I Can Get It for You Wholesale

by Jerome Weidman

  I grabbed his shoulder and shook him until his teeth rattled.

  “You get some of those pickets of yours and clean those son of a bitches off the street right now,” I yelled. I was so excited that I forgot I was supposed to be one of those cool, bored, well-dressed wise guys that have marked the sidewalk in front of Schrafft’s for their very own. “Come on, you fat-head,” I almost screamed, “get after them!”

  For another second he hesitated. But I wouldn’t even spare him that. The truck was moving past us, and I was so afraid I’d lose this chance to get even with that fat bastard Schmul that I used to work for, that I almost ran after it myself. Almost, but not quite. Even when I’m so excited that I can’t see straight, I’ve still got enough brains left to keep from pushing my puss into a jam.

  I gave Tootsie a shove that sent him flying out into the gutter. The blow must have cleared the horse manure out of his head. Because he had sense enough not to slow down, but to keep running.

  In a few seconds he was across the street and in the middle of the gang of pickets in front of 525. He didn’t waste much time talking and they wasted even less listening. Before I recovered my balance from the shove I’d given him, they were speeding down the street after the truck. They reached it near the corner of Thirty-Sixth Street.

  For half a minute or less I had a clear view. Four of them piled onto the scabs and laid them out in the gutter. The others pitched into the truck. They ripped off the canvas cover and sent the bright red and yellow dresses flying into the mud and dirt. They still had the scabs on the ground and were pasting hell out of them, and they were still making ribbons out of the dresses and toothpicks out of the truck when the crowd closed in around them and cut off my view.

  But I wouldn’t miss a second of this for all the pussy in Paris. I joined the mob that was rushing over to see the scrap and fought my way in until I had a ringside seat. What that truck and those dresses and those two slobs looked like was nobody’s business. Maybe that fat louse Schmul didn’t remember a certain kid named Bogen who had worked for him as a shipping clerk about a year before. But that certain kid named Bogen had remembered Mr. Schmul all right.

  The two guys who had been shoving the truck were out cold, but those pickets were half-crazy. They kept pounding away at them.

  “Kill the goddam scabs,” they kept yelling, “kill the lousy jerks.” And then they went ahead with the job of doing it.

  They would have done it, too, if it wasn’t for the cops. Two of them came running up, took a quick look around, and sailed in with their clubs. But those shipping clerks were too far gone to worry much about the color of a guy’s coat or the fact that it was trimmed with brass buttons. And besides, they were about a dozen strong. They just took the cops in their stride.

  But new ones began to arrive. And in a few minutes the sirens of the radio cars were screaming and coming closer. The mob cleared a path and the reinforcements took control. When the patrol wagon arrived it was all over. They piled the whole bunch of them in and drove away.

  The crowd began to melt and the traffic that had been stopped for blocks around began to move.

  I felt so good about the whole thing that I whistled as I walked back to Schrafft’s. From my post on the sidewalk I gave the Avenue the once-over. Another dozen pickets had taken the place of the squad that had been arrested in front of 525. Everybody was talking about the strike, but this time they weren’t laughing. Broken heads don’t mean a thing on Seventh Avenue. But ripped-up dresses do. This was serious.

  I watched the traffic that passed me very carefully, but I didn’t see any dress trucks. For the time being, the strike was a success.

  I was just going in to celebrate with a soda, when Tootsie came up on the run. I felt so good that I wanted to take him inside and treat him to a soda, but I changed my mind. Tootsie isn’t the kind of guy you take into Schrafft’s for a soda. He looks more natural in Max’s Busy Bee with a hamburger in one hand and a mug of root beer in the other. Schrafft’s is for people like me, not Tootsie.

  “Listen, Harry,” he said, “what’ll we do about those kids?”

  “What kids?”

  “The ones that were arrested. What’ll we do about them?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  He looked at me with his mouth open. I put my hand to his face, thumb on his chin and forefinger on his nose, and closed it.

  “You mean you’re gonna do nothing about them?”

