# Spider Boy/Chapter 8

Driving back to Imperia's villa, this time in a taxi, Ambrose realized that his ordeal was by no means at an end. The predicament in which Herbert Ringrose had discovered him earlier in the day was bound to furnish material for a new scene in which, unwittingly, he seemed to be cast to play the leading rôle. Indeed, Ringrose had intimated as much. He considered his situation: he had been led into this labyrinth by his awkward incapacity to say no when some one else was shouting yes. Certainly on the train with Imperia Starling he had foreseen no such serious outcome. Her arguments, after all, had been so specious that it seemed easier to yield to her wishes, especially as he had believed that once in Hollywood his inability to prove useful in the scheme organized by the magnates of the moving picture world would be recognized. He had felt certain that there would be no demand for unoffered services. Today, to his amazement, he had learned that there was a very lively demand for them.
In his pocket he carried an unsigned contract. Fulfilled, it would mean that at his present rate of ​expenditure it would never be necessary for him to earn another dollar. He could, however, discern no possible advantage to be derived from this potential addition to his income as the royalties from his play, past and future, would amply provide for more than his mere comfort. He cherished no ambition to alter his habitual manner of living. He did not long to move into a more elaborate apartment or a house. He could imagine no interest in travel: the present unfortunate instance had taught him that travel might work actual mischief. He cherished no passion to entertain, except in a small way his immediate friends, an extremely limited circle, none of whom expected, or received, more elaborate refreshment than that provided by beer, highballs, and cheese or ham sandwiches. He assuredly had no intention of marrying. No, he couldn't see any logical benefit to be derived from adding a great many more thousand dollars to his present extremely satisfactory income.
This aspect of the case aside, moreover, he knew full well that it would be absolutely impossible for him even to embark on, much less achieve, a career as a moving picture script writer. Plots, adventures, escapades, whatever was demanded by this industry, were not his specialty. His talents rather had been developed along the lines of character, incident, and ​background, talents for which, at least in the present state of development of the cinema—he judged by the film he had seen at Imperia's the evening before—there seemed to be no present demand in the factories of Culver City. It came to this: what he couldn't do, he couldn't do, no matter how much money was offered him, no matter how much he might want this money.
Inwardly, doubtless, he was strong enough. His will and his reason were not at fault, but these did not appear to co-ordinate successfully with his outward expressions. In the circumstances, taking into account his inherent inability to say no in the face of persuasion or argument, the only possible solution of the problem seemed to lie in flight. They might, he reflected with horror, attempt to keep him a prisoner at the bungalow—his only excuse for returning there was to pack his bags—but, even so, a clandestine escape might be managed.
If I ever get out of this, he swore to himself, I'll never be persuaded even to visit California again.
As his taxi headed into the long private drive leading to Imperia's residence, he became conscious that his habitual timidity was conquering him. His doubts and fears revived to an alarming extent. It was all very well to outline a course of conduct, but difficult ​to carry it through when confronted by the extremely unpredictable temperament of Imperia Starling, to say nothing of the determined, and lately impertinent, Herbert Ringrose.
His perturbation was considerably enhanced, as the taxi turned a corner of the drive and the house sprang into view, by the sight of a solitary figure poised precariously on the terrace, that of Mama Starling, clad in black, apparently scanning the horizon for his reappearance. There was something about her manner that suggested Brangaene warning the guilty Isolde. Descending from the motor he was conscious, even as he turned his back to pay the chauffeur, of her unsteady approach. She leaned towards him confidentially, the bearer of woeful tidings.
You're going to catch it! she whispered hoarsely. I'm sorry for you, but don't be afraid of her. I tell you she likes you. Buck up and sass her. It'll do her good! She'll throw a fit of hysterics and maybe bust a vase or two, but she'll get over it.
Prepared as he was in a measure for din and disaster, Ambrose was shattered anew by this prophetic vision of the future and he followed the sibyl into the house with a dejected air which did not promise much for a prospective display of spirit. In the great ​hall he found Herbert Ringrose, pacing back and forth, his head bowed and his arms folded across his breast.
Well, here you are at last, was the director's gruff exclamation.
Crossing the room, Ringrose opened the door on the back terrace to call Imperia.
Ambrose backed towards the fire-place to await the inquisition, the verbal onslaught that he could no longer doubt would be aimed in his direction. Mama Starling sank into a chair in a shadowed corner of the room and covered her face with her pudgy, jewelled hands. Herbert Ringrose continued to pace the floor nervously.
