“I guess you want a check in advance. Right?”
He nodded and as I wrote the check I saw him read the signature and look up at me again.
“Oh,” he said. “Mr. Bogen!”
I grinned at him.
“Remember me, eh?”
He smiled and shook his head admiringly.
“I certainly do. Six months ago, when that Apex Modes was in court, your name was on our front page for weeks.”
“If it would’ve been any other paper, they would’ve had my picture, too,” I said. “But I didn’t give them enough notice, I guess. Next time I’ll see if I can do better.”
“Oh, I hope that won’t be necessary, Mr. Bogen.” He glanced at the advertising contract I had just signed. “Frankly, I’m a little surprised, Mr. Bogen, to find that you’re going back into the—”
“Why?” I said sharply.
He looked flustered.
“Oh, well, I didn’t, that is, I thought—” He stopped and started off again more brightly. “After all, Mr. Bogen, a man of your talents, I thought, heh, heh, you’d be taking over General Motors or something like that next?”
“I’m going to do that next,” I said with a grin. “I could go into a dozen businesses.” Yeah? Name some! “But I’ll tell you the truth, and this is confidential, and I don’t want it to go any further. Hear?”
He looked horrified.
“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Bogen. I wouldn’t say a word to—”
That meant that in twenty-four hours the only three guys who wouldn’t know about it would be the deaf scientists on expedition in Central Africa.
“But there are certain people I owe some debts to in the dress business,” I said with a leer, “and I want to pay them back, if you know what I mean.”
He looked wise at once and winked at me.
“I get it, Mr. Bogen.”
“Well, I’ve got to go,” I said. “You run that ad tomorrow and I’ll—” I stopped. “Oh, by the way. Did you see Smile Out Loud yet?”
He glanced up, surprised and pleased.
“Why, no, Mr. Bogen. I—”
“I’ll see that you get a couple of tickets. I’ll see that Miss Mills gets you a couple of good ones.”
He perked up at once.
“Martha Mills? You’re still—?”
I guess he’d read those front pages pretty carefully.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding and grinning. “I’m still.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he said. “I hope you don’t think I meant anything by saying—”
What could he mean? I loved it.
“Forget it,” I said.
He started to scribble furiously on a scrap of paper.
“Maybe I’d better jot my name down for you, Mr. Bogen?”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “Just tell it to me. I never forgot a name yet.”
“Selman,” he said. “Morton Selman. You can send them here, care of the Daily News Record.”
“Selman,” I said. “I got it. It’s as good as done. Selman.”
“Thanks again, Mr. Bogen.”
I stopped as though I had suddenly remembered something.
“Oh, by the way,” I said, “you want to do me a favor?”
He smiled quickly.
“Absolutely, Mr. Bogen. Glad to do anything I can.”
I liked his attitude.
“Well, I’ll tell you. When those replies start coming in to the ad, I’m gonna be kind’ve busy uptown, and I was wondering, instead of me coming down here to Thirteenth Street to pick up the letters, why, if you’d mail them up to me at my office, I’d appreciate it a hell of a lot and of course, if there’s any charge for it, I’d be glad to—”
He waved the thought away.
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Bogen. No charge at all. I’ll be glad to do it.”
I’d seen ass-lickers before, but my God, this guy did a regular simonizing job.
“That’s the address,” I said, tossing him one of my cards.
“No trouble at all, Mr. Bogen,” he said, picking up the card. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
“Swell,” I said and held up two fingers. “Two tickets. Orchestra.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bogen.”
“So long,” I said.
“So long, Mr. Bogen.”
In the street I whistled for a cab and fell into the back seat. It was getting to be as natural with me as walking.
“Rector Theatre,” I said.
“Where’s that?” the driver asked.
“Forty-eighth Street west of Broadway.”
“Thanks,” he said and started the cab.
When we got to the Rector, I paid the fare and added a liberal tip.
I walked into the theatre through the stage entrance and found Martha perched on the ledge of Dumpor’s window, swinging her leg and smoking a cigarette.
“Nobody is ever going to set their clocks by the way you keep appointments,” she said, raising her wrist watch for me to see.
“Sorry,” I said. “I rushed like hell. How late am I?”
“Twelve minutes.”
For a guy like me she could wait longer.
“I’ll try to make up for it by buying you an extra nice lunch,” I said with a smile. “All right?”
“All right,” she said with a smile of her own.
For the time being I was the white-haired boy again.
“How’d the meeting of the cast go?” I asked when we were out on the sidewalk.
“Nothing doing,” she said, scowling. “The notices stay up. Closing in five and a half weeks.”
“What the hell do you care,” I said. “Don’t take it to heart, Martha. Something’ll turn up in the meantime.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sam Goldwyn’ll come running in person to take me out west and make me a star.”
“Say,” I said, “you think he’s so hot?”
She grinned and shoved my elbow.
“No, but he makes pictures.”
“First let’s eat,” I said. “Then we’ll talk about the rest.”
“All right,” she said. “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t care.” The hell I didn’t. “Where do you want to go?”