  “Stop, Tootsie,” I said. “You’re killing me. You mean to say you actually understood something I said for the first time?”

  “Gee whiz, Harry, this is no joking matter.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I never thought of that, now that you mention it, though, I’m inclined to agree with you. Yes, sir, Tootsie. You’re one hundred per cent right. This is no joking matter.”

  “But they arrested them!” he cried.

  “And hot dogs taste better with mustard. So what?”

  “What are you, crazy?”

  “No, are you?”

  “But they arrested them!”

  “I think you said that before. Watch your script there, Tootsie. You’re getting your cues all bollixed up.”

  “And they just arrested another bunch over on Broadway. That’s what I came over to tell you. We gotta do something, Harry. I told them to stop every scab and every hand truck. There’ll be fights by the dozen.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s great. You say they just arrested some more of them over on Broadway?”

  “Yeah, they saw some guys carrying—”

  “That, my dear Tootsie, is the best news I’ve heard in three and a half minutes flat.”

  “But Harry, we gotta do something.”

  “Oh, no we don’t,” I said. “It’s perfectly okay, Tootsie. It’s good publicity.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Now don’t you worry your pretty little head over this,” I said. “You just keep after your pickets and see that they break the back of any guy who tries to get through with a package or a truck or anything.”

  “But what about the guys they arrested?”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “They’re doing their part. Being in jail is the best thing they can do for us. It won’t hurt them, because from the way things are going, it looks like this strike’ll be over in no time. In their own way, by parking their cans in a cell, they’re doing us more good than by wearing out their heels picketing. It’s good publicity having them in jail.”

  “But Harry—”

  “But Tootsie,” I said, imitating his voice. I put my arm through his and pulled him along with me. “Come on, I’ll take you in and buy you a soda to cool you off a little.” What the hell, let Schrafft’s worry. “Only you’ve got to promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ll read the papers to-morrow. Just wait till you see them. Oh, boy!”

  7

  “IS MR. PULVERMACHER IN?”

  It was a mouthful, but I managed to get it out without a slip.

  The broad at the switchboard behind the information window looked me over. Well, she could look until her eyes wore out. I’ve never yet been ashamed of the way I dressed.

  “Who wants to see him?”

  I’m from J. P. Morgan’s office. I’ve got three million dollars I don’t know what to do with, so I came up to see Mr. Pulvermacher, maybe he’s got an idea of how I can get rid of it. But this was no time for clowning, so I said:

  “Well, he doesn’t know me, but—”

  “What’s the name, please?”

  Snappy, eh? So this was the way they handled people who came up to see the great Pulvermacher of Pulvermacher, Betschmann & Kalisch, Inc., manufacturers of Pulbetkal Frocks, Gowns of Distinction, Street and Formal. Big-shot stuff. Well, I guess the great man of Seventh Avenue had to live up to his reputation.

  “Bogen,” I said. “Harry Bogen.”

  She closed the window in my face and pushed a plug into the board. Her lips
moved for a few seconds, then she opened the window and turned to me again.

  “What is it with reference to?”

  Cross-examination, eh? Maybe I ought to begin worrying about an alibi.

  “Tell him it’s about getting his dresses delivered.”

  She gave me a dirty look.

  “Say, you’re not one of these men from the union, are you? Because if you are, then you can just—”

  I laughed.

  “Oh, no. Not me. Just tell him I’ve got a service that’ll deliver his dresses for him, strike or no strike.”

  “Oh,” she said and slammed the window in my face again.

  Before I could begin to get sore, she had it open again.

  “Go right into the showroom,” she said. “Straight ahead. Mr. P. said he’ll be out in a minute.”

  So that’s how they avoided breaking their teeth every time it came to saying his name.

  “Thanks,” I said, and went in.

