PROLOGUE.

　On a Saturday morning in early August in 1969, a series of bizarre and inexplicable events occurred aboard the fifty-five-thousand-ton luxury liner S.S. Bretagne as it was preparing to sail from the Port of New York to Le Havre. Claude Dessard, chief purser of the Bretagne, a capable and meticulous man, ran, as he was fond of saying, a "tight ship". In the fifteen years Dessard had served aboard the Bretagne, he had never encountered a situation he had not been able to deal with efficiently and discreetly. Considering that the S.S. Bretagne was a French ship, this was high tribute, indeed. However, on this particular summer day it was as though a thousand devils were conspiring against him. It was of small consolation to his sensitive Gallic pride that the intensive cubicles designed to diagnose sickness, alleviate it, cure it or sometimes bury it. It was a medical supermarket, and there was something there for everyone. It was four a.m., the hour of quiet death or fitful sleep. 

　A time for the hospital staff to have a respite before girding for the battles of another day. The obstetrical team in Operating Room 4 was in trouble. What had started out as a routine dead done that was so bad. "And I'll sing Hallelujah, and you'll sing Hallelujah, and we'll all sing Hallelujah when we arrive at Home."

　"Liquor is the blood of the Devil, and tobacco is his breath, and fornication is his pleasure. Are you guilty of trafficking with Satan? Then you shall burn eternally in Hell, damned forever, because Lucifer is coming to get you!" And Josephine would tremble and look around wildly, fiercely clutching the wooden bench so that the Devil could not take her. They sang, "I want to get to Heaven, my long-sought rest." But little Josephine misunderstood and sang, "I want to get to Heaven with my long short dress."

　After the thundering sermons would come the Miracles. Josephine would watch in frightened fascination as a procession of crippled men and women limped and crawled and rode in wheelchairs to the glory pen, where the preacher laid hands on them and willed the powers of Heaven to heal them. They would throw away their canes and their crutches, and some of them would babble hysterically in strange tongues, and Josephine would cower in terror. The revival meetings always ended with the plate being passed.

　"Jesus is watching you -- and He hates a miser." And then it would be over. But the fear would stay with Josephine for a long time.

　In 1946, the town of Odessa, Texas, had a dark brown taste. Long ago, when the Indians had lived there, it had been the taste of desert sand. Now it was the taste of oil. There were two kinds of people in Odessa: Oil People and the Others. The Oil People did not look down on the Others -- they simply felt sorry for them, for surely God meant everyone to have private planes and Cadillacs and swimming pools and to give charapugne parties for a hundred people. That was why He had put oil in Texas.

　Josephine Czinski did not know that she was one of the Others. At six, Josephine Czinski was a beautiful child, with shiny black hair and deep brown eyes and a lovely oval face. Josephine's mother was a skilled seamstress who worked for the wealthy people in town, and she would take Josephine along as she fitted the Oil Ladies and turned bolts of fairy cloth into stunning evening gowns. The Oil People liked Josephine because she was a polite, friendly child, and they liked themselves for liking her. They felt it was democratic of them to allow a poor kid from the other side of town to ate with their children. Josephine was Polish, but she did look lovely, and while she could never be a member of the Club, they were happy to give her visitors' privileges. Josephine was allowed to play with the Oil Children and share their bicycles and ponies and hundred-dollar dolls, so that she came to live a dual life. There was her life at home in the tiny clapboard cottage with battered furniture and outdoor plumbing and doors that sagged on their hinges. Then there was Josephine's life in beautiful colonial manions on large country estates. If Josephine stayed overnight at Cissy Topping's or Lindy Ferguson's, she was given a large bedroom all to herself, with breakfast served by maids and butlers. Josephine loved to get up in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep and go down and stare at the beautiful things in the house, the lovely paintings and heavy monogrammed silver and antiques burnished by time and history. She would study them and caress them and tell herself that one day she would have such things, one day she would live in a grand house and be surrounded by beauty. But in both of Josephine's worlds, she felt lonely. She was afraid to talk to her mother about her headaches and her fear of God because her mother had become a brooding fanatic, obsessed with God's punishment, welcoming it. Josephine did not want to discuss her fears with the Oil Children because they expected her to be bright and gay, as they were. And so, Josephine was forced to keep her terrors to herself.

