Sins of the Flesh Page 9

  “We’ll be in touch the minute we hear anything. You can stop by, camp out here, whatever you want. Do you need a car?”

  Gingerly he shook his head. “No, I think I’ll take on the city by foot; I can use the exercise. But thanks for the offer.” He hesitated a fraction of a second before he held out his hand. The surprise on the faces of both men was worth the effort. Before the door closed behind him, Reuben heard Jerry mumbling about paying for two virgins and getting only one. He would have laughed, but his head hurt too much.

  The only thing to do now, the only thing he could do, was wait.

  Chapter Six

  Bebe woke in slow degrees. First her eyes opened and then closed. It always took a good five minutes before she realized that she felt terrible, sick really. After another five minutes she’d succeeded in forcing the bile back to her stomach. Her second conscious thought was that she needed a drink to start the day more than she needed to brush her teeth and take a shower. Her third thought, always realistic, was how lucky she was that there was no one around to see how she looked and felt.

  The diamond-studded watch on her wrist told her it was seven A.M. Usually she was just getting in at this hour, and here she was getting up with the roosters. Why, she asked herself, her foggy brain whirling. Oh, yes…she had something to do today that was important, something she’d promised herself she would do—early. Searching the pretty bedroom for the answer, she happened to glance at the little silver picture frame. Lily, sweet little Lily, Reuben’s daughter by his mistress, Rosemary. Rosemary with the big red bow. Rosemary had died in childbirth, and…she had agreed to take the baby when Reuben said they would make a fresh start in their marriage. Lily was a robust baby with fat pink cheeks that gobbled up bottle after bottle, never crying unless she was hungry. And then…and then…one morning she had stopped breathing. What was it the doctors said? Something about infant deaths with no reason. Unexplained. The casket had been small and white, the top covered with yellow-and-white daisies. She’d mourned—God, how she’d mourned!—not just for Lily, but for what she recognized as the final failure of her marriage. Lily had been her last chance to make Reuben love her, and…she was filing for divorce today. That was the important thing she couldn’t remember.

  It was almost noon before Bebe had herself sufficiently together to leave the house. In the full light of day, her appearance had shocked her witless, so much so that she’d almost canceled her appointment with her attorney. Living the party life generally meant that she slept all day and partied all night. Lamplight and twilight were always kind to her ravished features, and makeup hid a multitude of flaws. Today, the harsh reality slammed her full in the face. She wanted to cry, to blubber, to wail and stamp her feet at what she’d become, but she didn’t. She’d done it to herself…with Reuben’s help. From somewhere deep inside her a warning bell sounded. It was the end of the road for her; either she straightened out her life, or she would be joining Lily in that never-never place everyone feared. Initiating divorce proceedings was to be her first step in her personal survival. From there she would take it one day at a time.

  The lawyer’s name was Chester Rogal. He was considered small-time by most Hollywood standards, but he was successful by his own standards and that was all that counted. When he closed his office at night, he often bragged to himself that he’d never short-changed a client or lost a case. He’d settled cases out of court, but always to his client’s advantage. He was short and rotund, with a beak for a nose and an Abraham Lincoln beard that he constantly massaged while he was thinking. And he was thinking now as he listened to Bebe Tarz. Of course, he’d heard all the stories before, everyone had, and he was smart enough to know that there were two sides to everything and then there was the truth. But Chester never passed judgment. Ever. Now he was listening with what he called his third ear for some telltale sign that Bebe was going to prove less than profitable.

  “It’s very simple, Mr. Rogal. The settlement can be one or the other. I see it as cut and dried. I want my father’s half of the studio returned to me and my brother, or else I want half of everything Reuben owns. Either way, I want his resignation from the studio. If we settle for half and he fights for his seat on the board, I’ll give that up if I have to, but I want him out of there. What I really want is the studio; it belongs to my family. He robbed my father, and I don’t care what the media says about him being Fairmont Studios. Do you foresee a problem with any of this?” Bebe asked.

