John Passos - Big Money

They had dinner with Merritt and spent the evening with him. It was heavy sledding because Merritt was one of those people who could size a man up at a glance, and he was trying to size up Charley. They ate at an expensive French speakeasy and sat there a long time afterwards drinking cognac and soda. Merritt was a great one for writing lists of officers and salaries and words like capitalization, depreciation, amortization down on pieces of paper, all of them followed by big figures with plenty of zeros. The upshot of it seemed to be that Charley Anderson would be earning two hundred and fifty a week (payable in preferred stock) starting last Monday as supervising engineer and that the question of the percentage of capital stock he and Joe would have for their patents would be decided at a meeting of the board of directors next day. The top of Charley’s head was floating. His tongue was a little thick from the cognac. All he could think of saying, and he kept saying it, was, “Boys, we mustn’t go off halfcocked.”

When he and Joe finally got Merritt and his Pierce Arrow back to the Yale Club they heaved a deep breath. “Say, Joe, is that bird a financial wizard or is he a nut? He talks like greenbacks grew on trees.”

“He makes ’em grow there. Honestly…” Joe Askew took his arm and his voice sunk to a whisper, “that bird is going to be the Durant of aviation financing.” “He don’t seem to know a Liberty motor from the hind end of a blimp.” “He knows the Secretary of the Interior, which is a hell of a lot more important.”

Charley got to laughing so he couldn’t stop. All the way back to the Chatterton House he kept bumping into people walking along the street. His eyes were full of tears. He laughed and laughed. When they went to the desk to ask for their mail and saw the long pale face of the clerk Charley nudged Joe. “Well, it’s our last night in this funeral parlor.”

The hallway to their rooms smelt of old sneakers and showers and lockerrooms. Charley got to laughing again. He sat on his bed a long time giggling to himself. “Jesus, this is more like it; this is better than Paree.” After Joe had gone to bed Charley stuck his head in the door still giggling. “Rub me, Joe,” he yelled. “I’m lucky.”

Next morning they went and ate their breakfast at the Belmont. Then Joe made Charley go to Knox’s and buy him a derby before they went downtown. Charley’s hair was a little too wiry for the derby to set well, but the band had an expensive englishleathery smell. He kept taking it off and sniffing it on the way downtown in the subway. “Say, Joe, when my first paycheck comes I want you to take me round and get me outfitted in a soup an’ fish… This girl, she likes a feller to dress up.” “You won’t be out of overalls, boy,” growled Joe Askew, “night or day for six months if I have anything to say about it. We’ll have to live in that plant if we expect the product to be halfway decent, don’t fool yourself about that.” “Sure, Joe, sure, I was only kiddin’.”

They met at the office of a lawyer named Lilienthal. From the minute they gave their names to the elegantlyupholstered blonde at the desk Charley could feel the excitement of a deal in the air. The blonde smiled and bowed into the receiver. “Oh, yes, of course… Mr. Anderson and Mr. Askew.” A scrawny officeboy showed them at once into the library, a dark long room filled with calfbound lawbooks. They hadn’t had time to sit down before Mr. Lilienthal himself appeared through a groundglass door. He was a dark oval neckless man with a jaunty manner. “Well, here’s our pair of aces right on time.” When Joe introduced them he held Charley’s hand for a moment in the smooth fat palm of his small hand. “Andy Merritt has just been singing your praises, young fellah, he says you are the coming contactman.” “And here I was just telling him I wouldn’t let him out of the factory for six months. He’s the bird who’s got the feel for the motors.” “Well, maybe he meant you birdmen’s kind of contact,” said Mr. Lilienthal, lifting one thin black eyebrow.

The lawyer ushered them into a big office with a big empty mahogany desk in the middle of it and a blue Chinese rug on the floor. Merritt and two other men were ahead of them. To Charley they looked like a Kuppenheimer ad standing there amid the blue crinkly cigarettesmoke in their neatlycut dark suits with the bright grey light coming through the window behind them. George Hollis was a pale young man with his hair parted in the middle and the other was a lanky darkfaced Irish lawyer named Burke, who was an old friend of Joe Askew’s and would put their patents through Washington for them, Joe explained. They all seemed to think Charley was a great guy, but he was telling himself all the time to keep his mouth shut and let Joe do the talking.

They sat round that lawyer’s mahogany desk all morning smoking cigars and cigarettes and spoiling a great deal of yellow scratchpaper until the desk looked like the bottom of an uncleaned birdcage and the Luckies tasted sour on Charley’s tongue. Mr. Lilienthal was all the time calling in his stenographer, a little mouselike girl with big grey eyes, to take notes and then sending her out again. Occasionally the phone buzzed and each time he answered it in his bored voice, “My dear young lady, hasn’t it occurred to you that I might be in conference?”

The concern was going to be called the Askew-Merritt Company. There was a great deal of talk about what state to incorporate in and how the stock was to be sold, how it was going to be listed, how it was going to be divided. When they finally got up to go to lunch it was already two o’clock and Charley’s head was swimming. Several of them went to the men’s room on their way to the elevator and Charley managed to get into the urinal beside Joe and to whisper to him, “Say, for crissake, Joe, are we rookin’ those guys or are they rookin’ us?” Joe wouldn’t answer. All he did was to screw his face up and shrug his shoulders.

Don’t blame it all on Broadway

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