　On Josephine's seventh birthday, Brubaker's Department Store announced a photographic contest for the Most Beautiful Child in Odessa. The entry picture had to be taken in a photograph department of the store. The prize was a gold cup inscribed with the name of she winner. The cup was placed in the department-store window, and Josephine used to come by the window every day to stare at it. She wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

　Josephine's mother would not let her enter the contest -- "Vanity is the devil's mirror,'' she said -- but one of the Oil Women who liked Josephine paid for her picture. From that moment on, Josephine knew that the gold cup was hers. She could visualize it sitting on her dresser. She would polish it carefully every day. When Josephine found out that she was in the finals, she was too excited to go to school. She stayed in bed all day with an upset stomach, her happiness too much for her to bear. This would be the first time that she had owned anything beautiful. The following day Josephine learned that the contest had been won by Tina Hudson, one of the Oil Children. Tina was not nearly as beautiful as Josephine, but Tina's father happened to be on the board of directors of the chain that owned Brubaker's Department Store.

　When Josephine heard the news, she developed a headache that made her want to scream with pain. She was afraid for God to know how much that beautiful gold cup meant to her, but He must have known because her headaches continued. At night she would cry into her pillow, so that her mother could not hear her.

　A few days after the contest ended, Josephine was invited to Tina's home for a weekend. The gold cup was sitting in Tina's room on a mantel. Josephine stared at it for a long time. When Josephine returned home, the cup was hidden in her overnight case. It was still there when Tina's mother came by for it and took it back. Josephine's mother gave her a hard whipping with a switch made from a long, green twig. But Josephine was not angry with her mother. The few minutes Josephine had held the beautiful gold cup in her hands had been worth all the pain.

　Hollywood, California, in 1946, was the film capital of the world, a magnet for the talented, the greedy, the beautiful, the hopeful and the weird. It was the land of palm trees and Rita Hayworth and the Holy Temple of the Universal Spirit and Santa Anita. It was the agent who was going to make you an overnight star; it was a con game, a whorehouse, an orange grove, a shrine. It was a magical kaleidoscope, and each person who looked into it saw his own vision. To Toby Temple, Hollywood was where he was meant to come.

　He arrived in town with an army duffel bag and three hundred dollars in cash, moving into a cheap boardinghouse on Cahuenga Boulevard. He had to get into action fast, before he went broke. Toby knew all about Hollywood. It was a town where you had to put up a front. Toby went into a haberdasher on Vine Strtet, ordered a new wardrobe, and with twenty dollars remaining in his pocket, strolled into the Hollywood Brown Derby, where all the stars dined.

　The walls were covered with caricatures of the most famous actors in Hollywood. Toby could feel the pulse of show business here, sense the power in the room. He saw the hostess walking toward him. She was a pretty redhead in her twenties and she had a sensational figure. She smiled at Toby and said, "Can I help you?" Toby could not resist it. He reached out with his two hands and grabbed her ripe melon breasts. A look of shock came over her face. As she opened her mouth to cry out, Toby fixed his eyes in a glazed stare and said apologetically, "Excuse me, miss -- I'm not a sighted person." "Oh! I'm sorry!" She was contrite for what she had been thinking, and sympathetic. She conducted Toby to a table, holding his arm and helping him sit down, and arranged for his order. When she came back to his table a few minutes later and caught him studying the pictures on the wall, Toby beamed up at her and said, "It's a miracle! I can see again!" He was so innocent and so funny that she could not help laughing. She laughed all through dinner with Toby, and at his jokes in bed that night.

　Toby took odd jobs around Hollywood because they brought him to the fringes of show business. He parked cars at Oro's, and as the celebrities drove Toby would open the car door with a bright smile and  apt quip. They paid no attention. He was just a parking boy, and they did not even know he was alive. Toby watched the beautiful girls as they got out of the cars in their expensive, tight-fitting dresses, and he thought to himself, If you only knew what a big star I'm going to be, you'd drop all those creeps.

