PLUNGE INTO THE WORLD OF J. P. DONLEAVY
Meet Lord Nectarine, Prince Basil and the equally upper-crusted Binky—a trio of randy aristocrats only too willing to empty their pockets in exchange for unlimited “audition” privileges.
Meet Big Al, the celebrity’s celebrity, ready to save Schultz’s neck with one hand even as he catapults him toward disaster with the other.
Meet Terence F. X. Magillacurdy—live talent discovered fast asleep in the cemetery. The charm-the-birds-out-of-the-trees singing star of Schultz’s major production.
Meet Agnes, Greta, Pricilla, Roxana, Sylvia and a cast of thousands all ready to offer up their luscious bodies for a tasty part in the grand opera of dreams made flesh.
“OUTLANDISH ESCAPADES … AN INCREDIBLE MIXTURE OF SLAPSTICK, VIOLENCE AND CARNAL HIGH-JINKS.”
—Nashville Tennessean
SCHULTZ
J. P. Donleavy
A DELL BOOK
THE LILLIPUT PRESS
Contents
Title Page
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Books by J. P. Donleavy
Copyright
SCHULTZ
1
When Lord Nectarine of Walham Green resigned his mastership of foxhounds, got rid of his wife and shut of his children and happily set up as a bachelor again, installing an attractive erudite housekeeper, and a male secretary hard of hearing, in his new commodious town house, Schultz enjoyed to consult, lunch and dine with his Lordship with as much frequency as his Lordship’s tight schedule of social events allowed. Discussing with the noble peer how he might cut adrift from his own burdensome spouse.
“Of course Schultz, you know that foul methods such as murder are out of the question. In any event the black eyes your wife has succeeded in repeatedly giving you demonstrate that you might come a cropper in violently attempting her death.”
At a quarter to noon each day his Lordship’s chauffeur deposited him at Hyde Park Corner where he enjoyed to stroll up and down the slight hills along Piccadilly. Although he limped slightly from a cricket ball having smashed him on the knee, his nordicly blond Lordship was tall, slender, icy blue eyed and handsome to the extent that young ladies daily walked into walls and posts turning to look at him. He had attended some of the finer schools in England and owned one palace and more than one of the bigger and better castles here and there in various of the more prominent counties.
“I do beg to remind you Schultz, that I am not, repeat not, made of money.”
His Lordship rarely made such remarks concerning his wherewithal. Unless Schultz particularly irritated him to. For along with his widespread and substantial assets, plus a prized pack of foxhounds, came numerous liabilities and tribulation as his Lordship was smashed reeling by staggering death duties, blistering taxes, and an unending list of old family retainers to maintain. To all of which had now recently been added his wife’s vast separation settlement, his Lordship not believing in divorce. And many was the long arduous hour he spent down in the deep sunless rooms of the city in consultation with firms of lawyers and accountants with whom he could at times be more than abrupt, cutting through their smug drawling pomposities by speaking as he frequently did in a no nonsense manner.
“Schultz you do not impress me in the least.”
This was Lord Nectarine’s statement upon the occasion of his first meeting with Schultz. A winterish gloomy day of pouring rain. And drops were still rolling off a black curly Schultz’s head, which had just hysterically rushed across half London by foot, bus and taxi to meet the rich peer. But suddenly and prophetically during their confrontation, it became a spring afternoon as the storm clouds passed and bathed in golden light, the two of them were standing centre room in the chairman’s suite of this long established theatrical producing company tucked up a narrow street just off Piccadilly. But the flooding warmth of sunshine did nothing to soften his Lordship’s scepticism.
“From what I have already heard of this production of yours Schultz you are entirely wasting your time attempting to solicit funds from me.”
Binky, one of his Lordship’s oldest friends, and equally rich, had acquired this showbizz operation to amuse himself and make it simpler to meet and wine and dine ladies of the theatre and those eager to be of that calling. But such arrangements did not come about without a little sand in the ointment. For, most unfortunately, upon the company’s reconstruction after a bankruptcy and through a typist’s error, the company had been named Sperm Productions instead of Spear Productions. And all attempts to explain Sperm as Spear only led to analogies being drawn between these two words as two items one might get shoved up one. Nor did a simple straightforward apologetic explanation always work.
Dear Madam,
Please ignore our rather suggestive company name, and we hope you will understand that it in no way indicates the nature of what we do.
But as Binky selected his dining and bed companions from his tomes of actresses’ photographs listed among juvenile and juvenile character women, this dreadful mistake frequently brought outraged replies from the more established actresses in the field who jumped to the nude conclusion that they were being offered a part to play in a porno film. Instead of in Binky’s bed. At such tricky times his Lordship would be requested to sit in on these touchy interviews. Which invariably ended up with an actress ready and upon occasion even begging to play any role these heavenly handsome aristocratic gentlemen could think of.
“This is my dear and old friend, his Royal Grace, who has long been charmed by and admired your splendid performances. He has, I am delighted to say, just joined Sperm Productions as one of our senior directors.”
