NO MILK TODAY - Part 1

NO MILK TODAY

by

Albert Woods

Part 1

 

Whenever the milk bell rang in the Norfolk schoolyard, a hundred and fifty-odd excited children would stampede into the hall and queue for their daily third of a pint; except, that is, for the biggest and ugliest. They just barged everybody else out of the way, and sometimes snatched bottles from those who had got there first. By the time that the lame ducks at the back had their turn, there were seldom any full ones left. One big fat boy, Donnelly, would take two, or three, at a time. It wasn't fair.

Muriel Calvert had been one of the lame ducks though, invariably, the first to complain to teacher. She was spirited in that way; and what she lacked physically, more than made up for with concern for others. When she told tales, it was not herself she was thinking about. There was Jimmy Canning, for a start; a polio victim who could barely walk - and Jennifer Morton with her bad nerves. How were they supposed to get milk? The staff never did anything about it - but the young Miss Calvert did.

* * *

The elegant creature that she had become, gave sharp contrast to the sickly and frail child she’d once been. Her acting talent was late in coming to the fore though, once it had, there was no holding her. And now she was becoming a name; almost a star. Dave Sanson knew that better than anybody.

He stood by the Los Angeles apartment's panoramic window pretending to look out. His eyes were tightly shut, his expression a grimace, wincing at every word she spoke. He had been Muriel's manager and agent since the start, and they’d come a long way together. But now he was tired of it, and suspected that his days in the demanding role were numbered. Despite all he had done for her, through the bad times and the good, there was little gratitude; no loyalty. Everything he suggested she do was automatically challenged. She had outgrown him.

Today's wrangle concerned the part on offer in the new Goldberg movie. Even to be considered for it was, in Dave's and everyone else's view, an accolade in itself; a rare chance to work with the master. Stars of a standing way above hers would have jumped at a bit part, let alone the lead; yet she had to be difficult - and just at the very time when Dave Sanson needed the money most. Since the dawn of Muriel's success, there had been enough of that rolling in, but he was unable to handle his share. With little in the way of new funds about at the moment, he knew that Muriel was likely to spot the fifty thousand he’d ‘borrowed’ from her till, and that would be the end of him. So the Goldberg offer had come as a godsend; at least until she started haggling. All right, so keeping cool was par for the course, playing hard to get and all that; but this one was too fragile. The ageing director had a reputation for giving short shrift to prima donnas; and if they were averse to jumping when he said jump, he'd not repeat himself.

Muriel had enjoyed some reasonable successes of late, which was why Goldberg was interested; though she was nowhere near the living legend she liked to think she was. Sanson could see this offer as the one opportunity to set the seal on her security in an otherwise here today, gone tomorrow business; and he was sick that she should behave so recklessly. Her words were tempting him to smash his tired brow against the plate-glass.

"Tell him I want ten percent," she was ranting. "I won't take less."

It was a wildly overambitious demand as he - and she, he suspected - well knew. "Look honey," he attempted to talk sense into her, "he won't buy that. He's got three or four possibles lined up. He's calling the tune on this one. Why don't you just do it? You'll be able to name your price, afterwards."

"Other possibles?" Muriel, in her vanity, had latched on to the expression, and ignored everything else. "OK, let him use one," she scoffed. "He can shortchange some other mug."

"But it's not like that," Dave tried to explain. "They're not his first choice. You are. Be realistic Mew, for heaven's sake. Now come on, what shall I tell him?"

She lit a cigarette and deeply inhaled the first drag. "Tell him to go stuff himself," she spoke through the smoke.

What was the use? Dave’s energy for trying to penetrate the cocoon of self-esteem had long since waned. "If that's what you really want," he sighed, picking up his briefcase. "But you know what it'll mean, don't you?"

"Do I?" she snapped.

"Oblivion."

"What do you mean by that?" he could hear her yelling down the hallway. “I expect you to come back with the deal. And on my terms!"

Dave felt relieved when the elevator doors met. Enough was enough.

‘Go stuff himself,’ the words echoed in his ears throughout the cab ride. Just who the hell did she think she was anyway? This errand was a complete waste of time. He'd be better off spending the next hour in the bar. Rather that than suffer the indignity of being thrown out of the director's office. The outcome would be no different for her future prospects – or his.