“Twenty-One?” she suggested.
“Nah,” I said. “Some place downtown?”
I didn’t want to be wading in actors and playwrights just then. I had business to transact.
“Wherever you say,” she said. “How about the Beaux Arts?”
She gave me a quick look.
“Getting back into the dress business rather promptly, aren’t you, Harry?”
Her brain freshened up a little every time she changed her costume, too.
“I do everything fast.”
“Don’t go around in circles that way. You’re liable to meet yourself on the first lap and boy, Harry, will there be a flop!”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I watch my footing.”
We got into a cab and I gave the driver the address.
“Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot. Your mother called you just before I went out.”
I swung around on the seat.
“What’d you say?” I snapped.
She looked startled.
“Say, what’s eating you?” she demanded. “I just told her you weren’t in and I’d tell you she called, that’s all.”
That’s all, eh? Just wait till I got my hands on that little bastard Charlie.
“Who was at the board when you went out?” I asked.
She looked puzzled.
“Sam, or whatever his name is. The big colored fellow that—”
“Where was Charlie?”
She twisted her lips in puzzled fashion.
“How should I know? Out to lunch or getting his hair cut or something, I suppose. I don’t keep track of the help in the—”
“All right, all right, all right,” I said. “Don’t get excited.”
“I shouldn’t
get excited! Say, what’s going on here, anyway? I didn’t say a word and you begin hopping down my throat!”
“All right,” I said more calmly. “Forget it.”
“How is she?” she asked finally.
“How is who?”
“Your mother.”
I kicked the wall of the cab angrily.
“God damn it, what the hell is all this, sudden affection for my mother? What do you want her to do, remember you in her will or something?”
“For God’s sake,” she said, “control yourself, will you? You’ve been telling me for a week that she’s in the hospital, and today she calls up and she sounds all right. Don’t you think I’ve got a right to ask a simple question like how is she? Is that any reason to start yelling and raising—?”
“I’m not yelling,” I yelled. Then in a moment, I calmed down. “Let’s drop it,” I said.
“Suits me.”
“Just don’t go around holding any lengthy conversations with my mother,” I said. “She doesn’t have to know anything.”
“What am I,” she snapped, “poison?”
She had the word, all right.
“To me you’re honey,” I said, grinning, “but to my mother you’re poison. What can I do about it?”
“What’s the matter?” she asked grimly. “Doesn’t she think I’m good enough for you?”
I looked disgusted.
“She doesn’t even know who you are.”
“Then what’s all the excitement about?”
“She’s a very funny old woman,” I said elaborately. “She’s got some very funny ideas. She don’t like her son to sleep with girls he isn’t married to. Now you understand?”
“What is this,” she asked tartly, “a proposal?”
“Yeah,” I said. “A proposal we both shut up about the whole thing. It’s spoiling my appetite. What do you say?”
“All I have to say,” she said “is if she wants you to marry all the girls you sleep with, she’s got your future all cut out for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And if she’s taking it seriously, you better have her lay in a flock of evening gowns. She’ll be going to a lot of weddings.”
I turned on a look of exaggerated amazement.
“My dear Miss Mills,” I said, “am I to interpret this as jealousy?”
She grinned icily.
“No, Mr. Bogen,” she said. “You can just interpret this as one more time when you were wrong.”
“Listen,” I said sharply. “I’m—”
“I know,” she said sweetly, gathering her purse and her gloves. “You’re never wrong. Shall we go in? We’ve arrived at your showcase and you might as well display me before I wilt.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” I said out of the corner of my mouth, “you won’t wilt. You’re fresh enough.”
“It’s the only way I’ll ever be able to last under your handling,” she replied, also out of the corner of her mouth.
The headwaiter dropped an armful of buyers and salesmen and came scurrying over.
“A large table,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said, and bowed his way toward the middle of the restaurant.
“What are you expecting,” she asked out of the corner of her mouth, “company?”
“No,” I replied, “but your conversation is really too good to be wasted on me alone. I might want some passersby to sit down for a moment or two and get a whiff of it.”
“Wasted is the right word,” she said.
The headwaiter was standing over a table in the middle of the restaurant and beaming at us.
“I don’t like this,” I said. “I want something nearer the front.”
He looked hurt at once.
“Of course,” he said.
He found one right in the window near the door and I nodded to him. As he pulled out her chair and helped her arrange herself I watched the rest of the room watch her and I congratulated myself on the fact that she was still a good investment even if she did talk too much.
“How do I look?” she asked, lighting a cigarette. “You satisfied?”
“You’ll do,” I said. “Only pull your chest in a little, or you’ll start tripping up some of the people as they go by.”
As soon as we ordered, the rush started. Guys I hadn’t seen or spoken to for months began coming over like they’d been spending half their incomes advertising for me in every paper in the country. I kept hopping up and down, patting people on the back, remembering stories about buyers, inviting them to sit down for a moment, introducing them to Martha, ordering drinks, laughing at their jokes and kidding back, explaining my absence from the manufacturing field, and in general getting a workout like a boxer before a fight.