　Toby made the rounds of agents, but he quickly learned that he was wasting his time. The agents were all star-fuckers. You could not look for them. They had to be looking for you. The name that Toby heard most often was Clifton Lawrence. He handled only the biggest talent and he made the most incredible deals. One day, Toby thought, Clifton Lawrence is going to be my agent. Toby subscribed to the two bibles of show business: Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter. It made him feel like an insider. Forever Amber had been bought by Twentieth Century-Fox, and Otto Preminger was going to direct. Ava Gardner had been signed to star in Whistle Stop with George Raft and Jorja Curtright, and Life with Father had been bought by Warner Brothers. Then Toby saw an item that made his pulse start pounding. "Producer Sam Winters has been named Vice-President in Charge of Production at Pan-Pacific Studios."

　When Sam Winters returned from the war his job at Pan-Padfic Studios was waiting for him. Six months later, there was a shakeup. The head of the studio was fired, and Sam was asked to take over until a new production head could be found. Sam did such a good job that the search was abandoned, and he was officially made Vice-President in Charge of Production. It was a nerve-racking, ulcer-making job, but Sam loved it more than he loved anything in the world. Hollywood was a three-ring circus filled with wild, insane characters, a minefield with a parade of idiots dancing across it. Most actors, directors and producers were selfcentered megalomaniacs, ungrateful, vicious and destructive. But as far as Sam was concerned, if they had talent, nothing else mattered. Talent was the magic key. Sam's office door opened and Lucille Elkins, his secretary, came in with the freshly opened mail. Lucille was a permanent fixture, one of the competent professionals who stayed on forever and watched her bosses come and go.

　"Clifton Lawrence is here to see you," Lucille said.

　"Tell him to come in."

　Sam liked Lawrence. He had style. Fred Alien had said, "All the sincerity in Hollywood could be hidden in a gnat's navel and there'd still be room for four caraway seeds and an agent's heart." Cliff Lawrence was more sincere than most agents. He was a Hollywood legend, and his clients ran the gamut of who's who in the entertainment field. He had a one-man office and was constantly on the move, servicing clients in London, Switzerland, Rome and New York. He was on intiate terms with all the important Hollywood executives and played in a weekly gin game that included the production heads of three studios. Twice a year, Lawrence chartered a yacht, gathered half a dozen beautiful "models" and invited top studio executives for a week's "fishing trip". Clifton Lawrence kept a fully stocked beachhouse at Malibu that was available to his friends anytime they wanted to use it. It was a symbiotic relationship that Clifton had with Hollywood, and it was profitable for everyone.

　Sam watched as the door opened and Lawrence bounced in, elegant in a beautifully tailored suit. He walked up to Sam, extended a perfectly manicured hand and said,

　"Just wanted to say a quick hello. How's everything, dear boy?"

　"Let me put it this way," Sam said. "If days were ships, today would be the Titanic."

　Clifton Lawrence made a commiserating noise.

　"What did you think of the preview last night?" Sam asked.

　"Trim the first twenty minutes and shoot a new ending, and you've got yourself a big hit."

　"Bull's-eye." Sam smiled. "That's exactly what we're doing. Any clients to sell me today?"

　Lawrence grinned. "Sorry. They're all working." And it was true. Clifton Lawrence's select stable of top stars, with a sprinkling of directors and producers, were always in demand. "See you for dinner Friday, Sam," Clifton said.

　"Czao."

　He turned and walked out the door. Lucille's voice came over the intercom.

　"Dallas Burke is here."

　"Send him in."

　"And Mel Foss would like to see you. He said it's urgent." Mel Foss was head of the television division of PanPadfic Studios. Sam glanced at his desk calendar.

　"Tell him to make it breakfast tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. The Polo Lounge."

　In the outer office, the telephone rang and Lucille picked it up. "Mr. Winter's office." An unfamiliar voice said,

　"Hello there. Is the great man in?"

　"Who's calling, please?"

　"Tell him it's an old buddy of his -- Toby Temple. We were in the army together. He said to look him up if I ever got to Hollywood, and here I am."

　"He's in a meeting, Mr. Temple. Could I have him call you back?"