"Which end pal?" the cab driver asked. Already they were on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Dave was about to say when he had second thoughts. To hell with the cow! he resolved. Let her discover the light funds. What could she do about it? And what difference would it make to him? He was for the chop anyway. "Changed my mind," he told the driver. "Take me to George's Place on Central."

George had a good listening ear. It was one of the qualities that made him the man's man he was; a rock, a fund of good advice, often an unpaid marriage counsellor. Only, this time, there was little verbal mentoring, just a lot of drink. That was part of the skill; always sensing the mood to gauge the level of treatment necessary, dispensing a mixture of wise words and booze in an individually prescribed ratio. Dave's problem obviously demanded more of the latter. George gave it to him. Liquid confidence was what the bar owner called decent bourbon. "Let's consider the matter when you're in a better frame of mind," he suggested, loading a further double into his patient's already half-filled tumbler.

Mellowing now, Dave felt ready to face his predicament head-on if need be. It was all a sick joke anyway; a false existence, lumbering from one crisis to the next, one gaming house to the next, one bottle to the next. The alcohol extracted the sting and fostered the Dutch courage. "I'll go back there and tell her to drop dead," he spat. "She's had more than her money's worth out of me. She can go to the cops if she wants. I don't care; I'm finished anyway."

Wondering if he’d gone a bit strong on the wet therapy, George frowned. "Tell you what;" he proposed, "if you're really sure you’re through with her, why not go right ahead and meet this bigwig? Tell him exactly what she told you, word for word. Really screw it up for her."

Dave thought about it then spoke. "You're a genius, George," he concluded, with a widening grin. "Fill her up, and have one yourself."

 

Goldberg's office was not especially plush, but it was roomy and air-conditioned. The huge suntanned Jew took his time studying the document before him. Dave Sanson had no desire to hang around the place any longer than was necessary. "Miss Calvert has asked me to tell you that these are her best terms," he emphasised to hasten the inevitable.

"Is that so?" the director grunted, without even looking up.

"Yes. And she said that if you don't like them, you can go stuff yourself."

There was no immediate reaction.

Somewhat wrong-footed, Sanson continued with noticeably less conviction. "I'm merely going through the motions,” he explained. “It's nothing personal. Just doing my job. I'll tell her it's off."

Goldberg watched him get up to leave. "Hold your horses," he waved from behind his expansive desk. "Sit down while I finish reading this shit."

Dave did as he was told, and waited. It seemed an age before the man let the papers slip from his fingers and spoke.

"Cigar?"

"Er... no thank you."

Now, a further wait while Sammy Goldberg helped himself to a premium Havana from his embossed ebony humidor; Sanson observing the ritual, the way the man carefully rolled the thing between his thumb and corpulent fingers, then brought it up to rest immediately below two widely flared and sniffing nostrils.

"Well?" asked Dave, beginning to feel more sober, and impatient.

"I can smell you like I can smell this cigar. From the moment you walked in that door it was there - the stink of fear. The bitch's got you over a barrel, hasn't she."

The mouth didn't reply, but the face did.

"I knew it," Goldberg was relishing this. "I've seen your type before. You read like a book." He lit his cigar and deliberately blew the smoke straight across the desk, into his visitor’s face.

"I don't have to stand for this," Sanson protested, furious at the man's derision. "If you've got something to say, then say it."

"OK. You’d like to make some money; some big money, eh?"

The proposition, though obviously loaded, had an immediate soothing effect on Sanson. His eyebrows narrowed and his mouth worked almost involuntarily. "Yeah; guess I would. Who wouldn't?"

The showman now had the interview back under control, and knew that’s how it would be from here on in. "You and I could do each other some good," he said. "So long as you've got the balls."

"Try me," Dave’s eyes were focusing intensely now.

"Very well. If you’re up for it, we could take your client to the cleaners; scorch the mare; and you'd make a lot of dough on the way. Howdy’a feel about that?"

Quite what this was all leading up to Sanson found hard to imagine but, whatever it was, it had to be the best offer he’d had in years - and he was grateful that there was an offer on the table at all. "Sounds interesting so far," he straightened up. "Tell me more."

The theatrical pause was almost corny. The fat man sucked hard on his cigar, removed it from between his engorged lips and looked at it with approval. "Rolled to order," he boasted. "Have them flown in. Now; a few years ago, I did a movie called Viaticum."

"Oh yes," said Dave, warming to the memory of a highly acclaimed classic.