The entrance of the star was in keeping with her taste for histrionics. Dressed entirely in black, with earrings and choker of jet, her white face even whiter than usual, she tottered in, supported on the arm of Count Jaime, whose countenance was a proclamation of his antipathy towards Ambrose. Crossing the room until she stood facing the culprit with a look of accusation, she sank into a couch conveniently placed behind her. Standing beside her, Count Jaime softly stroked her hand.
How could you, she began reproachfully, how could you do it?
​Ambrose, hemmed in by cohorts of inimical figures, was quite unable to say. He wished he had chosen a position which would permit him a better opportunity for evasion, one by the door leading to the drive, for instance.
Imperia did not appear to be put out by his silence. It is probable in any case that she regarded her question as purely rhetorical.
The vulgarity of it, she moaned, isn't it, that a guest of mine should consent to drive into Hollywood on a milkwagon and then to fall off this wagon in the presence of a hooting, screeching mob! I'll never get over the shame of it. The crowd—I can see them now—pointing to you, and through you at me! Laughing at my stinginess, that I would not let my guest use my motor. They'll laugh at me everywhere. My career is over, done, dead. I am made ridiculous, and by the man I befriended. She began to sob softly.
Ambrose, unprepared for so vindictive an attack, protested: There wasn't any crowd. Nobody saw me but Ringrose. Besides, nobody knew me.
Hang it, Imperia, Ringrose cried, I didn't tell you there was a crowd. That's not . . .
Know you! Of course they knew you! Didn't Herbert know you when he met you on the train? Didn't ​I know you the first moment I saw you? Doesn't everybody in Hollywood know you are my guest?
I'm sorry, Miss Starling, Ambrose mumbled, conciliatory, although he actually felt like shaking the woman.
Sorry! It's too late to be sorry. My beautiful Golden Dreams is spoiled. People will go to it only to laugh at me, isn't it? I am ruined! Ruined! . . . She patted her eyes with her handkerchief, carefully avoiding rubbing the mascara on her lashes. . . . How could you do it? she reiterated in a lugubrious tone.
Count Jaime was scowling frightfully.
Ringrose intervened once again.
I don't think you get this straight, Imperia, he protested. What you're talking about doesn't matter. Nobody actually saw him but me, and you know I'm not going to boast about it. Let's stick to the real issue: why did he go to the Ambassador?
Yes, assented the star, surprisingly as if the question had just occurred to her, rising, and speaking with unexpected force in view of her prediction regarding the complete collapse of her career, why did you go to the Ambassador?
Ambrose blurted out the truth: I went there to see Auburn Six.
​I told you so, Ringrose proclaimed triumphantly. Disloyal as well as disorderly.
O God! . . . The star turned her eyes to the ceiling as she sank back into the couch and groaned. That I should live to see this day!
Ambrose's silence did not imply that he felt entirely comfortable.
Why did you call on Auburn Six? Ringrose persisted.
No match for these third degree methods, Ambrose stammered. She took me to meet Griesheimer.
Now perhaps they would drive him out. He prayed that they would throw him out.
I knew it! Imperia shrieked. So this is the thanks I get for my kindness to you. This is my reward. I answer your beseechings, isn't it, and take you to Hollywood. I invite you to share my home, I take you to see Lee Schwarzstein . . .
Be fair, Imperia, Ringrose warned her. You haven't yet.
I was going to take him. The appointment had been arranged. And you turn on me, she shouted at Ambrose, and drive out of my door like a kinkajou on a milkwagon to the L.L.B. lot in Culver City to see Griesheimer! . . . She made a very pretty ​modulation of her mood as she demanded, How much did he offer you?
I've told you more than once that I don't know anything about pictures, Ambrose replied, evading this question. I'm not going to write for anybody. I'm going to Santa Fe.
There you are . . . Imperia waved her hand to emphasize how obvious it all was. . . . Griesheimer's got him. How much did he offer you?
I don't see that it matters, Ambrose replied. I'm going to Santa Fe.
It was the turn of Ringrose to groan. It's worse than I thought, he exclaimed. Griesheimer surely has got him.
He hasn't! Ambrose almost shrieked.
Do you swear it? Imperia demanded.
He hasn't, Ambrose repeated doggedly.
The star's face brightened.
Perhaps, she said, he's telling the truth. Then it isn't too late, isn't it? We'll take you to Schwarzstein after all.
I won't wait three weeks, Ambrose declared stubbornly. I'm going to Santa Fe.
