you have a story to tell me,” Sam said to Dallas Burke.
“This one’s a beauty.” There was a quavering excitement in the old man’s voice.