“He did no such thing. He wouldn’t, not the rabbi. He’s straight.”
“Straight? He’s just a guy who’s trying to keep a job.”
Stu put down his half-eaten second bun and, pushing his chair back from the table, he rose, his face white with anger. “Yeah, you can go and wreck an organization, and that’s all right, an organization that’s just a sideline with you, a hobby that makes you feel like a big shot. You don’t even care about it enough to keep kosher or anything like that, but if someone whose whole life is involved in it tries to preserve it, then you got to rub him out.”
“Finish your meal, Stu,” pleaded his mother.
“Sit down,” ordered his father. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But the young man flung away from the table.
“Where are you going, Stu?” his mother called after him.
“Out!”
A moment later they heard the outer door bang.
“Why do you always fight with him?” asked Mrs. Gorfinkle plaintively.
“Because he’s an idiot.” He, too, rose from the table.
“Where are you going?”
“To make some telephone calls.”
But the phone rang just as he reached for it. It was Ted Brennerman on the other end. “Ben? Ted. I got it via the grapevine that Paff and his gang are beginning to line up people.”
“You mean to vote against my appointments? Naturally–”
“No, Ben, not to try to outvote us–to pull out and start another temple.”
“Where’d you get that from?”
“Malcolm Marks. Paff called him.”
“And I just found out that the rabbi has been shooting off his mouth to the kids to have them bring pressure on their parents. I think I’m beginning to understand. Look, we’ve got to have a meeting on this, and tonight. You got a list of the board members? Well, you know which ones are with us a hundred percent. Start calling them. You take the ones from A to M, and I’ll take the rest. We’ll meet here at my house, say around ten o’clock. That’ll give everybody plenty of time.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
From the bureau drawer Moose Carter selected a pair of Argyle socks. Though it was Monday and nearly noon, he still wasn’t dressed. He sat on the edge of the bed as he drew them on absentmindedly while contemplating the immediate problem–money. In the room next door his sister Sharon, he knew, was lying on her bed reading. She was always reading.
“Hey, Sharon,” he called through the wall, “got any scratch?”
“No.” He had not expected anything else, but it was worth a try. He leaned close to the wall and spoke with great urgency. “You see, I’ve got this job lined up. The guy’s in town, in Boston–” He heard the squeak of her bed and then a door slam closed. She had gone out.
“Bitch,” he muttered.
He raised the edge of the mattress to remove the gray flannel slacks he had placed between the box spring and mattress the night before. As he drew them on he considered the possibilities offered by his brother Peter’s room. The kid had a paper route and always had money. He wouldn’t lend a nickel, though. He thought more of money than of his skin. But he wasn’t home now. On the other hand, the kid was good at hiding it, and if Sharon heard him moving around in his room, she’d rat on him. His shoulders gave an involuntary twitch as he remembered the last time he had been caught borrowing from Peter’s hoard; his father had showed his disapproval–with a half-inch dowel rod.
Still debating with himself the chances of a quick foray into Peter’s room, he selected a yellow shirt from his meager supply. He heard the downstairs door open and close, signaling the return of his mother from her shopping. Hell, she’ll give it to me, he thought and quickly finished dressing. The black tie, already knotted, needed only a quick jerk to tighten. He squirmed into his sport jacket, and with the aid of a forefinger, worried his feet into his loafers. Then he hurried down the stairs.
She was in the kitchen putting away the groceries. “You going to see a girl?” she asked sourly, seeing the way he was dressed.
He grinned at her, a wide infectious grin. “Girls is for nighttime, Ma, you know that. I’m going into town.”
“Town?”
“Yuh, Boston. I gotta chance for a job. It’s a special deal. I might be late gettin home.”
“Your father doesn’t like it if you’re not at the table at dinnertime.”
“Well, gee, sure, I know, Ma, but I’ll be hitchhiking back.”
“You mean you haven’t even got bus fare back?”
“I only have a dime. That’s the truth. I had to get some stuff at the store for a job that I was doing for old man Begg, and he forgot to pay me back, and I forgot to ask him.”
“Didn’t he pay you for the job either?”
“Oh no, he never pays me until Friday, the end of the week.”
“And that Mr. Paff at the bowling alley?”
“He’ll pay me tonight.”
“And how does it look that a boy like you should be thumbing rides,” she demanded. “Why don’t you get yourself a regular job?”
“Carpenter like Pa? No thanks. I’ve been able to manage since I got back, haven’t I? Once in a while a fellow gets strapped. Well, that can happen to anyone. Now if this deal that I’m working on comes through, I’ll be all set.”
“What kind of a deal?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s kind of promotion work. This fellow I knew–I met him in school when I was in Alabama–he’s coming up North and he’s building up an organization.”
“And you’re going to see him without a penny in your pocket?”
“Well, I’m not going to tell him that I’m broke,” he said tartly.
“He’ll see it in your face. He’ll read it in your eyes,” she said. “Like I do.” She fumbled in her apron pocket and took out a coin purse. “Here, here’s two dollars. That’s all I can let you have, but you’ll be able to get the bus both ways.” She held the crumpled bills out to him. “Now you make sure you get home in time for dinner.”