  “Well, I’d be lying to you if I said the man won’t put up a fight. He’s given his life to the studio, and you want to yank it out from under him. Of course, he’s going to put up a fight. But we’ll work something out,” Chester said confidently.

  “Mr. Rogal, I want you to cut him off at the knees. And I want to take back my maiden name after the divorce.” Bebe scribbled out a check for an outrageous sum of money and placed it on the desk with a trembling hand. “You will earn every cent of this, and if things go the way I want them to go, there will be a bonus in it for you. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Rogal.”

  Chester buzzed his secretary after Bebe had left. When he heard her voice he smiled. “Helen, I want you to get me every word that’s ever been printed about Hollywood’s golden boy, Reuben Tarz.” He continued to smile as he stared at the check in his hand. Four lovely zeros, all in a row.

  The moment Bebe swung the powerful car into the driveway leading to the house, she knew something was wrong. Her brother Eli and Clovis Ames, Fairmont’s leading lady of silent films and Sol Rosen’s second wife, were talking together on the front steps. Bebe felt her throat constrict. Something had happened to her father.

  “We’ve been waiting, sis. Sit down. It’s Pop, he’s had a stroke. He…didn’t make it. Clovis was with him in the ambulance.”

  “He didn’t suffer, Bebe,” Clovis said gently. “It was quick and…merciful, if you can say that about death. I…I want to do the right thing…. I’m not Jewish…Eli said he would handle things, so perhaps you two should talk about this. I can go back to the house or…I can stay, it’s up to you.”

  In shock, Bebe could only nod. Her father gone. How was it possible? Just a little while ago she’d asked for the studio, had told the lawyer it belonged to her and Eli. But she hadn’t mentioned her father. Was it possible that even then she’d had a premonition? No, her father and Clovis were happy, traveling and doing things together. More than once he’d told her that he didn’t want anything to do with the studio, that Reuben Tarz deserved all the misery that went with it.

  “I think you should call Reuben,” Eli said.

  “That’s funny, Eli. I don’t have the foggiest idea of where Reuben is. I just got back yesterday myself,” Bebe cried, dabbing at her eyes.

  “The housekeeper told me he’s in Washington. With Daniel Bishop, I assume. The studio told me he’s staying at the Ambassador. We can delay the funeral until he gets back. Do you want me to call him?”

  “No, I’ll do it. What about Simon and Dillon?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Clovis, did Daddy say anything, at the end, I mean?”

  As if on cue, Clovis drew herself up dramatically. “Yes, he said to tell both of you he loved you very much. I was holding his hand and he squeezed mine. I said I would tell you.” Eli’s eyes thanked her for the lie.

  “Oh, Clovis!” Bebe threw herself into her stepmother’s arms. “I’m going to miss him. I wish I’d been a better daughter, kissed him more often, visited him more, said kinder things to him.”

  Clovis patted her comfortingly. “Shhh, that’s not important. Your father knew you loved him and he loved you. He wouldn’t want you crying like this. I want you to pull yourself together, Bebe. Things have to be done; you have to call Reuben. The whole town will turn out to pay tribute to Sol. We have to make some plans.”

  Bebe nodded. “What will you do?”

  Clovis smiled wanly. “I think I’ll go back to Texas and stay with my sister. I’ve had enoug
h of this town to last me the rest of my life. Who knows, I might strike oil. The house is yours, Bebe. When your husband deeded it back to Sol, he in turn deeded it to you and Eli. Eli says he wants no part of it, so I guess it’s yours. I certainly don’t want it, and Sol never wanted me to have it. We had our own arrangements, and they aren’t important. Come along and call Reuben.”

  “I filed for divorce today, Clovis,” Bebe said, trailing alongside her father’s widow.

  “It’s about time. Now maybe you’ll make a life for yourself. I’m proud of you, Bebe, really proud. If you need me or if there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  “I always wanted to be like you, Clovis. I used to playact and say and do things I thought you would do in a scene. I think I’ve been acting all my life,” Bebe said pitifully.