　"Sure." He gave her his telephone number, and Lucille threw it into the wastebasket. This was not the first time someone had tried the old-army-buddy routine on her.

　Dallas Burke was one of the motion-picture industry's pioneer directors. Burke's films were shown at every college that had a course in movie making. Half a dozen of his earlier pictures were considered classics, and none of his work was less than Brilliant and innovative. Burke was in his late seventies now, and his once massive frame had shrunk so that his clothes seemed to flap around him.

　"It's good to see you again, Dallas," Sam said as the old man walked into the office.

　"Nice to see you, kid." He indicated the man with him.

　"You know my agent."

　"Certainly. How are you, Peter?" They all found seats.

　"I hear you have a story to tell me," Sam said to Dallas Burke.

　"This one's a beauty" There was a quavering excitement in the old man's voice.

　"I'm dying to hear it, Dallas," Sam said. "Shoot."

　Dallas Burke leaned forward and began talking. "What's everybody in the world most interested in, kid? Love -- right? And this idea's about the most holy land of love there is -- the love of a mother for her child." His voice grew stronger as he became immersed in his story.

　"We open in Long Island with a nineteen-year-old girl working as a secretary for a wealthy family. Old money. Gives us a chance for a slick background—know what I mean? High-society suite. The man she works for is married to a tight-assed blueblood. He likes the secretary, and she likes him, even though he's older."

　Only half-listening, Sam wondered whether the story was going to be Back Street or Imitation of Life. Not that it mattered, because whichever it was, Sam was going to buy it. It had been almost twenty years since anyone had given Dallas Burke a picture to direct. Sam could not blame the industry. Burke's last three pictures had been expensive, old-fashioned and box-office disasters. Dallas Burke was finished forever as a picture maker. But he was a human being and he was still alive, and somehow he had to be taken care of, because he had not saved a cent. He had been offered a room in the Motion Picture Relief Home, but he had indignantly turned it down. "I don't want your fucking charity!" he had shouted. "You're talking to the man who directed Doug Fairbanks and Jack Barrymore and Milton Sills and Bill Farnum. I'm a giant, you pygmy sons of bitches!" And he was. He was a legend; but even legends had to eat. When Sam had become a producer, he had telephoned an agent he knew and told him to bring in Dallas Burke with a story idea. Since then, Sam had bought unusable stories from Dallas Burke every year for enough money for the old man to live on, and while Sam had been away in the army, he had seen to it that the arrangement continued.

　"... so you see," Dallas Burke was saying, "the baby grows up without knowing her mother. But the mother keeps track of her. At the end, when the daughter marries this rich doctor, we have a big wedding. And do you know what the twist is, Sam? Listen to this — it's great. They won't let the mother in! She has to sneak in to the back of the church to watch her own kid getting married. There won't be a dry eye in the audience.... Well, that's it. What do you think?"

　Sam had guessed wrong. Stella Dallas. He glanced at the agent, who averted his eyes and studied the tips of his expensive shoes in embarrassment.

　"It's great," Sam said. "It's exactly the kind of picture the studio's looking for." Sam turned to the agent. "Call Business Affairs and work out a deal with them, Peter. I'll tell them to expect your call."

　The agent nodded.

　"Tell them they're gonna have to pay a stiff price for this one, or I'll take it to Wamer Brothers," Dallas Burke said. "I'm giving you first crack at it because we're friends."

　"I appreciate that," Sam said. He watched as the two men left the office. Strictly speaking, Sam knew he had no right to spend the company's money on a sentimental gesture like this. But the motionpicture industry owed something to men like Dallas Burke, for without him and his kind there would have been no industry.

　At eight o'clock the following morning, Sam Winters drove up under the portico of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A few minutes later, he was threading his way across the Polo Lounge, nodding to friends, acquaintances and competitors. More deals were made in this room over breakfast, lunch and cocktails than were consummated in all the offices of all the studios combined.

　Mel Foss looked up as Sam approached. "Morning, Sam."

