He lifted his whitish eyebrows at me, took a plain brown cigar out of his mouth, bit the end off and spit it into the pool.
“That won’t do the fish any good,” I said.
He gave me an up-from-under look. “I raise boxers. The hell with fish.”
I figured it was just Hollywood. I lit a cigarette and sat down on the bench. “In your office,” I said. “Well, every day has its new idea, hasn’t it.”
“Up against the corner of the desk. Do it all the time. Drives my secretaries crazy. Gets into the carpet, they say. What’s the matter with women nowadays? Never bothers me. Rather like it. You get fond of dogs, you even like to watch them pee.”
One of the dogs heaved a full-blown begonia plant into the middle of the tiled walk at his feet. He picked it up and threw it into the pool.
“Bothers the gardeners, I suppose,” he remarked as he sat down again. “Oh well, if they’re not satisfied, they can always—” He stopped dead and watched a slim mail girl in yellow slacks deliberately detour in order to pass through the patio. She gave him a quick side glance and went off making music with her hips.
“You know what’s the matter with this business?” he asked me.
“Nobody does,” I said.
“Too much sex,” he said. “All right in its proper time and place. But we get it in carload lots. Wade through it. Stand up to our necks in it. Gets to be like flypaper.” He stood up. “We have too many flies too. Nice to have met you, Mister—”
“Marlowe,” I said. “I’m afraid you don’t know me.”
“Don’t know anybody,” he said. “Memory’s going. Meet too many people. Name’s Oppenheimer.”
“Jules Oppenheimer?”
He nodded. “Right. Have a cigar.” He held one out to me. I showed my cigarette. He threw the cigar into the pool, then frowned. “Memory’s going,” he said sadly. “Wasted fifty cents. Oughtn’t to do that.”
“You run this studio,” I said.
He nodded absently. “Ought to have saved that cigar. Save fifty cents and what have you got?”
“Fifty cents,” I said, wondering what the hell he was talking about.
“Not in this business. Save fifty cents in this business and all you have is five dollars worth of bookkeeping.” He paused and made a motion to the three boxers. They stopped whatever they were rooting at and watched him. “Just run the financial end,” he said. “That’s easy. Come on children, back to the brothel.” He sighed. “Fifteen hundred theaters,” he added.
I must have been wearing my stupid expression again. He waved a hand around the patio. “Fifteen hundred theaters is all you need. A damn sight easier than raising purebred boxers. The motion-picture business is the only business in the world in which you can make all the mistakes there are and still make money.”
“Must be the only business in the world where you can have three dogs pee up against your office desk,” I said.
“You have to have the fifteen hundred theaters.”
“That makes it a little harder to get a start,” I said.
He looked pleased. “Yes. That is the hard part.” He looked across the green clipped lawn at a four-story building which made one side of the open square. “All offices over there,” he said. “I never go there. Always redecorating. Makes me sick to look at the stuff some of these people put in their suites. Most expensive talent in the world. Give them anything they like, all the money they want. Why? No reason at all. Just habit. Doesn’t matter a damn what they do or how they do it. Just give me fifteen hundred theaters.”
“You wouldn’t want to be quoted on that, Mr. Oppenheimer?”
“You a newspaper man?”
“No.”
“Too bad. Just for the hell of it I’d like to see somebody try to get that simple elementary fact of life into the papers.” He paused and snorted. “Nobody’d print it. Afraid to. Come on, children!”
The big one, Maisie, came over and stood beside him. The middle-sized one paused to ruin another begonia and then trotted up beside Maisie. The little one, Jock, lined up in order, then with a sudden inspiration, lifted a hind leg at the cuff of Oppenheimer’s pants. Maisie blocked him off casually.
“See that?” Oppenheimer beamed. “Jock tried to get out of turn. Maisie wouldn’t stand for it.” He leaned down and patted Maisie’s head. She looked up at him adoringly.
“The eyes of your dog,” Oppenheimer mused. “The most unforgettable thing in the world.”
He strolled off down the tiled path towards the executive building, the three boxers trotting sedately beside him.
“Mr. Marlowe?”
I turned to find that a tall sandy-haired man with a nose like a straphanger’s elbow had sneaked up on me.
“I’m George Wilson. Glad to know you. I see you know Mr. Oppenheimer.”
“Been talking to him. He told me how to run the picture business. Seems all it takes is fifteen hundred theaters.”
“I’ve been working here five years. I’ve never even spoken to him.”
