Free The Celebrity by Laura Z. Hobson Page B

under world law, and a world constitution? Can you see yourself standing in line at Radio City to see that?”
    “Oh, Thorn.” She looked at him beseechingly. “It has a love story too.”
    “Not what the movies call a love story,” he said. “Of course they’d probably jazz up that part of it, but fantasy just isn’t right for pictures.”
    “That old one about Mr. Jordan was fantasy, you know with, I think, Cary Grant going to Heaven after an airplane smash.”
    “It wasn’t Cary Grant; it was Bob Montgomery.”
    “Anyway,” she said triumphantly. “And what about The Bishop’s Wife, and let’s see—”
    He got out of bed. “Cindy, I’m going to read it myself. After that, I might have certain ideas. I told you I lay awake making plans.”
    “About trying to sell it to the movies?”
    He frowned. “What were we talking about, if not the movies?” He closed his eyes. The down-slanting folds at their corners felt stiff and thickened. He blinked rapidly, several times, and said, “Hangover.”
    “Won’t the publishers try?”
    “They have a fifteen per cent cut in any movie money. Of course they’ll try.”
    “I thought you didn’t remember if they had a cut or not.”
    “I remembered perfectly.”
    “But suppose it was you who sold it, not the publishers?”
    “If God sold it, they’d still get their fifteen.” He began to dress, thinking, If I go on with the idea and it does work, she’ll be sure she put me up to it. And if it flops—
    He went to the bathroom to shave. If only he had some good contacts in Hollywood. Or if he knew more about how these things were done by professional agents, what approaches were used, what prices asked. He thought again, as he had done so many times during the night, of seeking out Jim Hathaway once more. For a moment his brush paused in mid-air, dripping lather; then he slapped it to his face in discouragement. This was not something he could do without telling Gregory, like that other visit to Hathaway, and if he asked permission, Gregory would flatly refuse, saying he wouldn’t be “pushy” about his own book. Even the suggestion about dropping in on his publishers this morning had met with resistance—could anyone in his right mind think that would be pushy? Was Gregory going to be extra-mulish now about things that everybody else would take as a matter of course?
    Thornton Johns reflected, as so many others had done before him, that he would never understand authors. Admire them, yes, observe them, study them, discuss them, sometimes envy them—yes and again yes, but understand them, never. Even his own blood brother could baffle him a hundred times a year. If he, Thorn, asked, for authorization to take any bold steps about a movie sale, Gregory would have forty reasons for sitting back unless a movie company initiated the courting. But that old fox in Chicago would not be so coy.
    Lather, forgotten and unattended, quickly cakes, and now Thornton Johns found his nose twitching. He began to shave with nervous rapidity. It was a shame about Hathaway. The firm of Storm, Goldberg, Miller and Hathaway were specialists in the affairs of radio, movie, and theater actors, producers, playwrights, novelists, and directors. They knew every studio in Hollywood and could arrange—
    The hell with it. There was plenty for him to do in the next few days and that was all he wanted anyway. He would never stand in his brother’s way for the long pull; perhaps this very morning when Gregory phoned he’d start him thinking about the need to sign on one of the best Hollywood agents while the news was hot. If the suggestion didn’t issue from him, it would most certainly be forthcoming from Digby. Thorn nicked his jawbone and cursed.
    Cindy pushed open the bathroom door. “Thorny, if you did help with a movie sale, would you get—” She hesitated. He stopped shaving and looked at her in the mirror.
    “Get what?”
    “Any commission? Or I mean, any part of the