But you promised, she reminded him. Then to Ringrose: Do you suppose Lee would see him earlier?
​He's got to, that's all, growled the director as he strode to the telephone.
The group listened attentively while he called the Invincible Studio and requested that Mr. Schwarzstein be put on the wire. After a painful interval his request was apparently fulfilled.
Hello, is that you, Lee? This is Herbert. . . . Herbert. . . . Herbert Ringrose. . . . Yes, I know you're busy. You've got to listen to me. . . . No, it won't take long. I'm at Imperia's. . . . Imperia Starling's. . . . Yes. That playwright we were talking to you about has seen Griesheimer. L.L.B.'s made him a tremendous offer, tremendous. Can't you shift his appointment forward? . . . Ambrose Deacon. . . . Deacon! Don't you remember? . . . But Griesheimer . . . All right. Yes, call me at Imperia's.
He says he'll call me back in five minutes, he explained as he replaced the receiver.
Let me talk to him! Imperia cried with resolution.
She quickly established a connection with the studio, but there appeared to be difficulty about getting through to Schwarzstein.
Who's this? she demanded. . . . I've got to talk to Mr. Schwarzstein. At once, do you hear? . . . ​But this is Miss Starling, Imperia Starling. Do you understand, you idiot? . . . Slamming down the receiver she snapped out to Ringrose. He says he'll call me back in five minutes.
The room was charged with an unpleasant electricity. Ringrose again began to pace back and forth. Imperia towered over a table and flung a heap of books, one at a time, to the floor.
Damn him! Damn him! she moaned.
It was not quite clear to Ambrose who was being damned. Also he was beginning to be furiously embarrassed by the Count's foreboding glare. Only Mama Starling sat quietly in her chair, her face still hidden behind her palms. The tension was broken, after what seemed a lifetime to Ambrose, by the tinkling of the telephone bell. Both Imperia and Ringrose sprang towards the instrument. It was Imperia, however, who lifted the receiver.
Yes, she cried impatiently, this is Miss Starling. . . . A long pause followed. . . . Imperia tapped her foot on the floor. . . . At last. Is that you, Lee? . . . You can? Tomorrow. . . . Good-bye!
She was positively beaming as she announced to the room: Tomorrow at one! It's arranged.
I've stood sufficiently! A new figure had appropriated the centre of the stage.
​Why, Jaime! Imperia cajoled him.
Eider he goes or I goes. I can see trew de eye of a pin. I know what it is you want!
Mrs. Starling had risen. Don't you dare speak to my daughter like that! she cried.
Shut up, Mama! Imperia commanded. Mrs. Starling obediently subsided into her chair.
The star approached her cicisbeo.
What's got into you, eh? she cried.
I see your schemes trew, he shouted. You wants him. It's all applecake dis Schwarzstein fuss. What you bring him to de house for? Why? He goes or I goes!
His eyes blazed with fury. So, it may be added, did those of Imperia Starling. Promptly she smashed the sticks of a fan that had once been the property of Marie Antoinette over the unhappy foreigner's head.
You go and damn quick! she screamed.
You impertinent puppy! Lounge lizard! Mama found the courage to hurl at him.
Jaime cowered before this concentrated attack. You don't mean, Imperia, he implored, you don't mean?
I do mean! Her eyes roved, apparently seeking an ​object of convenient size to hurl at the head of the offending cavaliere servente. Observing her intention, he skulked towards the door, slipping through the aperture just in time to avoid contact with a Spanish pewter candlestick of considerable size and weight. Herbert Ringrose had warned in vain: Look out, Imperia! That isn't yucca wood.
Immediately after Jaime's enforced departure, Imperia gave vent to a brilliant fit of hysterics.
What a day! What a day! she moaned.
There, there, dearie. Soothing her, Mama Starling led her charge from the room.
Herbert Ringrose did not appear to have observed that anything untoward had occurred. He approached Ambrose with a hearty, disarming directness.
It's all settled now, my boy. One o'clock tomorrow. . . . Ambrose recoiled automatically before the inevitable slap on the shoulder. . . . You're in luck. Lee never did this for anybody before. I'm glad he did it for you. It would be too bad for a man of your ability to tie up with a second-class affair like L.L.B. They're all wet. Well, so long, he added blithely. I'll see you tomorrow at twelve-thirty, Deacon.
​Seizing his hat he left the room. It was time. Ambrose, dazed, sank into a chair. He summoned enough of his brain to wonder what manner of wood yucca might be that Imperia could confuse it with pewter.