“You bet,” I said heartily. “Going back into the dress business in a short while. Can’t give any details yet. Secret, you know. Oh, do you know Miss Mills? Miss Mills of Smile Out Loud, Mr. Bashe of Givens-Goetzler in Toledo. Have a drink, old man? Won’t you be our guests at Smile Out Loud tonight? Then make it tomorrow night. Swell. Bring as many as you like. You’re my guests. Yes, the show’s closing in four or five weeks. Can’t be helped. Miss Mills is going to Hollywood and you know what that means to a show like Smile Out Loud. She’d like to keep it running for them for a few more months, but Hollywood is Hollywood, you know. They don’t take no for an answer. Heh, heh. That’s right. Oh, hello, Mac. Do you know Miss Mills? Martha, this is Mr. Paresi. Biggest damn buyer in the business, eh Mac? Still with Tipp-Ortmann? Fine. Don’t forget, when I get myself set I want you to come up and have a drink on the house. Can’t give any information out yet, but I’ll let you know, old man, don’t worry. Miss Mills? Sure, she’s the whole show at Smile Out Loud. Martha, this is Mr. Vitzler. Martha Mills. No, Martha, that’s right. We used to call him Half-Vitz, but now that he’s buying three quarters of the dresses worn in the Mid-West, we have to be more respectful, eh, Joe? Heh, heh, heh. Still all there with the cracks, eh? Smile Out Loud? Sure. How many do you want? It’s as good as done. And remember, you’re lucky, because it’s closing in four weeks. Next trip you get to New York, you’d’ve missed it. Well, you know how it is, the star’s going to Hollywood, so how can they keep it going? Yeah, Miss Mills. Martha, smile for the gentleman. He’s got a—”
“Do you mind,” she asked sarcastically, “if I take just one forkful of this lobster salad before you swing into the next introduction?”
“Sure,” I said, “but no more than one. You don’t want to ruin that figure of yours.”
“If I have to shake any more hands, this right arm won’t be worth much on a trade-in.”
“Arms aren’t your strong point, anyway,” I said. Then, hastily, “Pull in your chin and stick out your chest, kid, here comes the next batch.”
When that barrage died away, she looked at me curiously.
“If I’m not getting too personal, Harry,” she said, “where did you get all this Hollywood stuff?”
“I made it up out of my own head.”
“Playing around in sewers again, eh?”
“No, just genius,” I said. “But anyway, darling, what do you care? That Hollywood stuff makes you sound important.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” she said in a voice that you could have applied to an inflamed appendix, “and it makes you seem just that much more important to the boys, too, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Hold your hat, kid, here comes another platoon.”
“I’ve got my teeth gritted.”
“And don’t forget,” I added hastily, “get those passes for the show. Within the last half hour I’ve promised enough people to get them in to keep the show running for another year.”
“Look out,” she said, “you’re running over your time. Here comes the wolves.”
“Thank you, my dear,” I said, and jumped up to take four outstretched hands. “Mike! How the hell are you? I haven’t seen you since the time we—”
12.
“Good-morning, Mr. Bogen. Just one. A Mr. Selman of the Daily News Record called.”
I hesitated for a moment as I pulled off my coat. He was after the tickets.
“All right, get him for me,” I said. “Please.”
What a wooing Miss Vinegard was getting. I was saying please.
“Here’s your call, Mr. Bogen.”
“Okay.” I lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Bogen?”
I recognized the Thirteenth Street drawl at once and began to talk quickly.
“Yeah, Selman, this is Mr. Bogen. Did you get those tickets I sent down to—?”
“No, Mr. Bogen. I didn’t get—”
“You didn’t?”
The surprise in my voice was heart-rending.
“Why, no,” he said, “I—”
“That’s funny,” I said. “I saw them go out in the mail myself last night. Martha said—Miss Mills, I mean, said the company manager had them in an envelope addressed to you and I saw myself the way he took it and—You sure they didn’t—?”
“Positive, Mr. Bogen. I saw the—”
“That’s the funniest damn thing. Well,” I said, “maybe they’ll be in the next mail. Sometimes those—”
“Of course, Mr. Bogen.”
“And anyway, if you don’t get them by this afternoon, give me a ring, will you, and I’ll see you get another set in the mail right away. Okay?”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Bogen. But besides that, I wanted to tell you about—”
“Any replies on my ad?”
“A few.”
“A few?” I cried. “For a full page like that, it costs five hundred and fifty bucks, all you get is a few?”
He laughed timidly. He didn’t want to endanger those tickets for Smile Out Loud that he didn’t know he wasn’t getting anyway.
“Quantity don’t mean anything, Mr. Bogen. It’s what’s in those letters.”
“How do you know?” I said. “You didn’t read them.”
I hoped.
“Of course not,” he said hastily. “I just wanted to tell you that I put them all up in a big envelope and I’m mailing them up to you. Maybe you’ll get them yet this afternoon, but positively tomorrow morning.”
“All right,” I said. “Thanks.”
What's in It for Me? Page 9
