# Spider Boy/Chapter 12

Returning to California a week later, Ambrose registered at the Ambassador and was assigned to a room in Siesta directly facing the apartment occupied by Auburn Six. Communicating with her by telephone, he presently joined her for tea. The manner of the agreeable girl was sufficiently soothing to make him articulate to a degree and he related to her some of his amazing adventures in Santa Fe.
Schwarzstein didn't come down with them, did he? she asked.
No.
I thought not. He never appears. Nobody ever sees him. Sometimes I wonder if he exists. He once kept Imperia cooling her heels in his ante-room for eight hours. He had nerve to do that.
He certainly did, Ambrose responded fervently.
Auburn subsequently arranged an appointment with Griesheimer so that it was not long before Ambrose again found himself in the Circassian walnut environment of that impressive executive. On this occasion the magnate rose and walked across the room to greet his guest.
​Well, Deacon, he cried, extending his great hand heartily, so you decided to join the Elks. You ain't going to be sorry. It's the wisest move you ever made.
I hope you won't regret it, said Ambrose. You know I told you I didn't know what I could do.
Griesheimer waved Ambrose to a chair and passed the box of cigars. Again Ambrose accepted one and stuck it in his waistcoat pocket.
There, there, said the great man, patting his new employee on the back as he stood over him, I like your modesty. . . . He returned to the chair in front of his desk. . . . I like your modesty. To speak the truth that's one of the reasons I believe in you. We get too many cocksure, I'll-tell-the-world fellows out here, many too many. They come out to reform the indus— the art. . . . He chuckled. . . . They go back pretty sore. You're beginning right. Go ahead on these lines and you should come out fine. Now . . . he leaned forward eagerly, even greedily . . . what's your idea for a feature for Auburn Six?
I told you . . . Ambrose began.
I know, I know. . . . Griesheimer frowned impatiently. . . . There ain't no use going over that. Well, she ain't the only star on this lot, although she's our grandest bet just now. We got Dick Ruby, just about the best juvenile in the business, and Polly ​Cherry, and Rubin Landsgrave. . . . They should give you a list downstairs. Pretty nearly any story you should write'll hit some one. Only remember this: When you write a story for the pictures always keep in mind the great public that sees 'em. Think of the mothers and young girls that's going to sit out front. Purity first, that's the motto of L.L.B. Love, sure—even passion, but keep your story moral. Never forget the wages of sin is death, but if the motives is moral you can get in quite a lot o' necking.
Say, we like to get necking into the pictures—it helps trade—but don't have any girls expecting to be mothers. It may be real life but it ain't reel life. . . . He laughed uproariously at his pun before he proceeded: I been thinking over your case a lot since you come in here the other day—I knew you'd be back—and I decided the best way for you to get acquainted with the game is to talk it over with one of our bright boys.
We got a whole factory full o' bright boys getting paid for just such emergencies. They ain't so much on writing themselves, but give 'em something to dig their teeth into and they're full of ideas about hairbreadth escapes and emotional close-ups. Besides they fool around a lot and see all the previews and releases. They know the game. Now take a fellow ​like you that's new to the business, you're sure to be chock-full of novel ideas. Some of 'em should be practical. Well, the bright boys'll know. Picture stories ain't written, they're rewritten. You'd be surprised at what goes on with a story here before it reaches me. And when I get it, Griesheimer added significantly, I write it all over again.
I'm not reflecting on your abilities, Deacon. I know you know how to write a play, but a moving picture ain't a play. It's as different as night from noon. After you've done a picture you should understand the game better.
The great man, seemingly unaware that Ambrose had not spoken during this address, pressed a button which summoned his secretary.
Take Mr. Deacon down to Phil Lawrence, he commanded. Phil's expecting him. Then: Good-bye, Deacon, and good luck. I should see you in a few days.
Ambrose, behaving very much like an excellent sheep with an overworked heart, followed the secretary down the corridor and out into the open. The sight that met his eyes was entirely novel to him: two huge buildings of galvanized iron, marked Stage No. 8 and Stage No. 4, loomed up before him. Through the opening between the two he could see the façade ​of a Venetian palace built over a practical canal on which gondolas floated in real water. The space in front of the stages was devoted to a garden intersected by walks on which actors in costumes and make-up dashed about in all directions. Out of a circular pool in the centre a fountain played.
