What's in It for Me? (29 page)

He shook his head at me slowly.

“You bet that won't happen to you, Bogen. Worse things than that'll happen to you.”

I laughed at him grimly.

“Yeah?” I said. “I'll take my chances on that. I know what I want and by God I'm gonna get it, too.”

“Did it ever occur to you, Bogen, that you don't always get want you want in this world?”

This jerked-up bastard didn't belong in the d. a.'s office. He belonged with Billy Sunday.

“Maybe I won't get it. But God damn it, I'm not gonna sit around and take it on the chin. At least I'll make a fight for it.”

“I don't think it's worth it, Bogen,” he said quietly.

“You don't, eh?” I looked at him insolently. “How do you know? What've you got to measure by? What've you got that's so hot? A lousy little forty a week job in the d. a.'s office? If it
is
forty?”

His face flushed and his lips came together until his mouth was a slit. “I've got my self-respect,” he said in a low voice.

I threw my head back and laughed out loud.

“Self-respect! Hah! Take that down to the butcher, Herman, and see how many bills you can pay with it.”

“There are other things in this world besides bills,” he said.

“We won't go into that,” I said. I took his arm and steered him to the door. “What you need, Herman, is a little exercise for your brain. I'd like to give it to you, but I'm too busy. You've wasted too much of my time as is.”

He stood at the door, twisting his hat and looking at me pityingly.

“You're pretty cocksure about yourself, aren't you?” he said. “Your pretty certain you're right, aren't you?”

I grinned at him slowly.

“You're maybe a lawyer,” I said. “You know something about the rules of evidence and that junk. Well, until I see the evidence presented to the contrary, I'm gonna keep on thinking I'm right.”

He put on his hat and adjusted his coat.

“It's going to be too late then, Bogen.”

I spread the grin out wide and opened the door for him.

“I told you about that, too,” I said. “I'm taking my chances.”

He bit his lip and went out. I watched the door swing back and forth for a moment. Then I pulled the crumpled telegram out of my pocket and walked back into the office.

“Miss Eckveldt,” I said, “get my mother on the—” I stopped and shook my head at her. “No, never mind. That other call. That Mr. Nissem. He leave his number?”

She glanced at the pad beside the switchboard.

“Yes, he did. It's—”

“Get him for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

She started to dial the number. I stood up suddenly and jammed the telegram back into my pocket.

“The hell with that call, Miss Eckveldt. Never mind.”

I walked out into the back. Eric was sitting on the shipping table, reading the paper. On the floor, surrounding him like a hastily thrown up barricade, was a pile of returned packages.

“Hey!”

He looked up quickly.

“Yes, Mr. Bogen?”

“That's what they teach you in City U.? To read the paper on the boss' time and to let the work lay around?

His face became sullen.

“You told me yourself not to open any returns, Mr. Bogen. I cleaned up all my other work and there's nothing but—”

That's what they learn in night college. To get fat asses from laziness and to avoid responsibility for it by diplomacy.

“I didn't hear myself saying anything about you can't tear off labels and clean up the oustide of the packages, did I?” I swung up one of the smaller bundles and dropped it on the shipping table. “What the hell are you, one of these strict constructionists? I told you not to
open
returns. I didn't say anything else.” As I spoke I ripped off the old label from the package and crossed out the shipping numerals with the black crayon. “Do that to all these packages. The same as I just did. I'll be back in a little while with a new set of labels.”

He looked at me in amazement.

“You don't want me to open them, Mr. Bogen? You just want me to tear off the old labels?”

My God, I'd been a shipping clerk myself once! Had I been that dumb?

“That's the idea, Brilliance. Let's see you look alive a little and get it done.”

He went to work. I went back to the office for the accounts receivable ledger. In a few minutes I had a set of brand-new labels all made out. I returned the ledger to the safe in the office and took the new labels to Eric in the back.

