Free Cocksure by Mordecai Richler Page A

imperialism.”
    It’s true, Tomasso thought.
    “Star Maker, there’s something else that’s worrying me. It’s Griffin.”
    “Not the boy with the marvy lymph system?”
    “The same. Star Maker, he’s asking a lot of questions. I don’t like it.”
    “I’m glad you called, Dino,” the Star Maker said.
    “Is it good to hear my voice?”
    “Ah ha.”
    “You have no heir, Star Maker. I’m your son.”
    The Star Maker laughed. “I’m just on my way to London. See you tomorrow, Dino.”
    Instantly, Tomasso put on his thick pebble glasses.

13
    “O H, MY GOD,” TOMASSO SAID, SQUINTING BEHIND HIS thick pebble glasses, “the Star Maker is here already.”
    Everybody at the morning conference got up to look. On the street below a motor cavalcade passed. Two men on motorcycles were followed by a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, an ambulance, a Brinks-type armored car, two Austin Princesses, a refrigeration truck and two more men on motorcycles.
    The Star Maker, Mortimer knew, had come to London ostensibly to start production of a multimillion-dollar film which, as it happened, would feature Mortimer’s longstanding favorite film Star. This is not to say that Mortimer was a tiresome film buff, addicted to camp: it was simply that this Star, the idol of Mortimer’s adolescence, had amused him ever since. Of all the incomparably upright stars of a vintage era, Gable, Tyrone Power, Robert Taylor, John Wayne, Randolph Scott, Alan Ladd (decadence setting in, Mortimer felt, with Bogart and John Garfield), his heart, his boyish heart, had gone out to this Star alone. He was the most satisfyingly two-dimensional. Always, no matter what role he played, indisputably masculine, impossibly virtuous. Of all the Star Maker’s dazzling discoveries, this Star – as far as Mortimer was concerned – was the greatest. And the most endearing.
    “Do you think,” Mortimer asked Tomasso, “I might be allowed to visit the studio one day and watch?”
    “Absolutely against the rules. You know that.”
    Feeling foolish, Mortimer nevertheless asked, “Do you know him personally?”
    “So?”
    “What’s he really like?”
    “What are you, baby, a fan? You want me to get his autograph for you?”
    “Well, I’m not exactly a fan,” Mortimer said, hard put to conceal his rising anger, “it’s just that this Star certainly has the emptiest face I’ve ever seen on screen.”
    “What are you getting at?” Tomasso demanded hotly.
    “Take it easy, Dino. Calm down. Look at it this way. I was brought up on this Star. I’ve seen him return to Rome a conquering hero, advise Caesar, help Jesus carry the cross. I remember him sailing the Spanish Main, fighting three swordsmen with one hand behind his back, and winning the American Civil War almost single-handed. Why, he’s won more gun fights than –”
    “So what?”
    “He’s given me an inferiority complex. It would reassure me to visit the set and prove to myself that he’s just as real as the rest of us.”
    “Are you out of your mind, Griffin?”
    “Now look here –”
    They were interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the black-suited motorcycle riders handed Tomasso an envelope, turned, and quit the office. Tomasso ripped open the envelope, read the letter inside, and collapsed in his chair.
    “Is there anything wrong?” Mortimer asked.
    Tomasso rocked his head in his hands. “Get out. Leave me alone.”
    The editors had only just dispersed when Tomasso, squinting behind his thick pebble glasses, wearing his coat, carrying his briefcase,emerged from his office. Two black-suited motorcycle riders waited in the hall, blocking his way. With them were Dr. Laughton and Gail. One of the riders was about to say something when Tomasso sighed, shook his head, and retreated into his office, Laughton and Gail following after. Gail, squealing with laughter, reached out and Tomasso handed her his glasses.
    “You’re a card, Dino,” Laughton said, “You really are.”
    Agnes