　The two men shook hands and Sam slid into the booth across from Foss. Eight months ago Sam had hired Foss to run the television division of Pan-Pacific Studios. Television was the new baby in the entertainment world, and it was growing with incredible rapidity. All the studios that had once looked down on television were now involved in it. The waitress came to take their orders, and when she had left, Sam said,

　"What's the good news, Mel?"

　Mel Foss shook his head. "There is no good news," he said. "We're in trouble."

　Sam waited, saying nothing. "We're not going to get a pickup on "The Raiders'."

　Sam looked at him in surprise. "The ratings are great. Why would the network want to cancel it? It's tough enough to get a hit show."

　"It's not the show," Foss said. "It's Jack Nolan."

　Jack Nolan was the star of "The Raiders", and he had been an instant success, both critically and with the public.

　"What's the matter with him?" Sam asked. He hated Mel Foss's habit of forcing him to draw information from him.

　"Have you read this week's issue of Peek magazine?"

　"I don't read it any week. It's a garbage pail." He suddenly realized what Foss was driving at. "They nailed Nolan!"

　"In black and white," Foss replied. "The dumb son of a bitch put on his prettiest lace dress and went out to a party. Someone took pictures."

　"How bad is it?"

　"Couldn't be worse. I got a dozen calls from the network yesterday. The sponsors and the network want out. No one wants to be associated with a screaming fag."

　"Transvestite," Sam said. He had been counting heavily on presenting a strong television report at the board meeting in New York next month. The news from Foss would put an end to that. Losing "The Raiders" would be a blow. Unless he could do something.

　When Sam returned to his office, Lucille waved a sheaf of messages at him.

　"The emergencies are on top," she said. "They need you -- "

　"Later. Get me William Hunt at IBC." Two minutes later, Sam was talking to the head of the International Broadcasting Company. Sam had known Hunt casually for a number of years, and liked him. Hunt had started as a bright young corporate lawyer and had worked his way to the top of the network ladder. They seldom had any business dealings because Sam was not directly involved with television. He wished now that he had taken the time to cultivate Hunt. When Hunt came on the line, Sam forced himself to sound relaxed and casual.

　"Morning, Bill."

　"This is a pleasant surprise," Hunt said. "It's been a long time, Sam."

　"Much too long. That's the trouble with this business, Bill. You never have time for the people you like."

　"Too true."

　Sam made his voice sound offhand. "By the way, did you happen to saw that silly article in Peek?"

　"You know I did." Hunt sa'd quietly. "That's why we're canceling the show, Sam." The words had a finality to them.

　"Bill," Sam said, "what would you say if I told you that Jack Nolan was framed?"

　There was a laugh from the other end of the line. "I'd say you should think about becoming a writer."

　"I'm serious," Sam said, earnestly. "I know Jack Nolan. He's as straight as we are. That photograph was taken at a costume party. It was his girlfriend's birthday; and he put the dress on as a gag." Sam could feel his palms sweating.

　"I can't--"

　"I'll tell you how much confidence I have in Jack," Sam said into the phone. "I've just set him for the lead in Laredo, our big Western feature for next year."

　There was a pause. "Are you serious, Sam?"

　"You're damn right I am. It's a three-million-dollar picture. If Jack Nolan turned out to be a fag, he'd be laughed off the screen. The exhibitors wouldn't touch it. Would I take that kind of gamble if I didn't know what I was talking about?"

　"Well..." There was hesitation in Bill Hunt's voice.

　"Come on, Bill, you're not going to let a lousy gossip sheet like Peek destroy a good man's career. You like the show, don't you?"

　"Very much. It's a damned good show. But the sponsors -- "

　"It's your network. You've got more sponsors than you have air time. We've given you a hit show. Let's not fool around with a success."

　"Well..."

　"Has Mel Foss talked to you yet about the studio's plans for 'The Raiders' for next season?"

　"No..."

　"I guess he was planning to surprise you," Sam said. "Wait until you hear what he has in mind. Guest stars, bigname Western writers, shooting on location--the works! If "The Raiders' doesn't skyrocket to number one, I'm in the wrong business." There was a brief hesitation. Then Bill Hunt said,

　"Have Me! phone me. Maybe we all got a little panicked here."

　"He'll call you," Sam promised.