"You liked it?"

"Brilliant," smiled Sanson. "One of the finest motion pictures of all…"

"Sure, sure," Goldberg cut across him dismissively, clearly not interested in his opinion at all, so long as it was favourable. "That picture grossed fourteen million, you know, which was good for its time. And that was just here in the States. They're still counting the European take. Anyway, I wanted Verona for the lead…"

"I have to say, she was… stunning."

"Yeah. Yeah she was. But she was one hell of a bitch, and she took me for five percent. Five per....cent!"

Sanson looked puzzled. "Wasn't she worth it?"

The oversized head moved purposefully from side-to-side in a drawn-out rejection of the notion. "Was she hell," he added verbal confirmation. "None of them are; which is why I swore never to take on a crap deal like that again. Now your little Miss Muriel is wanting ten; and if this one goes like I know it will, she'll stand to scoop, what, two, or three, million bucks, at least."

Will stand? thought Sanson. Surely the old slug wasn't still considering her.

"How'd you feel about half a million for yourself?" Goldberg fired the rhetorical question at him. "I take it you work on twenty percent."

"No, fifteen," Dave replied, attempting to do some quick mental arithmetic. "Well, Mister Goldberg," he swallowed hard on his excitement, "if she cleared three million I'd be in for, what, four-fifty thousand."

"Three million's a conservative estimate," said Goldberg, whetting his man's appetite all the more. "You play ball, and I reckon you'd easily clear half a million… huh... if I used her.”

“I’m game,” Dave was on the edge of his seat now. "Will you use her?"

Goldberg made him wait for an answer. He took his platinum fountain pen from the drawer and allowed the nib to hover, tantalisingly, over the Heads of Agreement document then, with a gruff chuckle, scrawled out his signature. "Yeah, I’ll use her alright."

 

For the first time since the early days, Dave Sanson found himself occupying a place of some esteem in Muriel's good books. Her whole attitude towards him had changed from the moment he’d walked back into her apartment with the signed pre-contract on that July afternoon. Ever since, she’d been a completely different person. The filming was going so well; everybody remarked on it. It was not just her performances; there were no tantrums, no wild outbursts or storming off the set. Just pure professionalism; giving value for money. The little English rose had grown up at last, Dave reckoned.

The lady had never seemed happier. She was radiant; working, at last, under the guiding hand of a master craftsman whose magic touch was bringing out the very best in her. She obeyed him implicitly, frequently at the expense of her own intuition, and suppressed all inclinations to question him; except, that is, on one particular score. Experience had taught her the need for economy, keeping the studio happy by minimising expense and avoiding waste. Why then, she wanted to know, had Goldberg chosen to shoot some of the scenes in a sequence that demanded shifting the unit to Italy on two separate occasions. Could it not all be done during the one trip? After all, anything eating into the budget would lower her cut too. Goldberg's explanation was not entirely satisfactory, but she felt it politic to let the matter drop. He worked better when he was fresh, he told her. It was difficult for him to bring anything new to a scene if he had been working on the same location with the last one. In any case, she would only be required to go there once herself. The second visit was for footage that she didn't appear in.

While his client was giving the performance of a lifetime, Dave Sanson took the opportunity of renewing a multitude of drinking and gaming acquaintances, all financed by the bank loan freely advanced on his mention of the Goldberg movie. At least he’d made good the deficiency in Muriel's business account before launching himself into a twenty-four-seven highlife foray. She would seriously disapprove of his extravagance - which was why he left the new Mustang at home and took a cab over when she invited him to dinner on her first free weekend in two months.

Her genuine welcome reassured Dave that he was still riding high in the popularity stakes. She’d cooked a feast, with all the nice touches around the place; soft music playing, candles burning in cut glass sticks, and his favourite bourbon, Weller’s Special Reserve, poured, iced and waiting for him. Dave let her do most of the talking, absorbing the warmth and quietly taking-in the new Muriel. She was a beautiful woman, though he’d never really looked at her in a sexual way before. Her hard-nosed attitude and permanently raised defences had always obscured it. But he could see it now all right, and felt drawn. He graciously accepted repeated thanks for all he’d done for her. She told him that the movie would be the pinnacle of her career, and it was largely due to him. She wanted to show her appreciation and, once again, he graciously accepted when she invited him into her bed.

* * * *

Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

Thanks for reading this far.

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