  “I’m flattered, honey, but what I did wasn’t reality. That was all make-believe for money. Money was the thing; everything, no matter what it was, was for box office. I’m really glad I didn’t make it when sound came. I got a chance to be myself, and I like who I am. That’s why I have to leave this place. Enough talk now. You have to call Reuben.”

  The moment Reuben answered the phone Bebe started to cry. Between sobs she told him of her father’s death. “Eli said we can postpone things till you arrive. Can you give me some indication of when—”

  “Bebe, listen to me,” Reuben said, his voice full of shock. People like Sol Rosen lived forever. “I can’t make it back right now. Go ahead with the funeral. I’ll pay my respects when I get there. You know how I feel about funerals. They’re barbaric.”

  Bebe shook her head to clear her thoughts. Reuben—her own husband—was not interested in attending her father’s funeral? She took a deep breath. “I heard what you said, Reuben, and I think you are the lowest form of life on this earth. Daddy practically gave you the studio, and you can’t be bothered to attend his funeral. How dare you! How dare you, Reuben! Better yet, go to hell! Oh, I get it,” Bebe screamed, “it finally got to you; you’re afraid to show your face to the industry because they’ll all start talking about the way you aced Daddy out of the studio. Well, you crud, they’ll talk more now because I’m going to remind them in case they’ve forgotten. Go to hell, Reuben!”

  Eli felt his eyes pop at Bebe’s angry words. Clovis reached out to take Bebe in her arms. “He’s not coming,” she blubbered. “He’s not coming to Daddy’s funeral.”

  Sol Rosen’s funeral wasn’t just a funeral, it was an event. Everyone in Hollywood, down to the last cameraman and script girl, attended the graveside service. Bebe found herself listening to the rabbi’s eulogy, wondering where he’d come by his information and all the kind words and outright lies he was saying. From beneath her veil she could see others wondering the same thing. “Your father wrote his own eulogy himself several years ago,” Clovis blurted out suddenly as if reading her mind.

  Bebe, Clovis, and Eli were the last to leave the cemetery. “I feel as if I should say something, do something,” Bebe said softly.

  Eli shook his head. “I wish he’d loved me. I loved him.”

  “I wish I’d loved him more,” Bebe said.

  “I loved him enough for all of us,” Clovis muttered. “It’s true,” she said defiantly as they looked at her. “He loved you, Eli, he just couldn’t show it. He thought it wasn’t masculine to show his feelings for a son. You have to believe me. It’s the truth.”

  God would forgive her this little lie, and so would Sol.

  Chapter Seven

  Daniel Bishop stepped foot onto English soil, his heart thrumming wildly about in his chest. This, the first leg of his journey, was over, and he was still alive, but he was far from his final objective and had no way of knowing how much longer it would take to reach that final objective. Someone had said they were in Plymouth, but the Brits were a secretive lot, and when he’d questioned the man who seemed to be his guide, he’d just shook his head and said, “Later,” then called him a bloody fool for leaving the safety of America to come on a wild goose chase. In the end Daniel had followed the man blindly through the driving rain to the metal airplane hangar where he was now sitting, waiting for someone in authority to tell him what his next move would be.

  Daniel closed his eyes and did his best to focus on a map of England and France. Plymouth, he thought, was at the southern tip of England on the English Channel and directly across from Cherbourg, and directly southwest of Cherbourg was Brest, a true deep-water harbor that was mined by the Germans.

  Angry sounds of dissension bounced off the tin walls of the hangar. Obviously the men weren’t happy with his presence and didn’t want the responsibility of crossing him over to French soil. And he didn’t blame them. What the hell was he doing here? Patience, he told himself. An hour later he was still telling himself to be patient when the discussion became more heated. The group’s words carried clearly to him.

  “The old man gave the order himself, so we can’t ignore it. Bear in mind, all of you, it’s an order and not a request. When the prime minister says jump, lads, we jump. The best thing as I see it,” announced the speaker with the loud voice, “is to draw lots. Short stick takes him over.”

  Daniel listened for what he was sure would be more muttered curses, but the little group grew strangely silent. His stomach heaved when a short, stocky man with a thick growth of beard approached him. “We’ll go now.”

