before I decided what to do. In the course of the few minutes we talked, whatever she had taken wore off. She stood up and moved to the door, telling me that she felt well enough to go back to a Ziegfield set where they were rehearsing around her.
She opened the door and looked back at me.
“I’m all right now, Mr. Peters, but I am scared and I’d like your help.”
She left before I could tell her that I had no help to give. I could hear the two women exchanging words outside the door, and Cassie James came back in without Warren Hoff.
“Warren’s gone out to get help, someone to make you come to your senses and take this job,” she explained with a smile that kept me from standing. “Would you like something to drink?”
It was about ten in the morning, and I didn’t drink anyway except for an occasional beer. I said no, but accepted when she offered coffee.
The coffee was already made and warm in the corner. She poured us both cups and sat next to me.
I shook my head.
“You don’t remind me of anyone,” I said, “I was trying to think of something smart to say to get you laughing.”
“I don’t laugh easily,” she said, gliding over the compliment. She obviously had a lot of experience bypassing double-meaning compliments. I dropped it and turned to business.
In about five minutes, Cassie James confirmed what Judy Garland had said, and added that she had been friendly with the actress for about a year or two.
“I did a little acting,” she said, getting up for more coffee. I watched her. “But, after a few years, I could see I wasn’t going to make it. I have some ability-” she shrugged “-but I couldn’t take it. When you’re an actor, you’re yourself and someone else at the same time. People criticize the face you were born with, dissect your emotions, complain about your posture, praise the moments you like least, ignore the instant you feel perfect pain.”
“You’re quite a person,” I said.
“Thank you,” she laughed, and then the laugh died.
“I had a younger sister who could have made it through,” she said with a slight pout, “but she died. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling rather motherly about Judy. She reminds me of my sister.”
I was stumbling around in my head for something to say to make the next move with her, but nothing came. She had, as the toughs in Warner films said, “class,” and I couldn’t quite bring myself to invite her to my place for cereal and a night of radio listening. My place was a single room and a bath in a neighborhood where you don’t bring people like Cassie James. I decided to try anyway, but Hoff came into the room without knocking.
He looked at Cassie and me to be sure there was nothing going on. He wasn’t quite satisfied, but he held his confident look.
“Mr. Mayer would like to see you, Peters.”
I looked at Cassie, who raised her eyebrows in mock respect. I gave a knowing shrug as I rose to follow Hoff.
“Be seeing you,” I said.
“I hope so,” she beamed, and I hoped she wasn’t just being polite.
Hoff sulked ahead of me, his confidence drooping as soon as the door closed. I tried to adjust to the prospect of seeing the boss, the final “M” in M.G.M., the most important person in the movie world. Hoff didn’t give me the chance to adjust.
“What were you two talking about, Peters?”
“I’m Toby, remember, and you’re Warren.” I hurried along at his side. He had changed into another suit, but if he kept drooping and hurrying and smoking, he’d go through a whole wardrobe before lunch.
“What were you talking about?” he demanded.
“Shove it up your ass, Warren,” I said. It may have blown my $25 in expenses, but a man has some pride and I was still remembering the scent of Cassie James.
Hoff turned in mid stride and faced me, probably remembering his football days when he had run over linemen or tackled cheerleaders or whatever the hell he did. We stood glaring at each other for a few minutes like two twelve-year-olds in the schoolyard who won’t back down.
“Warren, either take a swing at me or lead the way to Mayer’s office. I have other ways of getting exercise.”
A fat man in a cowboy suit passed us slowly, stalling a bit to see if we would start slugging. Hoff turned suddenly at the sound of Mayer’s name and hurried on.
Entering Mayer’s office proved to be something like going to see the Wizard in his chamber. Hoff stopped at a door and announced me to a beautiful blonde in a pink dress. If she had a desk, I couldn’t see it. The blonde escorted me through a door and turned me over to a deskless redhead who finally took me to another beautiful blonde who had the distinction of having a desk. Blonde Number Two led me down a carpeted corridor, and just as I had resigned myself to endless wandering around the building led by beautiful women, we stopped at a door and she knocked.
From somewhere in the distance a voice answered, “Come in.”
The blonde opened the door and backed away. I stepped into an enormous room. The walls were white with a few pictures. The distant desk was white. The chairs and sofa were white. It looked like a plush padded cell. On the far end of the big room, behind the desk, stood a short, spectacled man with a prominent hooked nose, who appeared to have no neck. He wore a grey suit and a serious look. As I came closer, I could see that his hair was a well-trimmed grey, and he seemed to be somewhere in his mid-50’s.
I had to lean across the desk to shake his hand. He took my right hand in both of his and held it tightly.
“I’m Louis Mayer,” he said, “and you are Toby Peters.”
I knew that already, but if the man with the highest salary in the world wanted to remind me, I was happy to listen.
2
I love this country,” said Louis B. Mayer, waiting for an argument. His voice was faintly New York, and he seemed sincere enough. “What do you think of this country, Mr. Peters?”
“I love it,” I said.
He kept looking at me with suspicion. I adjusted my blue tie.
“Herbert Hoover says we’re far more likely to be drawn into the European War under Roosevelt than Willkie, and Willkie says the United States is sick of the type of government that treats our Constitution like a scrap of paper,” Mayer said, lifting a crisp copy of the L.A. Times from his desk in evidence. “I think Mr. Hoover is right. What do you think, Mr. Peters?”
“I think this has nothing to do with a dead Munchkin,” I said, smiling.
“You get smart with me and I’ll throw you out!” shouted Mayer, dropping his newspaper on the floor.
“You’ll need a lot of help,” I said, relaxing or pretending to. The white chair I was in was covered with fur, and damned comfortable.
“I can get help,” said Mayer.
“I’m sure you can.”
We stared at each other for a few more years, and Mayer decided on a new strategy: the story of his life.
“I came to this country from Russia with my family when I was four years old. My father was a junk man, and we moved around America from New York to Canada and back again. My father, who was nothing but a laborer in Russia, became a successful ship salvager in the United States. When I was fourteen, I became his partner. Do you know what day I was born on?”
I admitted that I didn’t.
“I don’t know either,” he said, putting both hands on his desk. “So I picked my own birthday: the Fourth of July. That’s how I feel about this country. When I was a kid, I bought a little movie theater in Haverhill, near Boston, for about $1,000. That was in 1907. Eight years later, I owned a bunch of theaters and was making my own
