Norman stared at him. "Traitors to their own kind I don't talk to," he said coldly. "Go talk to Hitler!" He stamped out of the room.
Dan Pierce turned to David.
"David, make him listen to reason," he said.
"Cord authorized me to offer three million bucks for the old man's shares.
That's twice what they're worth.
If he doesn't sell, Cord says he'll put the company in receivership and all the shares will be good for then is wall-paper."
"I'll see what I can do," David said, hurrying after his uncle.
Now Norman was yelling again, pacing up and down the room and threatening a proxy fight.
He'd show that crazy Cord that Bernie Norman was no fool, that he hadn't built a business up from nothing with his bare hands without having something in his kopf.
"Wait a minute!" David said sharply.
He had taken more than enough nonsense from his uncle.
It was time somebody taught the old man the facts of life. "You're talking about a proxy fight?" he shouted.
"With what are you going to fight him?
Spitballs instead of money?
And if you fight, do you honestly believe that anybody will go along with you?
For the last four years, this company has been steadily losing money. The biggest picture we had during that time was The Renegade – Cord's picture, not ours.
And the biggest picture on the market today is Devils in the Sky – Cord's picture, too. The one you wouldn't distribute for him because there wasn't enough koom-shaw in it for you!
Do you think anybody in his right mind is going to pick you over Cord?"
The producer stared at him. "To think," he cried out, "that from my own flesh and blood should come such words!"
"Come off it, Uncle Bernie," David said. "Family's got nothing to do with it.
I'm just looking at the facts."
"Facts?" Norman shouted. "Facts is it you want? Well, look at them.
Who was it went out and bought Sunspots, a picture that won almost every award?
Who?
Nobody but me."
"It also lost a million dollars."
That's my fault?" his uncle replied bitterly.
"I didn't tell them before I did it?
No, prestige they wanted, and prestige they got."
"That's over the dam, Uncle Bernie," David said.
"It has nothing to do with today.
Nobody cares about that any more."
"I care about it," Norman retorted. "It's my blood they're spilling. I'm the sacrifice they're making to the Golem.
But not yet am I dead.
When I tell them about the pictures I'm making with Rina Marlowe, I’ll get all the proxies I want."
David stared at his uncle for a moment, then went to the telephone.
"Long distance, please," he said. "I want to place a call to the Colton Hospital, Santa Monica, California, room three-o-nine, please."
He glanced at his uncle, who was looking out the window. "Ilene? This is David.
How is she?"
"Not good," Ilene said, her voice so low he could scarcely hear her.
"What does the doctor say?" David heard her begin to sob into the telephone. "Hold on," he said. "This is no time to start breaking down."
"He said – she's dying. That it's a miracle she's lasted this long.
He doesn't know what's keeping her alive."
There was a click and the phone went dead in his hand.
David turned to his uncle.
"Rina won't make another picture for you or anybody else," he said.
"She's dying."
The producer stared at him, his face going white.
He sank back into a chair.
"My God!