What's in It for Me? (15 page)

“I'm all right. Listen, Frank. Is there a rehearsal today? In the morning, I mean?”

“Rehearsal?” he said in a surprised voice. “Why, Mr. Bogen, the show's closing in a few—”

“I know. I was just wondering, that's all. Okay, thanks, Frank.”

“That's all right, Mr. Bogen. But what—?”

“It's all right, Frank. Forget it. I was just curious, that's all.”

I took the subway up to my bank and went over to the statement window.

“I'd like to know what my balance is as of today,” I said.

“Name of the account, please?”

“Bogen,” I said. “Harry Bogen.”

“Just a moment, please.” He shuffled the large yellow ledger cards and came up with one. “Thirteen thousand two forty-eight twenty-two, sir.”

“Thirteen thousand two forty-eight twenty-two,” I repeated as I jotted the figure down on a deposit slip.

“That's right, sir.”

“Thanks.”

I had about fifteen hundred dollars worth of checks outstanding that would be clearing in a few days, so that left me with about twelve thousand bucks. It was enough, of course, but it was a little too damn close. I liked room. I even had my suits made loose so I could move around in them. Well, I could sell the resident buying business for a couple of thousand, and I could take the car and—Aah, the hell with it There was enough.

I called the apartment again.

“She hasn't come back yet, Mr. Bogen,” Charlie said.

“All right. But you've got my message there, haven't you?”

“Yes, sir. I've got it.”

I went out into the street and walked up to the offices of the Irving Baltuch Associates on Forty-second Street. It was a single large room with a wooden railing across the middle. There was a girl at a typewriter and a man behind a desk.

“Yes, sir?” he said cheerfully, panting a little.

“Listen,” I said, “I spoke to somebody on the phone here some time ago about buying a—”

“Yes, sir?” the man said cheerfully. “You spoke to—?”

“You got a card?” I said suddenly.

He dipped his hand quickly into his pocket and came up with a handful.

“Here you are, sir. We—”

I snatched it from him and turned away. “All right. Thanks.”

He came through the gate in the wooden railing to follow me.

“But won't you—?”

“No. That's all I wanted. Thanks.”

I slammed the door on him and hurried to the elevator. Downstairs, I stood in the street for a moment and tried to figure out whether I was sore at myself or at Martha. One bracelet wasn't enough for that pot on Seventy-second Street. With what those extra two cost I could have gotten the house in Long Beach. Or I could have had enough to give myself plenty of room after I sewed up that Armenian dope.

I took the subway uptown and by the time I reached the Montevideo I had recovered a little of my composure.

“Miss Mills call?” I asked at the desk. “She get my message?”

“She's upstairs,” Charlie said. “She came in a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I went up and let myself into the apartment with my key. Martha came out of the bedroom with a mouthful of hairpins and her hands to the back of her head.

“Hello, Martha.”

“Hello, Harry.”

“Say,” I said as I sat down and tossed my hat across the room, “thanks for that lift yesterday.”

“What lift?”

“I mean when my mother was here. I'd've felt like hell if she found out that you and I were—well, I mean, Martha, it was damn nice of you to keep your hat and coat on and then walk out like you didn't belong here.”

“Anything for a pal, Harry.”

“Thanks, Martha. I appreciate it.”

“Not that it did much good,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She looked wise.

“You think we were really kidding her?”

I scowled and shook my head curiously.

“What are you driving at?”

“Oh, Harry, wake up. She's your mother, not mine.”

She looked like the sort of dame that never had a mother.

“Sure she's my mother. But what—?”

She shook her head consolingly.

“You're slipping, Bogen,” she said. “You know her all your life. I just meet her for a half hour, maybe a little longer. And already I know more about her than you do.”

“What do you know more about her than I do?”

“I know enough after taking one look at her to know we weren't kidding her for a second. She knows I receive my mail here just the same as you know it.”

I glared at her.

“What'd you do, tell her?” I demanded.

“Nobody has to tell that little old lady anything. Now I know where you get those delusions of grandeur. Where you get the idea you're the smartest guy in the world, Harry. You think you're your mother.”

She had something there.

“Yeah, well, that's how life is.” I lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. “Where were you all morning? I called you four times.”

“Twice,” she said. “Charlie told me.”

“All right, twice. Where were you?”

“I went out to the hairdressers. How do you like my new hair comb?”

She turned around slowly in front of me.

“Terrific,” I said.

“You like it, Harry?”

What did she think terrific was, a day of the week?

“Very much.”

“I copied it from Gladys Swarthout.”

“That's no distinction,” I said. “What you wanna do is get Gladys Swarthout to copy her hair comb from you.”

“I'll write her about it immediately.”

“Thank God you don't get these ideas about calling people up any more,” I said. “Gladys Swarthout is probably in California now making a picture.”

“What's the matter, Harry? Getting fussy about money again? After that big display we put on at the Beaux Arts the other noon, I thought sure the Rockefeller family would be down on your neck begging you not to put them out of business.”

“They will be,” I said with a grin. “In a little while. I'm winding up my plans now.”

“Don't let them wind
you
up, Harry.”

I looked at her sharply.

“What's that, a crack?”

“You always have different words for everything, Harry. I call it advice. You call it a crack.”

“I don't need advice right now. I could use a little extra cash for a week or so, though.”

“Try the Morris Plan. I'll be glad to indorse a note for you, Harry.”

Under an assumed name, probably.

“Your generosity touches me right to the heart.”

She looked surprised.

“You've got one?”

“Kidding aside, Martha,” I said finally, “I wish you'd do me a favor.”

“Glad to, Harry. You know that.”

“It isn't very much to ask. But it would help me a—”

“Let me judge the size of it,” she said. “You just ask it.”

