Love of the Last Tycoon: The Authorized Text (No Series) by F. Scott Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online Page A

“—back in the Keystone days.” He turned to Stahr: “Does he know what a routine is?”
    “It means an act,” Stahr explained. “Georgie Jessel talks about ‘Lincoln’s Gettysburg routine.’”
    Katy poised the neck of the blown-up bag in her mouth. Mike stood with his back to her.
    “Ready?” Katy asked. She brought her hands down on the side. Immediately Mike grabbed his bottom with both hands, jumped in the air, slid his feet out on the floor one after the other, remaining in place and flapping his arms twice like a bird—–
    “Double wing,” said Stahr.
    —and then ran out the screen door which the office boy held open for him and disappeared past the window of the balcony.
    “Mr. Stahr,” said Miss Doolan, “Mr. Hanson is on the phone from New York.”
    Ten minutes later he clicked his dictograph, and Miss Doolan came in. There was a male star waiting to see him in the outer office, Miss Doolan said.
    “Tell him I went out by the balcony,” Stahr advised her.
    “All right. He’s been in four times this week. He seems very anxious.”
    “Did he give you any hint of what he wanted? Isn’t it something he can see Mr. Brady about?”
    “He didn’t say. You have a conference coming up. Miss Meloney and Mr. White are outside. Mr. Broaca is next door in Mr. Reinmund’s office.”
    “Send Mr. Roderiguez in,” said Stahr. “Tell him I can see him only for a minute.”
    When the handsome actor came in, Stahr remained standing.
    “What is it that can’t wait?” he asked pleasantly.
    The actor waited carefully till Miss Doolan had gone out.
    “Monroe, I’m through,” he said. “I had to see you.”
    “Through!” said Stahr. “Have you seen Variety ? Your picture’s held over at Roxy’s and did thirty-seven thousand in Chicago last week.”
    “That’s the worst of it. That’s the tragedy. I get everything I want, and now it means nothing.”
    “Well, go on, explain.”
    “There’s nothing between Esther and me any more. There never can be again.”
    “A row.”
    “Oh, no—worse—I can’t bear to mention it. My head’s in a daze. I wander around like a madman. I go through my part as if I was asleep.”
    “I haven’t noticed it,” said Stahr. “You were great in your rushes yesterday.”
    “Was I? That just shows you nobody ever guesses.”
    “Are you trying to tell me that you and Esther are separating?”
    “I suppose it’ll come to that. Yes—inevitably—it will.”
    “What was it?” demanded Stahr impatiently. “Did she come in without knocking?”
    “Oh, there’s nobody else. It’s just—me. I’m through.”
    Stahr got it suddenly.
    “How do you know?”
    “It’s been true for six weeks.”
    “It’s your imagination,” said Stahr. “Have you been to a doctor?”
    The actor nodded.
    “I’ve tried everything. I even—one day in desperation I went down to—to Claris. But it was hopeless. I’m washed up.”
    Stahr had an impish temptation to tell him to go to Brady about it. Brady handled all matters of public relations. Or was this private relations. He turned away a moment, got his face in control, turned back.
    “I’ve been to Pat Brady,” said the star, as if guessing the thought. “He gave me a lot of phoney advice and I tried it all, but nothing doing. Esther and I sit opposite each other at dinner, and I’m ashamed to look at her. She’s been a good sport about it, but I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed all day long. I think Rainy Day grossed twenty-five thousand in Des Moines and broke all records in St. Louis and did twenty-seven thousand in Kansas City. My fan mail’s way up, and there I am afraid to go home at night, afraid to go to bed.”
    Stahr began to be faintly oppressed. When the actor first came in, Stahr had intended to invite him to a cocktail party, but now it scarcely seemed appropriate. What would he want with a cocktail party with this hanging over him? In his mind’s eye he saw him wandering haunted from guest to guest