“These are the new labels for these packages. Paste them on, make out the shipping receipts, and have Railway Express up here right away. I want those signed express receipts as soon as I can get them. I'll wait for them.”

I made a quick circuit of the stretched-out returns, dropping a label on each package.

“Paste them on the way you arrange them? Right, Mr. Bogen?”

In City U. he could be an honor student. In my school he'd flunk right and left.

“Yeah, right. And also hurry.”

I went through half a pack of cigarettes while he got the labels pasted on, wrote the charges, sent for the Railway Express man, and wound up with the batch of signed express receipts and duplicate charges that I wanted.

“Here you are, Mr. Bogen.”

Now he could go back to his newspaper.

“All right. Any more returns come in, do the same thing to them.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went into the office for my hat and hurried out to Nissem's place on Thirty-fourth Street. Miss Blau gave me a quick smile when I came in.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Bogen. I'll tell Mr. Nissem you're here.”

Said the spider to the fly. “Thanks.”

What they didn't know was that I was the oddest kind of fly they'd ever had in their web.

“Come right in, Mr. Bogen.”

She held the door wide and then closed it behind me. Nissem waved his hand and motioned to a chair.

“Come in, Bogen, come in. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

I sat down and pulled out my express receipts and duplicate charges.

“Another batch?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said with a grin. “It looks like once a guy just so much as shakes hands with you, Nissem, you right away put him on a leash. You're getting to be a regular habit with me.”

Judging by his face, my humor wasn't exactly killing him this time.

“Yeah, well, Bogen, I'm glad you came in. I called your office this morning and—”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I didn't stop in the office this morning. I called up from outside and when they told me you called, I figured since I was coming up here anyway, I figured it could wait till I got here.”

He nodded and relit his cigar.

“Oh, yeah, Bogen, of course. That long it could wait.”

I looked up at him from the charges and receipts in my hand.

“What's the matter, Nissem? Anything wrong?”

He shrugged and looked at the ceiling.

“I don't know, Bogen. I hope not. But I'll tell you. You told me you sell on 8/10/E.O.M., didn't you?”

“That's right. We do. Always have.”

“Well, Bogen, I'll tell you. I haven't received a single check yet on all the accounts you been hocking with me the last three and a half weeks, and—”

So long as it was only worry that was eating him, he could still be handled.

“Well, my God, Nissem, it's only April second! You know damn well that that money isn't due till the tenth of the month! I told you these accounts'll pay on time and not a day sooner. These high class firms out west, you know, they don't know from nothing. A bill is due, they pay it. Not before. No anticipation with those babies. You could stand on your head a week, Nissem, and they wouldn't so much as send you a check ten minutes in advance any more than they'd let you—”

He waved his hand to shut me up.

“I know, Bogen, I know. I know all about that. I'm not worrying about that. When I buy accounts I know what I'm buying.”

His self-confidence sounded a little silly, but this wasn't the right time to start laughing out loud.

“Of course. These accounts are all one hundred per cent and you can—”

“I know, Bogen, I know. You sell some little guy in Newark or Jersey City or Furtzlochel, Michigan or something like that, a guy I never heard of, I wouldn't take the account from you even for nothing. But you sell an outfit like Bamberger, like Marshall Field, like Macy's, all right, accounts like that I'll buy from you.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, Nissem, all these accounts I sold you are as good as Bamberger and Macy's and—”

“I know that, too.”

If he knew so much, what the hell was he worried about?

“Then what—?”

“I'll tell you Bogen. I was going over your charges, the ones you sold me. And the writing on one of them, it was a little blurred. I couldn't exactly make out the date, you know, so I wrote to Caxton-Bleiweiss in Detroit, I asked them what the date on your charge number so and so was. And I gave them the number and the amount and all the rest of the stuff. And what do you think they wrote back?”

I wasn't answering that question. Because I knew what they'd written back. And because I was busy framing the answer to another one.

“What?”

He gave the line a send-off with a short cough.