  Have you ever been in Grand Central Station? Well, put a purple carpet on the floor, cover the walls with mirrors, spill a dozen small white tables all over the place and twice as many soft chairs and sofas, finish it off with a handful of classy-looking paintings on the walls, and if you can tell the difference between it and the Pulvermacher showroom, then you’re a better man than I am. If the money that that room cost couldn’t pay off the national debt, then I’m Mahatma Gandhi. I took a mental snapshot of the whole place and filed it away for future reference. I’d seen showrooms before, but this one walked away with the onionskin medal. I was learning things.

  A short, fat guy came out of a door in the far end of the room and walked toward me like his ass was made of cake and he was afraid to crack the icing. Except for two things he was such a dead ringer for my ex-boss Schmul of Toney Frocks, Inc. that I was getting all set to spit in his eye. But when I saw the glasses he was wearing with the black ribbon that went around his neck, and the white piping that showed up under the edges of his vest, I knew I was in the presence of a big shot himself. To wear those kind of glasses and white piping under your vest you’ve either got to have a lot of nerve or a lot of dough. And this guy looked like he never even crossed the street against the lights.

  I walked across the showroom to meet him.

  “Mr. Pulvermacher?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “My name is Bogen.”

  “The girl told me.” Ah, well, that eliminated her automatically. I don’t like dames that talk. “What can I do for you?”

  I decided to be a wise guy. Within limits, of course.

  “I’m afraid it’s the other way around, Mr. Pulvermacher,” I said, giving him the old toothpaste grin. Joe Personality. You know. “I’m afraid I’m going to be the one that’s going to do something for you.”

  What did I mean, I was afraid? Well, that’s being a wise guy within limits, isn’t it? So all right.

  “So?” he said.

  Yeah, so, fat boy!

  “Shall we go some place where we can talk?” I said.

  He waved his hands around the room.

  “What’s the matter with here?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I only thought it would be better if we could go some place where we wouldn’t be interrupted by buyers coming in and—”

  “Don’t worry about buyers,” he said with a grin that must have hurt him, judging from the way it looked. “Since that damn strike began we haven’t been able to move a dress out of the place. Cancellations we’re getting, not orders. Don’t worry about being interrupted by buyers. I haven’t seen one in three days.”

  I’ll bet the buyers weren’t complaining.

  “Well, that’s just what I’m here to talk to you about,” I said.

  “Then you better talk quick, young man,” he said, “because things can’t keep up like this for long. If we don’t get our dresses moved in another couple of days we’ll have to meet the demands of the strikers, that’s all. We can’t afford to have things go on like this.”

  Jesus Christ and the gas company! It looked like I’d just come in under the wire.

  “Oh, you don’t want to do that, do you, Mr. Pulvermacher?”

  He shrugged.

  “Of course we don’t. But what else can we do? We can’t get even with them until the slack season sets in. Right now, we’ve got to move our dresses. We’ve got to fill our orders.”

  “Sure, but you’d rather do it without giving in to the strikers, wouldn’t you? You don’t want them to be able to say they won the strike, do you? And besides, I hear they’re making some pretty high demands in wages and hours and things like that. You don’t want to give in on all that, do you?”

  “What are you doing, cracking jokes, Mr. Bogen?” Look, he remembered my name! “Of course we don’t want to give in to them. But what can we do?”

  “I’ll tell you what to do, Mr. Pulvermacher.” The hell with him. From now on I was going to leave it out. Why couldn’t he get himself a handle that you didn’t have to take a running start for? “That’s what I came up to see you about. I’ve got a way to get your dresses delivered, cut your costs on it in half, and at the same time you won’t have to give in to the strikers. Does that sound good to you?”

  “It sounds good.”

  Little Pulvy, the skeptic!

  “And it’s even better than it sounds.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  I took his arm and pulled him over to a sofa.

  “Let’s sit down,” I said.

  He pulled out a couple of cigars and handed one to me. I took it, but I didn’t light it. I can’t smoke them. Every time I light a cigar, I have to sew up the bottom of my pants first.

  “How many shipping clerks have you got, Mr. Pulvermacher?” There I go again! I just can’t keep my resolutions.

