A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

BERTHA COOL — a sizable hunk of woman with the majesty of a snow-capped mountain and the assurance of a steam roller

DONALD LAM — her ingenious assistant, a physical weakling, but a mental giant

ELSIE BRAND — Mrs. Cool’s typist who was well versed in the art of dissembling and discretion

ALMA HUNTER — beautiful friend of Sandra Birks, who believed a woman should know her place, and stay in it

MORGAN BIRKS — an unfaithful husband being sued for what unfaithful husbands are usually being sued for

SANDRA BIRKS — wife of Morgan Birks, who believed in spreading her affections around generously

B. LEE THOMS — also known as Bleatie, Sandra’s shiftless, satirical brother, who looked for the worst in everybody

ARCHIE HOLOMAN — young, eligible doctor, supposedly one of Sandra’s numerous admirers

SALLY DURKE — blond, hard-to-get-at mistress of Morgan Birks

THE CHIEF — also known as Cunweather, a mountainous, mysterious big shot who seemed to know the why of everything

MADGE — also known as m’love, the chief’s wife — an impressive and impregnable fortress — in size and poise

FRED — a henchman with a bashed — in nose and with the speed of a deadly cobra

JUDGE RAYMOND C. OLIPHANT — an erudite judge who learned something from a witness

Pushing my way into the office, I stood just inside the door, my hat in my hand.

There were six men ahead of me. The ad had said between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. If appearances were any indication, some of them were optimistic liars. For the most part, we were a seedy-looking outfit.

A straw-haired secretary behind a typewriting desk banged away at a typewriter. She looked up at me. Her face was as cold as a clean bedsheet.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘I want to see Mr. Cool.’

‘What about?’

I moved my head in a comprehensive gesture to include the half-dozen men who were looking up at me in casually hostile appraisal. ‘I’m answering the ad.’

‘I thought so. Sit down,’ she said.

‘There seems,’ I observed, ‘to be no chair available.’

‘There will be in a minute. You may stand and wait, or come back.’

‘I’ll stand.’

She turned back to her typewriter. A buzzer sounded. She picked up a telephone, listened a moment, said, ‘Very well,’ and looked expectantly at the door which said ‘B. L. Cool, Private.’ The door opened. A man, who looked as though he was trying to get to the open air in a hurry, streaked through the office. The blonde said, ‘You may go in, Mr. Smith.’

A young chap with stooped shoulders and slim waist got to his feet, jerked down his vest, adjusted his tie, pinned a smirk on his face, opened the door to the private office, and went in.

The blonde said to me, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Donald Lam.’

‘L-a-m-b?’ she asked.

‘L-a-m,’ I said.

She jotted it down, and then, with her eyes on me, started making shorthand notes under the name. I could see she was cataloguing my personal appearance.

‘That all?’ I asked when she’d covered me from head to foot with her eyes and finished making pothooks with her fingers.

‘Yes. Sit down in that chair and wait.’

I sat and waited. Smith didn’t last long. He was out in less than two minutes. The second man made the round trip so fast it looked as though he’d come out on the bounce. The third man lasted ten minutes and came out looking dazed. The door of the outer office opened. Three more applicants came in. The blonde took their names, sized them up and made notes. After they were seated, she picked up the telephone and said laconically, ‘Four more,’ listened for a moment, and hung up.

When the next man came out, the blonde went in. She was in there about five minutes. When she came out, she gave me the nod. ‘You may go in next, Mr. Lam,’ she said.

The men who were ahead of me frowned at her and then at me. They didn’t say anything.

Apparently she didn’t mind their frowns any more than I did.

I opened the door, entered a huge room with several filing cabinets, two comfortable chairs, a table, and a big desk.

I put on my best smile, said, ‘Mr. Cool, I—’ and then stopped, because the person seated behind the desk wasn’t Mister.

She was somewhere in the sixties, with gray hair, twinkling gray eyes, and a benign, grandmotherly expression on her face. She must have weighed over two hundred. She said, ‘Sit down, Mr. Lam — no, not in that chair. Come over here where I can look at you. There, that’s better. Now, for Christ’s sake, don’t lie to me.’

She swung around in her swivel chair and looked me over. I might have been her favorite grandson coming in for a cookie. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t any permanent address,’ I said. ‘Right at present I’m in a rooming house on West Pico.’

‘What’s your training?’

‘Nothing,’ I told her, ‘that does me any good. I had an education that was supposed to fit me for the appreciation of art, literature, and life. It didn’t have anything to do with making money. I find I can’t appreciate art, literature, or life without money.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Parents living?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not married?’

‘No.’

She said, ‘You’re just a little shrimp. I don’t s’pose you weigh over a hundred and twenty, do you?’

‘A hundred and twenty-seven.’

‘Can you fight?’

‘No — I do sometimes, but I get licked.’

‘This is a man’s job.’

‘And I’m a man,’ I retorted hotly.

‘But you’re too small. People would push you around.’

‘When I was in college,’ I said, ‘some of the boys used to try it. They gave it up after a while. I don’t like to be pushed around. There are lots of ways of fighting. I have my way, and I’m good at it.’

‘Did you read the ad carefully?’

‘I think I did.’

‘Did you consider yourself qualified?’

‘I have no ties on earth,’ I said. ‘I think I’m fairly courageous. I’m active, and, I hope, intelligent. If I’m not somebody wasted a lot of money giving me an education.’

‘Who?’

‘My father.’

‘When did he die?’

‘Two years ago.’

‘What have you been doing since then?’

‘Odd jobs.’

Her face didn’t change expression. She smiled at me benignly and said, ‘You’re a God-awful liar.’

I pushed back my chair.

‘Being a woman,’ I said, ‘you can call me that. Being a man, I don’t have to take it.’

I started for the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I think you stand a chance of getting the job.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Don’t be a sap. Turn around here and look at me. You were lying, weren’t you?’

What the hell! The job was gone anyway. I swung around and faced her. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I was. It’s a habit I have. Oddly enough, however, I prefer to have my prevarications called to my attention in a more tactful manner.’

‘Ever been in jail?’

‘No.’

‘Come back here and sit down.’

That’s what pounding the pavement does for your morale. I went back and sat down. I had exactly ten cents in my pocket. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday noon. The employment agencies either couldn’t or wouldn’t do a thing for me. I’d finally resorted to answering the ads that looked just a little fishy on their face. That’s the last step.

‘Now tell me the truth,’ she said.