　"And, Sam — you understand my position. I wasn't trying to hurt anybody."

　"Of course you weren't," Sam said, generously. "I know you too well to think that, Bill. That's why I felt I owed it to you to let you hear the truth."

　"I appreciate that."

　"What about lunch next week?"

　"Love it. I'll call you Monday."

　They exchanged good-byes and hung up. Sam sat there, drained. Jack Nolan was as queer as an Indian dime. Someone should have taken him away in a net long ago. And Sam's whole future depended on maniacs like that. Running a studio was like walking a high wire over Niagara Falls in a blizzard. Anyone's crazy to do this job, Sam thought. He picked up his private phone and dialed. A few moments later, he was talking to Mel Foss.

　" 'The Raiders' stays on the air," Sam said.

　"What?" There was stunned disbelief in Foss's voice.

　"That's right. I want yon to have a fast talk with Jack Nolan. Tell him if he ever steps out of line again, I'll personally ran him out of this town and back to Fire Island! I mean it. If he gets the urge to suck something, tell him to try a banana! " Sam slammed the phone down. He leaned back in his chair, thinking. He had forgotten to tell Foss about the format changes he had ad-libbed to Bill Hunt. He would have to find a writer who could come up with a Western script called Laredo. The door burst open and Lucille stood there, her face white.

　"Can you get right down to Stage Ten? Someone set it on fire."

　<cut>

　“Mrs. Tanner, people talk about your school and the wonderful plays you put on here. I'll bet you have no idea of the reputation this place has."

　She studied him a moment. "I do have an idea. That's why I have to be careful to keep out phonies."

　Toby felt his face begin to redden, but he smiled boyishly and said, "I'll bet, a lot of them must try to crash in here."

　''Quite a few," Mrs. Tanner agreed. She glanced at the card she held in her hand.

　"Toby Temple."

　"You probably haven't heard the name,'' he explained, "because for the last couple of years, I've been -- "

　"Playing repertory in England."

　He nodded. "Right"

　Alice Tanner looked at him and said quietly, "Mr. Temple, Americans are not permitted to play in English repertory. British Actors Equity doesn't allow it."

　Toby felt a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "You might have checked first and saved us both this embarrassment. I'm sorry, but we only enroll professional talent here." She started back toward her desk. The interview was over.

　"Hold it! " His voice was like a whiplash. She turned in astonishment. At that instant, Toby had no idea what he was going to say or do. He only knew that his whole future was hanging in the balance. The woman standing in front of him was the stepping-stone to everything he wanted, everything he had worked and sweated for, and he was not going to let her stop him.

　"You don't judge talent by rules, lady! Okay--so I haven't acted. And why? Because people like you won’t give me a chance. You see what I mean?" It was W. C. Fields's voice. Alice Tanner opened her mouth to interrupt him, but Toby never gave her the opportunity. He was Jimmy Cagney telling her to give the poor kid a break, and James Stewan agreeing with him, and Clark Gable saying he was dying to work with the kid and Cary Grant adding that he thought the boy was brilliant. A host of Hollywood stars was in that con! and they were all saying funny things, things that Toby Temple had never thought of before. The words, the kes poured out of him in a frenzy of desperation. He was man drowning in the darkness of his own oblivion, clinging via life raft of words, and the words were all that were keep him afloat. He was soaked in perspiration, running around the room, imitating the movement of each character who was Bring. He was manic, totally outside of himself, forgetting here he was and what he was here for until he heard Alice Tanner saying,

　"Stop it! Stop it!" Tears of laughter were streaming down her face. "Stop it!" she repeated, gasping for breath. And slowly, Toby came down to earth. Mrs. Tanner had taken out a handkerchief and was wiping her eyes. "You--you're insane," she said. "Do you know that?"

　Toby stared at her, a feeling of elation slowly filling him, exalting him. "You liked it, huh?"

　Alice Tanner shook her head and took a deep breath to hold her laughter and said, "Not -- not very much."

　Toby looked at her, filled with rage. She had been laughg at him, not with him. He had been making a fool of himself.

　"Then what were you laughing at?" Toby demanded.