  “You mean how many did I have.”

  To all my other troubles, he has to turn out to be a wise guy. All right, dope, have it your way.

  “That’s right,” I said. “How many did you have?”

  “Let’s see. Ten, twelve, and the two colored boys—fourteen. I had fourteen.”

  “And how much do you?—excuse me. How much did you pay them a week?”

  “I paid them what they were worth. Nobody that works for us is underpaid. Our wage scale is one of the highest on Seventh Avenue. You can’t expect us to pay a shipping clerk what we’d pay a—”

  “I know they were well paid, Mr. Pulvermacher,” I said. Yeah, I knew it. “I’m just interested in how much you paid them. I want to do a little calculating for you, Mr. Pulvermacher, that’s all. I’m not in any way criticizing you.”

  “Fifteen dollars a week, with fifty cents extra for supper every night they work late. And I’d like to see anybody on the Avenue say that’s a bad salary for a shipping clerk, or that they pay more than—”

  “Fifteen dollars a week for fourteen shipping clerks makes two hundred and ten dollars every week, doesn’t it?”

  “Two hundred and ten? Yeah, yeah. Two hundred and ten. So what?”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Pulvermacher, please. Now, how many times a day would you say each of your shipping clerks goes out with a delivery? I mean, how many trips does each one make? Just roughly, now, just an estimate. I don’t expect you to make it accurate or anything like that, but just an estimate.”

  He rubbed his hand over his bald dome and shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “How should I know?”

  “Well, I mean roughly, you can make an estimate, just a guess.”

  “Well, I don’t know—three-four times, maybe five—I don’t know. How should I know a thing like that? I don’t sit there watching them.”

  “You’d be surprised how right you are, Mr. Pulvermacher. I know because I’ve made a study of these things. The average shipping clerk goes out four or five times a day. All right, then. You say five times. But for the sake of my figures, just to allow for everything, we shouldn’t take any chances, you know, let’s
say six. Let’s say six times. Let’s say every shipping clerk goes out six times a day with a delivery.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “So what’ve we got? We’ve got fourteen shipping clerks going out six times each, means, let’s see, six times ten is sixty, and six times four is twenty-four, twenty-four and sixty—makes eighty-four. That means your shipping clerks make eighty-four trips a day. Right?”

  “If you say it’s right, so it’s right.”

  “But Mr. Pulvermacher, I want you should say it’s right. There’s nothing wrong with my arithmetic, is there? Six times fourteen is—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s right. It’s right. So what?”

  “Now just one more little bit of figuring, and we’re through,” I said. “You’re open here six days a week, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “So we have eighty-four trips a day, times six days in the week, means—here, wait.” I pulled out a pencil and a pad and did the multiplication so he could see it. “That makes five hundred and four trips a week. So it should be easier to talk about, let’s say five hundred. Five hundred trips a week. Right?”

  He nodded again. Strong silent stuff. Maurice Pulvermacher and Calvin Coolidge.

  “So what’ve we got?” I said, leaning back. “We’ve got five hundred trips a week for which you’re paying out two hundred and ten dollars.” I pointed the cigar at him. “If I were to tell you, Mr. Pulvermacher, that I could make those five hundred trips for you for a hundred and twenty-five dollars—meaning you’d be saving eighty-five dollars every week, maybe even more, but at least eighty-five—if I told you that, would you be interested?”

  He shrugged and said, “Well, why not?”

  He was lukewarm, but I wanted him hot.

  “And suppose I were to tell you further, Mr. Pulvermacher”—it wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it—“that you wouldn’t have any labor troubles, you wouldn’t have any strikes, you wouldn’t have to worry about hiring shipping clerks, or anything like that. And, on top of all that, besides saving you the money, when the slow seasons come around, and there aren’t so many deliveries, instead of paying fourteen shipping clerks they should sit around on their behinds all day, instead of that you’d only be paying for the few deliveries a day that they made, and you’d save twice as much as during the busy season, suppose I were to tell you that, what would you say?”