J. Donleavy - Schultz

It was on such an occasion that Schultz was doing his anxious best to convince his Lordship to part with money. Precisely as his Lordship had done a few minutes previously having just returned from having purchased for five figure sums, three rare snuff boxes in one of London’s major auction rooms. To which latter he was constantly departing at various times of day. And now in lieu of lunch he had his mouth full of sliced calves’ tongue which a secretary had just fetched for him from that marvellously elegant nearby food emporium of Fortnum’s.

“Come on your Highness, the chorus line is full of dark complexioned females. It’s only a few thou. The only remaining sixteen thousand quid investment left. You get top billing as producer in a size and type of print not less than one twentieth as big as the stars. All other producers would be listed practically unseen underneath you.”

“In fact Schultz I think you are a creampuff.”

Creampuff was a word his Lordship was fond of using. Especially with people overheating themselves in their efforts to impress him. Or attempting to play upon his private proclivities. But Sigmund Franz Schultz, although his expression took on a corpse like demeanor, never for a second stopped faintly grinning. Hoping in spite of these bolo punch remarks to penetrate his Lordship’s recently increasing financial caution and to prise loose this sizeable investment from his Lordshpi’s aristocratic clutches.

“I mean it stands to reason, three flops in a row, even the law of averages says I got to have a hit.”

“The law of averages, Schultz, may more likely say you’ve got to have bankruptcy.”

However, showbizz happened to be having one of its momentary upswings at the time. And Schultz unbeknownst to himself, had found his way into Binky’s and his Lordship’s favour when they came upon an overnight satchel of Schultz’s left at the office and which, along with an address book listing some of America’s fabled richest men with their private phone numbers, also contained three pure silk shirts. These latter more than anything else improved Schultz’s image in their eyes as they back and forth handled the garments between their unbelieving fingers.

“By jove your Royal Grace these are from a good shirtmaker as well, could it possibly be that Schultz is not a man of straw.”

“Yes most surprising discovery this.”

It was decided then and there that Schultz if nothing else would be most useful as a front of office man who could hold at arm’s or breath’s length the streams of conmen constantly arriving pushily on the scene. Who seemed to enjoy monopolising conversations in the elegant surrounds of the chairman’s suite of Sperm Productions thereby cramping his Lordship’s and Binky’s style with the visiting ladies. And Schultz, who was adept at making the inferior feel even more so, would be ideal in deterring such chaps with a blistering barrage of impolite intimidation.

“I mean to say your Royal Grace let us pop old Schultzy boy in the little cubbyhole next to the telephonist’s switchboard. And the numerous arriving unwanted can be shunted in there.”

Not that his Lordship and Binky did not thoroughly enjoy the occasional appearance of a brash conman obnoxiously full of his own self importance, who would with assumed accents and social credentials, attempt to divest them of monies or, which was harder, gain their admiration and friendship. But there was also now the increasingly delicate matter of dealing decently and humanely with recently abandoned young lady actresses, from whom his Lordship and Binky, adoring variety, no longer required services and did not want to unkindly turn away.

“Schultz could not only take care of the outflow of ladies but also those numerous purveyors of criminal improprieties we seem to attract.”

Happily it was one of those totally unexpected brief periods in London’s West End during which those in pursuit of satisfying their vanity in the theatre were in short supply. For many of these overblown smug superior bombasts had in the two previous seasons been socked soundly into bankruptcy and wound up having to sell their cars and houses and in one instance even to putting the wife out to ply an ancient trade on the streets. As Binky had, while perambulating one of London’s better known boulevards, recently observed.

“I say your Royal Grace, I could have sworn I saw thing’s wife.”

“Who.”

“You know, thing. Who sold his motor cars, thoroughbreds, and fatally mortgaged his estate to save his miserable play. I am absolutely certain I rather bumped into her lurking in the Park Lane shadows of the Dorchester Hotel last night.”

“O dear.”

“Yes indeed and she rather used a variation of that expression to me. I think it was dearie she said. One would think that going on the game like that, that she would be somewhat more discreet. And poor woeful chap her husband. He was lurking on the threatrical edge in the lobby of the Comedy Theatre on that awful first night on Monday.”

“How distressing Binky.”

“Ah your Esteemed Highness, I think there are more than just a few jealous bitter observers about during this currently healthily booked up season.”

Binky and his Lordship had also dropped buckets of cash, but their buckets were happily refilled from drips that still dropped gold in profusion from the one or two admirable hard working ancestors of the many previous generations. Plus they also had several shows profitably touring the provinces. And now with the new use to which Schultz might be put, his Lordship was far more accommodating of Schultz’s entreaties for money but nevertheless insisted to keep him in his place.

“Not only Schultz do I think you are a creampuff but also a pettifogger.”

Such remarks did stiffen somewhat Schultz’s cheek muscles but he invariably continued grinning. While not in the least knowing what a pettifogger was. But he certainly knew by heart the tales of his Lordship’s ancient family’s considerable investments in South American railways, Bolivian mines, Canadian forests not to mention vast cattle ranches in North and South America. Plus the many tales of his Lordship’s not only very direct but sometimes totally rude manner. But there was one aspect of his Lordship’s personality that one could always depend upon. And that was his kindly indulgence of the lesser advantaged. And he especially lavished a sporting affection on the unmitigated underdog or anyone so unfortunate as Schultz was, to have been born in Woonsocket, Rhode Island.

“Ah Schultz, but let me add however, that although you are a pettifogging creampuff there is I think running through you the golden thread of innocence.”

During his younger days his Lordship upon his tutor first making him aware of the industrial revolution, somewhat sympathised with socialism. And despite the fact that this was more than to some faint degree, intellectual, nevertheless it was genuine. But in relation to his more major tax difficulties, his Lordship was fond of jokingly saying that they were the result of a heinous bureaucratic plot hatched by the unionised idle working classes to undo him.

“Of course it is quite unjust for a certain element of the population to own the lion’s share of the wealth of the nation but equally it is entirely tiresome for so many pompous damn complicated letters to have to be written by officialdom to extract such sums from me.”

However his Lordship now took a wry joy in his complaint since he had over these past three tough years inherited not only from an amply rich father but also, as he had recently discovered, hugely staggering amounts left in trust for him by two great grand aunts. And assets were literally pouring and tumbling into his coffers more quickly than they could be squandered, taxed or spent.