I looked at the ash on my cigarette carefully.

“Well, Martha, I wish you'd let me take a couple of those bracelets I gave you and let me borrow some money on them for a week or ten days. It wouldn't be any longer than that. And then you could have them back and on top of it I'll buy you a new one for interest. How's that?”

She looked touchingly sorrowful.

“Oh, Harry, I'd love another bracelet. But—”

“But what?”

“But I'd rather not make it that way,” she said sweetly.

I shrugged my shoulders casually. It almost killed me, but I did it.

“Suit yourself, Martha. I don't really need them. I just thought if you'd care to help me out a little and make yourself something in the bargain, why—”

“I'll suit myself,” she said.

“Oh, by the way,” I said. “While we're on the subject of those bracelets. This dump here isn't as safe as you think. Maybe you'd better let me put that jewelry in a safe deposit box for you.”

“Funny how our opinions of the Montevideo coincide, Harry. I've already done that.” I crushed out my cigarette angrily.

“Either you're getting smarter,” I snapped, “or you're getting some damn good advice from somebody.”

“Maybe both,” she said calmly.

“Yeah?” I said brilliantly.

“Yeah,” she repeated nastily. “Of course, there's still another possibility.”

“What's that?”

“Maybe I'm getting smart from watching you, dear. You're so brilliant yourself.”

“How the hell would
you
know?”

She shoved the last hairpin into her head.

“Very simple,” she said with a grin. “You told me.”

I
DIDN'T GET MUCH
rest that night. A heavy session of deep thought, with intermissions spent in calling yourself names, is not exactly the easiest way of felling asleep. But when I got into the office in the morning I felt fresh and full of pep.

I spent the first five minutes at my desk, rummaging through the drawers for the card. When I found it I put the call through at once.

“Hello,” I said, reading from the card, “I want to talk to Mr. Guber. Is he in?”

“Yes, sir,” a girl's voice said. It was the same girl. I know voices. “Just a moment, please.”

Then a man's voice was on the phone.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Mr. Guber?”

“Speaking. Who's this?”

“I don't know if you remember me. But I was in to see you a few days ago about buying a small house somewhere on Long Island—?”

“Yes, of course. I—”

It was plain from his voice that he didn't remember.

“You know,” I said. “The bungalow-type house without stairs to climb and no playgrounds or schools around to—?”

“Oh, yes,” he cried. “Mr. Bogen!”

“That's right. Listen. Here's what I want you to do for me, Mr. Guber.”

“Certainly,” he said briskly. “Just say the word.”

“I want you to get me complete specifications on as many available properties in that class we spoke about as you can. Draw them up so I can look at them and understand them easily, Mr. Guber. I'm not a real estate man, but I know what I want. You make those specifications clear and I'll be able to pick from them. Include everything, price and all.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Bogen. Shall I send them up to you or will you come in and get them?”

“Well, let's see. I'll tell you what. Draw them up and hold them for me. I'll try to drop in for them, but if I don't get the chance, you mail them in to me.”

“Certainly, Mr. Bogen. And your address is?”

“Nelson Tower, 450 Seventh Avenue. But wait a minute.”

“Yes?”

“I think I'll be changing my address in a few days and I won't be here to—Oh, well, all right. If I don't come in to get them, you mail them here and they'll be forwarded. Okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Bogen. You'll get those in a few days, sir. And the address is four-five-oh Seventh Avenue.”

“Right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bogen. Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

I hung up and took my hat. Miss Vinegard looked at me curiously as I went to the door.

“You're changing your address, Mr. Bogen?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm afraid I'm going to be selling out my interest in the resident buying business, Miss Vinegard.”

“Oh,” she said.

She twiddled the plugs of the switchboard.

“Have you any other plans, Mr. Bogen?” she asked casually.

“Nothing special,” I said. “I may get married and go on a honeymoon.”

“Oh, you're kidding, Mr. Bogen!”

“Say, listen. Funnier things than that have happened. But we'll go into it a little more deeply some other time. Right now I've got an appointment. Keep my messages straight, okay, Miss Vinegard?”

“Of course. But for goodness' sakes, Mr. Bogen, call up that Mr. Yazshmaybian or whatever his name is.”

“Why?”

“He keeps calling up here regularly and—”

“All right. I'm going over there to take care of him now.”

When I came into Yazdabian's showroom, it was still beautiful and empty. A moment later the curtains at the other end of the room parted and old Droopy Tits was coming toward me with her inquiring look and her nose tilted like an antiaircraft gun in the newsreels.

“Yes?”

“Tell Mr. Yazdabian I'm here.”

Her eyebrows climbed slightly.

“Whom shall I say is—?”

“Don't say whom. Just say Bogen.”

“But—”

“Leave out the buts, too, and add the mister. You can tell him Mr. Bogen wants to see him.”

She turned on her heel like a West Pointer on parade and sailed through the curtains. A few moments later Yazdabian came sailing out, carrying his accent and his beads.

“Good-morning, Mr. Bogen,” he quavered. “I called your office several times and left word for you to—”

What did he want, a refund on his nickels?

“Hello, Mr. Yazdabian.” I was just going to shove out my hand, when I remembered the last time I'd shaken it and I saw the beads. “Sorry about those calls, but I hopped out of town for two days to wind up some final deals and I just got back this morning.”

“I trust they were successful, Mr. Bogen.”

“Very.”

“Then I take it, Mr. Bogen, that you are in a position to continue the discussion started several days ago?”

“Right.”

“Shall we go into my private office?”

“Okay with me.”

I preceded him into the little hole in the wall and parked myself on the better of the two chairs. He sat down facing me and went to work seriously on the beads.

“Well, Mr. Bogen,” he said finally, “have you thought over very carefully my offer of several days ago?”