Free Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1)

smoggy Santa Monica toward the eternal Pacific. Just down that way to the left lurked Venice , waiting for a
far-sighted developer.
                 The
office had been decorated with an eye to the exudation of casual power:
relaxed, but potent, the spider's parlor as a philosophical statement through
the art of interior design. In this light, well-cleaned space, Jack Pine sat
transfixed on a beautiful but uncomfortable chair in the middle of the room
while Irwin Sandstone paced slowly around him. Irwin Sandstone, a pear-shaped man
with a bald-headed toad's face and a scalloped wrinkling of the ears, held a
small slender bronze art deco figure of a naked, nubile girl in the short,
stuffed fingers of his hands. As he walked, and as he talked, he fondled this
statue, the light gleaming from his rings and from the clear nail polish his
manicurist had assured him no one would notice. He said:
                 "Your
career is important to me, Jack. And the reason your career is important to me
is because it's unique. If I wanted to be in the shoe business, eight million
shoes all the same, I'd be in the shoe business. The business I'm in, this
crazy mad business of show business, not shoe business, in which I thank God
I've had a certain modicum of success, in this business, every new face, every
new body, every new voice, every new talent that comes through that door is a
separate and unique challenge, another opportunity for me to prove myself. Do
you know what I mean, Jack?"
                 "I
think so, sir," Jack said. Today he wore brown loafers and tan chinos and
a polo shirt with an alligator on it and an open, welcoming, guileless
expression.
                 Irwin
Sandstone's blunt thumb caressed the statue's budding breasts. "I am a
mere servant of the creative impulse, Jack," he said, circling and
circling. "It's your unique gift
we're concerned with here, not the life or goals or dreams of Irwin
Sandstone."
                 "Yes,
sir," said Jack.
                 Irwin's
fingers oiled and warmed the bronze. "How to mold, how to shape, how to
bring out to the acclaim of the multitudes that unique talent deep within you, that is my humble duty, that is my
mantra, to serve great talents, to be the willing stepping stone on which they
rise, to do whatever is within my small powers"—with a wave at the
power-reeking office—"to bring each wonderful unique private talent to its
greatest glory. That is what I wish to do with you , Jack. If you agree. Will you give me that task, Jack? Will you order me to make
you great?"
                 Accommodating,
Jack said, "Sure."
                 Suddenly
more businesslike, clutching the statue's legs, Irwin nodded. "Okay,"
he said, and stood still, to Jack's left, appraising him, nodding slowly to
himself, while Jack struggled to decide whether he was supposed to meet Irwin
Sandstone's gaze frankly or face forward to be studied. Compromising, he faced
more or less forward, and flicked constant glances toward the man hefting him
in his mind.
                 “Okay,"
Irwin Sandstone said again, the statue forgotten, its
head in his fist. “For your type," he said, “we start with the biker
picture, then your pathologic killer, then your patient picture. By then you're
established, you can do whatever you want."
                 Jack,
manfully smiling, said, “Patient picture?"
                 Irwin
Sandstone negligently waved the hand with the statue in it. “Nut house or
hospital," he explained. “You're a person with an affliction, see? Gives
you that human dimension, rounds you off after the psycho."
                 “Oh,
yeah," Jack said. “I see what you mean."
                 Irwin
Sandstone brought his hands together. They found the statue again, apparently
on their own, and the fat fingers stroked and fumbled as their owner gazed
appealingly at Jack to say,