  “Now! But it’s storming outside,” Daniel protested.

  “Exactly. Put this slicker on, follow me, and try not to open your mouth again until I dump you into the hands of the French Resistance.”

  Daniel did as instructed. “How are we going to cross the Channel if it’s mined?”

  The bearded man turned to him. “We aren’t crossing the Channel because it’s too dangerous. I have a wife and three children to think of, so we’re going out to the ocean and head due south. Those important friends of yours that know the prime minister said you wanted to go to Marseilles, so I’m going to drop you off at Bayonne; if we’re lucky, someone will meet you at Saint-Jean-de-Luz and take you the rest of the way. It won’t do to ask me any more questions because that’s all I know.”

  It was a garbage scow, Daniel was sure of it. Minutes later his suspicion was confirmed when the howling wind drove the stench of rotting garbage past his nose. He could see the wisdom of using the storm as a cover; if they were stopped the scow’s captain could say he was blown off course. But the chances of that would be dim, he thought. Even Germans liked their comfort.

  The scow, sturdy as it was, was no match for the storm they were sailing into. Rain sluiced downward, streaming over Daniel and the captain as waves strained upward to meet the onslaught from above. It seemed to Daniel that he was immersed in water from head to toe. Desperately he fought for toeholds that didn’t exist, used his hands that were now raw and bleeding from hanging on to the rope the captain tossed him.

  Twenty minutes into the trip found Daniel violently ill, the contents of his stomach spewing onto the slippery deck. He tried to think of pleasant things, safe things, to keep his sanity as the scow pitched forward, then sideways, always ending with what seemed like tons of water pouring over him. What time was it in Washington or California? His brain refused to function when he tried to calculate. No sane person would go through what he was going through, regardless of who owed who what. There was every possibility that he wouldn’t even find Mickey.

  Reuben…What was Reuben doing now? Most likely on his way to Washington to find out where he was. Of his two friends Rocky and Jerry, Rocky would be the one to give in to Reuben and tell all he knew. Reuben would gnash his teeth, stomp his feet, curse, bellow, and then calm down. Then it would all flood back to him, and the reason behind this trip would be clear.

  Daniel found himself wondering if he would die trying to help Mickey. Probably not, since he still had a good many things to do in his life. God always seemed to listen to him when he begged for something. He hoped He was listening now.
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  Night crawled into day and then into night again with no letup from the storm. Daniel craved dry land and sleep, both of which were impossible. “Tie the rope around your waist, it will free your hands,” the captain called. It seemed a simple order until Daniel tried to knot the rope with his raw, bleeding hands. Finally he gave up and resumed holding the rope as he’d been doing.

  “You Yanks are a prissy lot, and the prime minister thinks you’re going to be our salvation. Bull turds!” the captain bellowed.

  “We’ll save your asses because you Brits don’t have the sense to do it yourself,” Daniel shouted. “Go ahead, tell me to shut up, see if I listen.”

  “Feisty, aren’t we. Who’s saving your ass now, Yank?” the captain bellowed a second time. “I haven’t met a Yank yet who didn’t cry in his beer.”

  “I don’t drink beer, and I don’t know any American who cries in his beer. We’re on your side, you asshole!”

  “What are you, some kind of crusader?” the captain said, giving the wheel a vicious tug.

  Daniel gasped and sputtered and almost lost his hold on the ropes when a ten-foot-high wave slapped him full in the face. “I’m a lawyer,” he groaned.

  “A blimey solicitor getting fat off other people’s misery,” the captain snarled. Daniel refused to be baited or to dignify the man’s remarks with one of his own. He was a damn good lawyer, and no one was going to take that away from him.

  “Won’t be long now,” the captain called cheerily.

  Stuff it, Daniel thought nastily.

  “It won’t be long now” turned into four hours more of the same torture. Daniel decided he wanted to die and be buried at sea. He’d have voiced the thought aloud but didn’t want to give the captain the satisfaction of knowing how miserable he was.