“Well, gee, Ma. I mean, I might have some business to talk over. He might ask me to have dinner with him. I can’t just break away and say I’ve got to get home, my folks expect me home for dinner.”
“Well, if you find that you’re going to be delayed, you call up. Just excuse yourself and say you have a previous engagement you’ve got to cancel, and you call up and say you’re going to be late. Now that’s the proper way to do it. And if this man is any kind of businessman, he’ll respect you for it.”
“Okay, Ma. Guess you’re right. Thanks for the money. You’ll get it back no later than Friday.”
From the hall closet he took his light-beige cotton raincoat, turned up the collar, and surveyed himself in the hall mirror. He was satisfied at what he saw–the young collegian, just like in Playboy. From the mirror he could see that his mother was watching him and that she was proud. He winked at his reflection and then with a gay, “Be seeing you,” he left.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Didi cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and whispered to her mother, “Remember that boy from school I told you about? Alan Jenkins? The colored boy? Well, he’s in Lynn and wants to come over. What shall I tell him?”
“Ask him to come over, if you want,” said Mrs. Epstein matter-of-factly. “Does he have a car?”
“He’s got a motorcycle. But what about the cookout–”
“Invite him along if he wants to come.”
“You think it will be all right.”
“I don’t see why not. What’s he like, anyway?”
“Oh, he’s a little older than most of the freshmen; he was out working a couple of years. He’s terribly talented. And he’s easygoing and pleasant–I mean he’s not surly or–you know–angry like some of them. I mean at school, it being an art school, well, it doesn’t make any difference. I mean we don’t think of him as being different, if you know
what I mean.”
“Then–” Mrs. Epstein shrugged her shoulders.
Didi uncupped the mouthpiece and said, “Oh, Alan? Sorry to keep you waiting. Look, some of the kids I went to school with–we’re having a cookout on the beach. How would you like to make the scene? … About six or eight of us…. You can? Good–Oh, I just thought of something; I promised our rabbi I’d show him that painting I was working on at school–you know, Moses and the tables of the Law? So why don’t you pick me up there? … No, we won’t get hung up…. All right, here’s what you do: Take the shore road out of Lynn and go along until the first set of traffic lights….”
Alan gunned the motor and then let it die. Didi in white slacks climbed down from behind him, and he walked the bike up the driveway to the garage. “That rabbi seemed like a straight guy,” he said. “Funny, I thought he’d be an old crock with a long beard. I thought all rabbis have beards.”
Didi giggled. “No, just the kids at school. Come to think of it, though, I’ve never seen one with a beard.”
“I figured he’d talk like a preacher–you know, about God and all that.”
“Rabbis really aren’t preachers; they’re more like teachers,” she explained. “Actually, according to our rabbi, his real job is interpreting and applying the law-like a lawyer or a judge.”
Mrs. Epstein greeted them in the living room. “Your first time in Barnard’s Crossing, Mr. Jenkins? Didi has told me so much about you.” He was a nice-looking young man, of a deep coffee-brown. His lips, though bluish, were not over-large. His nose, too, was high-bridged and well-formed. His hair was cut close to his head, and she was pleased to see no attempt had been made either to straighten or to smooth it down. He was of medium height but had a large chest and square shoulders, which seemed tensed at the moment.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been to the North Shore a couple of times–to Lynn. There’s a guy–a man who sometimes sells some of my paintings for me there–”
“An art dealer? I didn’t know there was an art store or gallery in Lynn,” she said, offering him a chair.
“No, ma’am. He’s got like a bookstore and greeting cards and some gift items–things like that. He hangs up some of my paintings when he’s got the space, and when he sells one, he pays me.”
“And do you sell many?” she asked.
He laughed, a fine, open laugh. “Not enough to retire on. I’m riding down to New York first thing tomorrow morning, and I was hoping he might have some loot for me.” He shook his head. “Zilch–although he did say he had a couple of people interested in one picture.”
“And what kind of pictures do you paint, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Oh, Alan does these marvelous abstracts–”
An auto horn sounded outside. “There’s Stu now. Come on, Alan,” said Didi.
“Take a sweater, dear. It can get chilly on the Point.”
“Don’t need one.”
“Well, have a nice time, dear. Good-bye, Mr. Jenkins. And good luck on those paintings.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
As Moose found himself picking his way between clumps of trash barrels and groups of squalling children, who spilled all over the street in the South End of Boston, he began to have misgivings. To be sure, the street must at one time have been very fine; it was divided in the middle by a broad grass plot, with wooden park benches set at regular intervals. But the grass even this early in the spring looked ill-cared for, and a litter of papers, tin cans, and bottles had piled up under the benches. Once grand brownstone-front town houses with short flights of granite stairs, each with its wrought-iron railing, were set back from the sidewalk. The ornate wooden doors, which no doubt had had massive brass knockers and brass doorknobs, showed years of wear and abuse; there was a hole in the door where the knocker had originally been, and instead of the doorknob only a round hole with a thong of greasy leather hanging from it to serve the purpose. Peeling, blistered paint showed layers of different colors on the door, flanking which were long, narrow windows suggesting high-ceilinged rooms inside. But most of the windows were cracked, and in one case the window had been shattered and replaced by a piece of weather-beaten plywood. The sidewalks and sides of the houses were liberally sprinkled with chalk graffiti.
