What's in It for Me? (12 page)

“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—”

“M
ORNING, MISS VINEGARD,” I
said, tossing my hat across the room toward my desk. “Any messages for me?”

“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.”

“Mr. Bogen!”

“Yeah?”

“There's one more thing.”

“Yeah. What is it?”

“Some man called up this morning and—”

“About me?”

“Well, yes, about the ad. He called up and said he'd like to have your phone number—”

“Why didn't you tell him to write me a letter? Like it said in the ad?”

“I did, Mr. Bogen, but he said he didn't believe in letters.”

Sounded like an old pupil of mine.

“The hell with him,” I said. “One of these wise guys, I guess, that's all.”

“Well, I don't know,” Selman said. “He sounded pretty interested to me, Mr. Bogen.”

What sort of a criterion was that?

“If he's interested he'll call again.”

“But Mr. Bogen!”

“Yeah?”

“Let me finish. He wanted your phone number and I wouldn't give it to him. So he said I should take his name and phone number and address and give it to you and you should call him back. He said he's very much interested in the ad, but he don't write letters.”

He didn't need a partner. He needed a secretary.

“So you got the number?”

“Yes, Mr. Bogen.”

“All right, shoot.”

“Lackawanna 4–3229.”

I wrote the number on my desk blotter.

“I got it.”

“550 Seventh Avenue.”

I added that under the telephone number.

“And the name?”

“I better spell that.”

“Shoot.”

“Y, a, z, d, a, b, i, a, n.”

First I wrote the letters, then I looked at them.

“Y, a, z, d, a, b, i, a, n?” I asked in surprise.

He chuckled slightly.

“Yeah, that's right Mr. Bogen. I made him spell it back for me twice, but that's it.”

“What is it, in code or something?”

He laughed violently.

“Code! Boy, that's pretty good, Mr. Bogen!”

Promise a guy two free tickets to a show and you're a wit. No matter what you say, he'll piss in his pants laughing.

“Yazdabian,” I said. “What is it, a first name or a last?”

“It's the last name. Here's the first name.”

“H, r, a, n, t.”

I wrote the letters and stared at them.

“Hrant Yazdabian,” I said. “Aah, Selman, it's a gag!”

“No, it isn't, Mr. Bogen. I checked with the phone book, and he's listed, all right. Hrant Yazdabian, Inc., 550 Seventh Avenue.”

“What is he?”

“I don't know, Mr. Bogen. I checked with a coupla guys here, and they seem to think he's a Greek or an Armenian.”

Morton Selman and his Scotland Yard operatives.

“A what?”

“A Greek or an Armenian, Mr. Bogen.”

Greeks I gotta get myself mixed up with!

“Well, all right,” I said. “What the hell can you do? A Greek wants to call you, it's his privilege. Well, thanks, Selman. And those letters are in the mail to me, eh?”

“Yes, sirree.”

He coughed delicately.

“Fine,” I said. “I'll see that those tickets get into the mail for you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bogen.”

I hung up and looked at the name and address on my desk blotter for a few moments.

“Miss Vinegard.”

“Yes, Mr. Bogen.”

“Get me Lackawanna 4–3229, will you?”

She nodded and dialed.

“All right, Mr. Bogen. Take it.”

I picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” I said. “Hrant Yazdabian, Inc.?”

“Yes, sir,” a girl's voice said.

“Is Mr. Yazdabian in?”

“Just a moment, please. Here's Mr. Yazdabian, sir.”

“Hello,” I said. “Mr. Yazdabian?”

“Yes,” a funny voice said. “Who is this?”

“This is the gentleman whose ad you called the
Daily News Record
about, Mr. Yazdabian.”

“What is your name?”

“I'd rather not give you that over the phone,” I said. “We're on an open wire. I think it would be best if we got together for a talk.”

“Where would you suggest this should take place?” he asked.

“How about my coming over to your place?” I said.

“That will be very good,” he said. “When would you prefer this to be?”

“I can make it any time, Mr. Yazdabian. How about now?”