A Stranger in the Mirror by Sidney Sheldon Page A

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 ouc 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
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    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 5'rilliant 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
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    wealthy family. Old money. Gives us a chance for n slick background�know what I mean? High-society suifl. 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.