Following the secretary around the corner of Stage No. 8, Ambrose came upon a two-storey structure with a balcony, approached by a flight of exterior steps. Both on the ground and balcony floors this building was honeycombed with doors. Mounting the staircase, they walked along the balcony until the secretary tapped on a door on which was painted the name of Philip Lawrence.
Come in, was the cheery invitation.
The secretary pushed the door open and Ambrose, entering, stood in a cubicle furnished with two chairs and a table. A roughly painted sign on the wall informed inquisitive visitors that fifty million Frenchmen can't be wrong. A young man with a snub nose, dark eyes, and violently red hair sat before the table with his feet upon it. Apparently he was devoting all his energies to smoking a pipe.
Hello, he cried, before the secretary had time to speak, I'll bet you're Ambrose Deacon!
​Ambrose nodded and accepted the proffered hand. The secretary discreetly withdrew.
Sit down, Deacon, Phil Lawrence urged. Heard a lot about you in New York from Jack Story.
Ambrose brightened at once. So you're a friend of Jack's!
Yes, best of friends. He doesn't know I'm out here though. He'd probably think I was Humpty Dumpty. Jack never could take the deaf-and-dumb racket seriously. I'm out here to clean up, he went on, and after I get my roll I'll fly back to Broadway et comment!
It's great luck for me to find a friend of Jack's here, Ambrose replied with real fervour.
Same here, Lawrence declared. You must be a wonder. Most guys write and write and try and try and don't get a look-in out here. Now you walk right in as if you were going to stay.
I don't know about that. Jack made me come.
Well, I'm sunk! Jack made you give the came-the-dawners the once-over? I'll believe anything after that. Honestly, Deacon, pass me the syrup. What are you doing out here? You're the last man in the world I'd pick to turn out the tripe they crave.
I don't know why I'm out here. I had damn little to do with it, I'll tell you that.
Get me, kid, Phil Lawrence explained. I'll say ​your show's great. It's got all the mean motives and petty nastinesses of peasants anywhere. I saw it when I was down East last month. But that stuff wouldn't go here. When you put cabots in front of the mystery box they've got to behave as pretty and innocuous as a Christmas card or a magazine cover by Harrison Fisher.
I guess I know. I saw a picture called Golden Dreams.
Well, you saw one of the worst, but that's what they want! I suppose you've got a practical streak in you somewhere so you can turn out masterpieces with your hands and hokum with your feet.
I have no such talent, Ambrose admitted. I don't know how to go about it at all.
Well, I do, averred Philip Lawrence. That's where Phil comes in. So shoot.
Shoot?
Sure. Relate your pretty fable to me and I'll dirty it up for you.
I haven't got any pretty fable, Ambrose confessed helplessly.
Philip Lawrence stared at him in amazement. But they wanted you, didn't they? They must have liked your story to give you a contract.
I never told them a story. They made me sign a ​contract. I told Griesheimer exactly what I've just told you and all he did was to add a few figures to his original offer.
Philip Lawrence laughed loudly.
Say bo, he cried, you know your groceries. That's just the technique that captures these gorillas, but do you mean to tell me you're on the level?
Never more so. I haven't an idea for a film story in my head.
Now Lawrence actually howled. I've got to hand it to you, he said at last. You've beat these crooks at their own game.
Ambrose was feeling entirely at home: Phil Lawrence was almost Jack Story.
How? he inquired.
Why, the old man is so used to goofer authors greasing themselves without swimming the channel that you must have driven him wild. You see he thought you had a Ming vase that you were pretending came out of Vantine's basement. But what I'd like to know is how he ever got hold of you at all, how you happened to come out here.
It's a long story.
I'll loan you the use of the hall.
It was both a pain and a relief for Ambrose to outline his adventures from the time he had boarded the ​Twentieth Century until he had left Griesheimer's office: a pain to recall some of the episodes, a relief to share his confidence with some one he believed to by sympathetic. He even added to what he had told Jack Story the episodes of Abel Morris, Wilhelmina Ford, and Marna Frost, more to get them out of his pent-up heart than because he believed they had anything to do with the situation. Lawrence followed the narrative with close attention, greeting certain items with chuckles or exclamations of delight, and occasionally interrupting the history outright to indulge in an explosion of mirth. When Ambrose had concluded, Lawrence breathed a pensive Whew! and then sat musing in profound silence.
By Petronius, he cried at last, I think we've got it!
Got what? demanded the bewildered Ambrose.
Material for a super-special. It's a push-over. Lawrence was ebullient in his enthusiasm.
But I don't understand. You don't mean that. . . .