Moose found the number he was looking for and climbed the stairs. Finding no bell button (there was only a hole through which a couple of wires protruded), he rapped on the door. He waited a moment and, receiving no answer, pushed the door open. It was held closed by a coiled spring under considerable tension, so that the moment he released it the door slammed shut. At the noise a slatternly old woman poked her head into the vestibule and looked at him inquiringly.
“I’m looking for Mr. Wilcox,” said Moose.
“Top floor, last bell,” she said and closed her door.
Then Moose noticed a row of mailboxes, and he pushed the button under the name. Almost immediately there was an answering “Hello” through the speaking tube.
“I’m Moose Carter, Mr. Wilcox,” he called into the tube. “I spoke to you on the phone.”
“Come on up.”
His initial misgivings were immediately allayed as he stepped inside. The room was large and well-furnished. There was an Oriental rug on the floor and oil paintings in heavy gold frames on the walls; large overstuffed chairs were scattered around the room, and facing a large window, from which could be seen the neighboring rooftops, was a massive sofa. Nearby was a marbletopped desk in carved mahogany and behind it a black-leather modern swivel chair set on a chrome pedestal.
Wilcox himself was not what Moose had expected. With his flannel slacks and tweed jacket, he reminded him of a youngish professor, like some of the ones he had known in college. His brown hair was cut close and showed signs of graying at the temples; his manner, easy and friendly.
“Some view you’ve got here,” said Moose, approaching the window.
“I like it,” said Wilcox. “I like to sit on that sofa there and just look out over the rooftops. Very relaxing.”
“It’s nice,” said Moose. “I wouldn’t have…” He stopped.
“Expected it? You mean from the appearance of the street? A lot of these houses are being bought and fixed up, like this one.” He smiled, and it was a nice smile. “It’s a sort of private slum reclamation project. This apartment here belonged to an artist friend of mine. He took a longterm lease and fixed it up as a studio, which accounts for the picture window. Then he decided to go to Europe. It’s actually in a convenient part of the city here.”
“This your office, Mr. Wilcox?”
The other eyed him speculatively and then said, “I do some business here.” He motioned Moose to the sofa and then sat down at the other end, facing him. “You said you were interested in working with us.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well, the stuff we deal in is not hard to get in the city, and there are plenty of people, retailers, who buy the stuff on their own from Tom, Dick, or Harry, and I guess maybe they make out all right. But we don’t operate that way. We’re an organization. Maybe at first it looks as though it might cost you a little bit more, but our people think it’s worth it. When you buy from us, you can be sure the stuff is good. You don’t have to worry whether it’s mixed with oregano or catnip or worse, which could get you into a lot of trouble. You get any customers for other kinds of stuff we can supply them, but when we sell grass, grass is what you get. That’s the way I like to operate.
“There are advantages to working with an organization,” Wilcox went on. “We keep the competition down. Somebody comes in town and gets a supply, passes it on to his friends, or maybe sells it at his cost, we don’t bother with that. But someone coming into your territory who is an operator, well–we take care of it. And then there are times when you get into trouble, and if it can be fixed, we’ll fix it. Of course, one reason we’d like to have you with us is that the kids all know you and you can operate on a friendly basis with customers in your
hometown, and that’s a good thing.”
Moose hesitated. “How about–”
Wilcox nodded. “Yes, the territory has been assigned already, but we’re not entirely satisfied with the way it’s been operated. Then you can argue that the territory has grown too big for one man.” He reflected. “Maybe that would be the best angle. You need two to really work a good territory. So you can go and see him and tell him we said you’re to come in with him. The arrangement will be a straight fifty-fifty split. Of course, he’s paid for his present stock, so you could offer to work that off on a commission or a percentage basis. Say a quarter. I’d say that would be about right. A quarter on the old stock and a half on the new. We’ll see how that goes for a while, and then maybe we’ll make some changes.”
“What kind of changes?”
Wilcox pursed his lips. “Well, if things go the way I’m hoping, there’s no reason you couldn’t handle it yourself some day. So we’d transfer him-that’s right, we’d transfer him to another territory. That’s kind of our regular policy. We transfer him to another territory.” Wilcox opened a cigarette box on the coffee table and offered Moose a cigarette.
“When would I start?” asked Moose, lighting up.
“What’s wrong with right away? Tomorrow, day after, tonight if you can arrange it.”
“Well, when will you talk to him? I mean when are you going to let him know?”
Wilcox smiled. “I figured on you telling him.”
“Me? But–but what if he doesn’t believe me?”
“Well, I was counting on you to make him believe you. You might consider it a kind of test. Yes, that’s what it is–a kind of test. You take an operation like ours, we don’t have too much staff. Every man operates on his own. We can’t have a man calling up the home office every time he runs into a little problem. So–you’ve got your instructions; you look like a persuasive lad”–he eyed Moose’s size and smiled–“you’ll know what to do. Of course, if he does contact us, we’ll tell him what the situation is.”
Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home Page 9