“They wrote they don't owe the money and they have no record of the charge.”

“You got the charge?”

Question modified by puzzled scowl, very slight.

“Here it is, Bogen.”

He handed it across and I examined it for a moment. Then I looked up with a wide grin.

“I know what this is, Nissem.”

“What?”

“It's that smart shipping clerk of mine. He got the names twisted. I can tell from these numbers on the charge that those dresses were shipped to Biegel-Falk-Tinne, not Caxton-Bleiweiss.” I shook my head and chuckled. “That's the college boys for you, Nissem. You know, I used to have shipping clerks, I'd pick them up off the streets and they never even saw a pencil in their lives before. In ten minutes I used to teach them all they had to know and they never made a mistake. Now I got me a college boy. At night he can't stay a minute late because he's gotta run like hell down to school to study accountancy or psychology or whatever the hell they teach them down there, but when it comes to getting a little thing like a charge or a shipping receipt right, he frigs the whole thing up.” I folded the charge and put it into my breast pocket. “Don't worry about this, Nissem. I'll take it back to my place and have him trace it and send duplicates to Biegel-Falk-Tinne. He's also gonna get the piss bawled out of him. You'll get that check the same as the others, Nissem, right on time. Don't worry about it.”

My voice must have sounded a lot more soothing than the explanation. When I finished, he was back in his usual jovial mood again.

“Oh, well, Bogen, that's different. I guess that's liable to happen to anybody.”

To anybody that had dealings with me, yes.

“Of course. Hell, I can remember the day when—”

“Well, Bogen, let's see what you've got today.”

The prospect of listening to my reminiscences didn't seem to throw him into a fit of violent enthusiasm.

“Quite a big bunch today, Nissem.”

I handed over the express receipts and the duplicate charges. He examined them and made his calculations on the scratch pad.

“Almost eight thousand bucks today. Boy, Bogen, you certainly must need money badly.”

I'd like to know when he ever heard of anybody needing it any other way.

“Bills. All I see in front of me is bills. No kidding, the next time my bookkeeper shows me bills she's gonna get such a smack in the puss, it'll take her a week to—”

He grinned widely.

“Don't beat up the bookkeeper, Bogen. Just come to me.”

What was he asking for, a fight?

“Lemme tell you something,” I said with a grin. “You're the only guy that's been saving her from getting it, up to now.”

We both laughed while Miss Blau made out the papers. Then I signed them and we went down to the bank for the cash.

“You know, Bogen,” he said as he handed me the money and I pocketed it, “I just been thinking.”

An unusual event like that called for strict attention.

“What?”

“I just been thinking, Bogen, you've borrowed close to thirty thousand bucks so far. And that's, well, that's a lot of jack, Bogen. So maybe you better not hock any more accounts for the next week or so? Till the money starts coming in on the old stuff, hah?”

I should live so long as he'd have to wait for the money to come in on the old stuff.

“If you say so,” I said with a shrug. “Fact is, Nissem, I was just thinking myself that this last batch, this last stock I sold you today, would just about see me through into the clear. Maybe I may need another coupla thousand at the outside. Just another two or three, within the next coupla days. But if you don't want to carry me for it, why—”

“Oh, well,” he said quickly, “another small amount like that, all right. But a big one like today, I don't know, Bogen, it's kinda—”

“Don't worry, Nissem. Today was the last big one.”

“Okay, then. So long, Bogen.”

“So long, Nissem.”

I watched him go off down the street to his office. Yazdabian coming back in ten days and Lenny Nissem sending letters to Detroit. The time had come to hoist anchor. Thirty thousand bucks wasn't bad. I'd stepped out of my last smash with less than that. Thirty thousand bucks was damn good. I walked into a phone booth and called the Montevideo.

“Charlie, this is Mr. Bogen.”

“Yes, Mr. Bogen.”

“Connect me with Miss Mills.”

“Just a moment, please.”