However his Lordship refused to have any of his more elevated entitlements listed on the letterhead. But following passionate implorements from Binky that the company desperately required the elite air his title gave, his Royal Grace did finally consent to being included as Lord Nectarine of Walham Green.
“You are an absolute brick my dear, to honor us top of the page like that.”
Although far more shy and retiring than Binky, his Lordship did enjoy to witness these tête à tête occasions with London’s leading ladies of stage, screen and radio. Secretly savouring to watch Binky, equally as handsome as his Lordship, lay on thick his languid sleepily drawling manner which so captivated the visiting stars as he stood on tiptoe during introductions, ceremoniously intoning his Lordship’s long string of titles.
“Allow me to present you to his Royal Grace, Prince Basil, Earl of Eel Brook Common, Viscount Fulhambroadway and Lord Nectarine of Walham Green, MFH who is, I might add, also a fully accredited Fellow of the Royal Academy of Dancing and a paid up Knight of Malta.”
His Lordship much disliked his titles being used and preferred wherever and whenever possible to be merely known as plain Mister Basil Bright or Nectarine. But Binky to whom his Lordship allowed nearly any latitude, would upon the merest of occasions boom out his Lordship’s honours, styles and distinctions. And although painful to his Lordship he would patiently and good naturedly stand there through the ordeal, always eagerly awaiting the anonymous lighter moments when upon occasion the pair of them were dealing with the going and coming of minor showbizz perso
nalities when they enjoyed to be asked by these upstarts why didn’t both of them with their stunning good looks go to Hollywood.
“Ah now what about that Basil, my dear, should we, do you think we really should become film stars and abandon all this, the ups and resoundingly downs of the London theatrical whirl. Ah but I think not. No I think not. The West End needs us.”
Even some major female stars who were now and again carefully entrapped into calling, suggested that either, with their matinee idol faces, could be their leading man in their next movie. But Lord Nectarine only smiled upon these overtures just as he did when he erected various follies on his estates and stood then later when they were expensively completed sadly wondering why he had bothered to build them.
“But of course one builds out of nervous hysteria caused by the ochre hue of one’s architect’s suede shoes.”
But then, to his Lordship, amusement, as it was to Binky, was of the highest priority. And now by taking certain relatively modest handfuls of his vast cash flow and backing shows, he was while forsaking his other risky financial evening pastime of gambling, not only amusing himself immensely but also saving money. He particularly savoured to find the musical type of production featuring scantily clad leggy females and especially would wax delirious were the latter darker skinned. But his Lordship was just not all fun and games, he was also a stickler for artistic standards. And where these fell, his Lordship recoiled and retreated.
It was on such an occasion that Schultz was doing his anxious best to convince his Lordship to part with money. Precisely as his Lordship had done a few minutes previously having just returned from having purchased for five figure sums, three rare snuff boxes in one of London’s major auction rooms. To which latter he was constantly departing at various times of day. And now in lieu of lunch he had his mouth full of sliced calves’ tongue which a secretary had just fetched for him from that marvellously elegant nearby food emporium of Fortnum’s.
“Come on your Highness, the chorus line is full of dark complexioned females. It’s only a few thou. The only remaining sixteen thousand quid investment left. You get top billing as producer in a size and type of print not less than one twentieth as big as the stars. All other producers would be listed practically unseen underneath you.”
“In fact Schultz I think you are a creampuff.”
Creampuff was a word his Lordship was fond of using. Especially with people overheating themselves in their efforts to impress him. Or attempting to play upon his private proclivities. But Sigmund Franz Schultz, although his expression took on a corpse like demeanor, never for a second stopped faintly grinning. Hoping in spite of these bolo punch remarks to penetrate his Lordship’s recently increasing financial caution and to prise loose this sizeable investment from his Lordshpi’s aristocratic clutches.
“I mean it stands to reason, three flops in a row, even the law of averages says I got to have a hit.”
“The law of averages, Schultz, may more likely say you’ve got to have bankruptcy.”
However, showbizz happened to be having one of its momentary upswings at the time. And Schultz unbeknownst to himself, had found his way into Binky’s and his Lordship’s favour when they came upon an overnight satchel of Schultz’s left at the office and which, along with an address book listing some of America’s fabled richest men with their private phone numbers, also contained three pure silk shirts. These latter more than anything else improved Schultz’s image in their eyes as they back and forth handled the garments between their unbelieving fingers.
“By jove your Royal Grace these are from a good shirtmaker as well, could it possibly be that Schultz is not a man of straw.”
“Yes most surprising discovery this.”
It was decided then and there that Schultz if nothing else would be most useful as a front of office man who could hold at arm’s or breath’s length the streams of conmen constantly arriving pushily on the scene. Who seemed to enjoy monopolising conversations in the elegant surrounds of the chairman’s suite of Sperm Productions thereby cramping his Lordship’s and Binky’s style with the visiting ladies. And Schultz, who was adept at making the inferior feel even more so, would be ideal in deterring such chaps with a blistering barrage of impolite intimidation.
