"Her name had become currently synonymous with the expression bitch. Presumably she had modelled herself after one of those queens in the Tarzan comics who rule mysteriously over a nation of blacks. She regarded the rest of the world as black. She was a necessary evil, borrowed for a single picture.[Red] Ridingwood walked with Stahr toward the door of the stage.
"Everything's all right," the director said. "She's as good as she can be."
They were out of hearing range and [Monroe] Stahr stopped suddenly and look at Red with blazing eyes. "You've been photographing crap," he said. "Do you know what she reminds me of in the rushes- 'Miss Foodstuffs.'"
"I'm trying to get the best performance."
"Come along with me," said Stahr abruptly.
"With you? Shall I tell them to rest?"
"Leave it as it is," said Stahr, pushing the padded outter door.
His car and chaffeur waited outside. Minutes were precious most days.
"Get in", said Stahr.
Red knew now it was serious. He even knew all at once what was the matter. The girl had got the whip hand on him the first day with her cold lashing tongue. He was a peace-loving man and he had let her walk through her part cold rather than cause trouble.
Stahr spoke into his thoughts.
"You can't handle her", he said. "I told you what I wanted. I wanted her mean- and she comes out bored. I'm afraid we'll have to call it off, Red."
"The picture?"
"No. I'm putting Harley on it."
"All right, Monroe."
"I'm sorry, Red. We'll try something else another time."
The car drew up in front of Stahr's office.
"Shall I finish this take?" said Red.
"It's being done now," said Stahr grimly. "Harley's in there."
"What the hell-"
"He went in when we came out. I had him read the script las night."
"Now listen, Monroe-"
"It's my busy day, Red," said Stahr tersely. "You lost interest about three days ago."
It was a sorry mess Ridingwood thought. It meant he would have to do next picture he was offered whether he liked it or not. It meant a slight, very slight loss of position -it probably meant that he could not have a third wife just now as he had planned. There wasn't even the satisfaction in raising a row about it- if you disagreed with Stahr you did not advertise it. Stahr was his world's great costumer who was always - almost always right.
"How about my coat?" he asked suddenly. "I left it over a chair on the set."
"I know you did," said Stahr. "Here it is."
"Rose Maloney was quite a friend of mine. I thought of her rather as a child think of a family dependent. I knew she was a writer but I grew up thinking that writer and secretary were the same except that a writer usually smelled of cocktails and came more often to meals. They were spoken of the same way when they were not around -except for a species called playwrights who came from the East. There were treated with respect if they did not stay long -if they did sank with the others into the white collar class.