Exactly.
this is film material? Ambrose insisted on finishing his sentence.
The best.
Well, I'll be God damned! Astonishment alone could have caused Ambrose to resort to profanity.
​We'll have to change it about a bit, alter it here and there, shift the locale, modify the motives, add a few characters, but when it's done, O garcon!
It's no good for Auburn Six, Lawrence went on after a pause. Dick Ruby is our star. The best kid ham on the coast. I've even got the title: Spider Boy.
Spider . . . ?
Boy, Lawrence repeated firmly. Don't you know about the male spiders?
No, Ambrose admitted, I don't.
The females eat 'em and the males try to escape. That's our story, and what a line for billing: Richard Ruby in Spider Boy! There's something that will sit pretty in electric bulbs.
But can you put Imperia Starling and Griesheimer and all the others in films?
Oh, the picture won't have anything to do with that. Our theme—your theme—is the pursuit of the male by the female. They'll pursue him in aeroplanes, in motor-boats, on bicycles, in catamarans, canoes, coracles, gondolas, and luggers, in brigs, clippers, yawls, and junks, in trucks, jinrickshas, landaus, and droshkies, in Marmons, Rolls-Royces, Jordans, Chevrolets, Buicks, and Citroëns, on Arabian steeds, zebras, elephants, and camels. They'll even ​pursue him on foot. By Buddha, what a theme for S.A.!
S.A.?
Sex appeal. And Dick Ruby's got it. Dick Ruby's got it. Ke-rist, what a lovely old picture! In his enthusiasm Lawrence barked a resounding Woof! Woof!
To say that Ambrose experienced a sense of relief would be a negative way of expressing his feelings, although he did not comprehend what had happened any more clearly than he had comprehended his previous adventures in this legendary world. Apparently, Fate held him firmly by the hand and was leading him on and on. Even now his good sense warned him that she would eventually drop him in some particularly muddy ditch, but at any rate he was beginning to believe that Griesheimer would receive something for his money. So, for the present, there was nothing to worry about. It had all turned out so much simpler than he expected it would do. Jack had been right after all: he, Ambrose, had been a fool not to sign up earlier.
Well, he replied to Lawrence, if you think it's all right, let's get to work. What do I do first?
Lawrence laughed again.
You don't think I'd make a fellow that's collecting ​as much jack as you are do anything! he exclaimed. Do! Play around with the girls. Go to the movies. Lunch at the Montmartre and bathe at Santa Monica. I'll get you a bid to the Mayfair Club dances. Get drunk: I'll give you my bootlegger's telephone number and the addresses of several hush-houses. You might even put on the nosebag with me a few evenings, if you want to.
I'd like that best of all, Ambrose replied honestly.
Good. Where are you stopping?
The Ambassador.
Well, give me a day or so to think over this machine. After I have sorted out the pieces we can talk it over. Now I'll get a car for you.
Lifting the receiver of his telephone he called the gateman to whom he said: Studio car right away for Mr. Deacon. Ask for it when you go out, he instructed Ambrose. It'll be there. . . . Shaking Ambrose's right hand warmly, Lawrence patted him on the back with his left. Well, old chap, he assured him, you're a wonder and we've got it. We've got it.
Ambrose hesitated. There's one thing I'd like to ask you, he said diffidently.
Pull the trigger.
I don't know exactly how to explain it, but don't ​you think everybody's been a little queer? I mean Mama Starling, for instance, and Count Supari, to say nothing of Imperia and Ringrose. They all seem so intense.
Lawrence shouted.
You mustn't take 'em seriously, Deacon. They all dramatize things, not only life, but every incident in life. You'll get used to it if you stay out here awhile.
I didn't know, said Ambrose, and I don't think I'll stay out here very long. Then, Good-bye, and thank you for all you've done for me.
Done for you! I only wish half the authors they ship out here had half as great an idea as you have.
Ambrose almost bounded down the staircase, across the lot, around Stage No. 8, through the garden with the fountain, on to the office where the door-boy announced not without obsequiousness, Your car is here, Mr. Deacon.
In the waiting-room beyond the gate a girl who had been sitting on a bench rose swiftly and approached him.
How are you, Mr. Deacon?
Startled, he looked into the eyes of Wilhelmina Ford.
Miss . . . ! he cried, extending a limp hand.
She smilingly inquired where he was going.
​To the Ambassador.
May I go with you? I've been trying without success to get a car for ever so long.
He followed her out through the swinging door and helped her into the automobile.