“I mean to say your Royal Grace let us pop old Schultzy boy in the little cubbyhole next to the telephonist’s switchboard. And the numerous arriving unwanted can be shunted in there.”
Not that his Lordship and Binky did not thoroughly enjoy the occasional appearance of a brash conman obnoxiously full of his own self importance, who would with assumed accents and social credentials, attempt to divest them of monies or, which was harder, gain their admiration and friendship. But there was also now the increasingly delicate matter of dealing decently and humanely with recently abandoned young lady actresses, from whom his Lordship and Binky, adoring variety, no longer required services and did not want to unkindly turn away.
“Schultz could not only take care of the outflow of ladies but also those numerous purveyors of criminal improprieties we seem to attract.”
Happily it was one of those totally unexpected brief periods in London’s West End during which those in pursuit of satisfying their vanity in the theatre were in short supply. For many of these overblown smug superior bombasts had in the two previous seasons been socked soundly into bankruptcy and wound up having to sell their cars and houses and in one instance even to putting the wife out to ply an ancient trade on the streets. As Binky had, while perambulating one of London’s better known boulevards, recently observed.
“I say your Royal Grace, I could have sworn I saw thing’s wife.”
“Who.”
“You know, thing. Who sold his motor cars, thoroughbreds, and fatally mortgaged his estate to save his miserable play. I am absolutely certain I rather bumped into her lurking in the Park Lane shadows of the Dorchester Hotel last night.”
“O dear.”
“Yes indeed and she rather used a variation of that expression to me. I think it was dearie she said. One would think that going on the game like that, that she would be somewhat more discreet. And poor woeful chap her husband. He was lurking on the threatrical edge in the lobby of the Comedy Theatre on that awful first night on Monday.”
“How distressing Binky.”
“Ah your Esteemed Highness, I think there are more than just a few jealous bitter observers about during this currently healthily booked up season.”
Binky and his Lordship had also dropped buckets of cash, but their buckets were happily refilled from drips that still dropped gold in profusion from the one or two admirable hard working ancestors of the many previous generations. Plus they also had several shows profitably touring the provinces. And now with the new use to which Schultz might be put, his Lordship was far more accommodating of Schultz’s entreaties for money but nevertheless insisted to keep him in his place.
“Not only Schultz do I think you are a creampuff but also a pettifogger.”
Such remarks did stiffen somewhat Schultz’s cheek muscles but he invariably continued grinning. While not in the least knowing what a pettifogger was. But he certainly knew by heart the tales of his Lordship’s ancient family’s considerable investments in South American railways, Bolivian mines, Canadian forests not to mention vast cattle ranches in North and South America. Plus the many tales of his Lordship’s not only very direct but sometimes totally rude manner. But there was one aspect of his Lordship’s personality that one could always depend upon. And that was his kindly indulgence of the lesser advantaged. And he especially lavished a sporting affection on the unmitigated underdog or anyone so unfortunate as Schultz was, to have been born in Woonsocket, Rhode Island.
“Ah Schultz, but let me add however, that although you are a pettifogging creampuff there is I think running through you the golden thread of innocence.”
During his younger days his Lordship upon his tutor first making him aware of the industrial revolution, somewh
at sympathised with socialism. And despite the fact that this was more than to some faint degree, intellectual, nevertheless it was genuine. But in relation to his more major tax difficulties, his Lordship was fond of jokingly saying that they were the result of a heinous bureaucratic plot hatched by the unionised idle working classes to undo him.
“Of course it is quite unjust for a certain element of the population to own the lion’s share of the wealth of the nation but equally it is entirely tiresome for so many pompous damn complicated letters to have to be written by officialdom to extract such sums from me.”
However his Lordship now took a wry joy in his complaint since he had over these past three tough years inherited not only from an amply rich father but also, as he had recently discovered, hugely staggering amounts left in trust for him by two great grand aunts. And assets were literally pouring and tumbling into his coffers more quickly than they could be squandered, taxed or spent.
Of course there were many occasions, usually on a rainy Monday or abysmally dull Sunday, when his Lordship lonely melancholy seated in a chair in the damp shadows of one of the great public rooms of one of his great castles, panicked about the endless expense in his life. And deeply down in the dumps, he would then hysterically make a selection of antiques from some long unused gallery, or utensils from some long abandoned kitchen, hire a lorry and have them carted up to a London auction room.
“Ah but then Schultz you do take the fucking cake sometimes. You really do. You are so preposterously bluffing that it becomes quite endearing.”
In the plush ornamented chairman’s office of Sperm Productions, his Lordship, through the mildly entertaining afternoons, often sat there in his brocaded Edwardian chair just glowing with approval at the sorry financially impoverished mess that Schultz was usually presently in. Needing as he so desperately did not only the sixteen thousand quid requested of his Lordship but also about sixty thousand more. And his Lordship would sit back delightfully amused as the uncontrollable Schultz paced the carpet smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand, repeating over and over.
Schultz Page 1
