J. Donleavy - Schultz

“Shit you bastard you hit me. Al I’ll kill you.”

Al with a neat skip over Pricilla, wading in, heart condition and all. Sending right crosses and left uppercuts as Schultz shouted into the phone before dropping it.

“Hello whoever you are. I got a temporary problem. Please call me back.”

Schultz punching now for his life. Connecting with a straight left ka plonk on Al’s nose which instantly cascaded bleeding blood. Schultz momentarily still and aghast at the horrifying crimson sight of Al’s face. Al undaunted cutting free with a looping right connecting with Schultz’s unblack eye. Schultz hanging on in a clinch.

“I’ll kill you Al. If you don’t cut it out right now. I’ll fucking well kill you. I don’t care how fucking near the grave you are already. I’ll kill you.”

“Try it. Go ahead try it. Let go. And get some more of what you’re getting.”

“You asked for it Al.”

Schultz pummelling lefts and rights into Al’s belly, driving him back just as Al again caught Schultz on the side of the head and Schultz fell to the floor. Al momentarily surveying his handy work. Stepping backwards and promptly tripping over the just reviving Pricilla. Crashing down arse and elbows first on top of her. Pricilla letting loose one of her more prolonged bloodcurdling screams.

“Now it’s you you fucking dumbbell Al who’s killing her.”

Schultz scrambling to his feet. The sudden sound outside of police car bells and racing engines. Heavy boots pounding on the front steps. Schultz’s heart in his chest quivering waiting for the doorbell to ring. His bloodied fists unclenched hanging at his sides. Pricilla groaning hands to her ribs where the backs of Al’s elbows had landed. The front door splintering asunder. And smashed wide open limping from its hinges. Two vast London bobbies falling into the hallway. Followed by four more. Two with sawn off shotguns levelled at Schultz.

“Hands up. Don’t move.”

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot for christ’s sake.”

I’m

A theatrical

Producer

PEER’S CAR IN KIDNAP MUDDLE

West End Cast and Production Detained

Pedestrians in the Strand outside Charing Cross Station just after three o’clock this afternoon were witness to a man shouting for help from the window of a Rolls-Royce limousine. The vehicle which had the characteristic blue light of Royal Cars, and whose licence registration number was traced by police, was found to be owned by Lord Nectarine, MFH, old Harrovian and one of England’s most outstanding schoolboy and university cricketers.

The car which was not located for several hours was finally stopped by Police on Fulham Road near Brompton Cemetery where it was said one of its occupants who resisted arrest was being delivered. Mr. Hubert Jones, Lord Nectarine’s chauffeur, fainted during the incident.

Others found in the car and who were detained at Walham Green Police Station to help police with their further enquiries, said they were en route to their respective destinations from an audition and that they were members of the cast, The Director, Composers, Choreographer, and Author of a soon to be West End production, “Kiss It Don’t Hold It It’s Too Hot.” The car’s occupants were later released but not before the Police were treated to some song and dance by one of the male stars.

At the same time, Police on a tipoff that the alleged kidnap might have political as well as monarchist implications, raided the house of a Mr. Sigmund Schultz a theatrical impresario who was thought to have borrowed Lord Nectarine’s car.

At Mr. Schultz’s Belgravia address Police found a man and woman who were believed to have been both knocked down in a struggle with Mr. Schultz. Charged with having caused actual bodily harm Mr. Schultz was arrested. One policeman with a dislocated shoulder sustained in gaining entry and two other persons suffering injuries in the affray, were treated for their injuries at St. George’s Hospital nearby and allowed to go home. Their names are being withheld by Police.

For the first time in Sperm Productions business history, all directors were in the office at the ungodly and untheatrical hour of eleven a.m. The incident which had screamed headlines in the late editions of London’s evening newspapers had percolated into most of the popular morning papers as well. With Binky overflowing with delight with every edition spread across the chairman’s desk.

IRISH ACTOR’S SHOUT FOR HELP

FAMED CRICKETER’S LIMOUSINE INVOLVED

WEST END ABDUCTION A WEST END PRODUCTION BELGRAVIA IMPRESARIO SOCKS TWO

Schultz the last to arrive came into the chairman’s office in his darkest pair of sunglasses yet. Bloodstains on his shirt, lip swollen, face scratched and tie knot undone. Rumbles of suppressed laughter rocking Binky as he neatly cut the end off a cigar with a silver penknife. While his Lordship, having lit up his tenth cigarette, was puffing madly away and jigging his foot nervously up and down.

“Schultz, never in a million years am I going to let you have my motor again.”

“None of it was my fault.”

“Schultz that is what you always say.”

“Tell me how am I going to predict this Magillacurdy’s going to stick his big thick Irish skull out the fucking window of the car and start shouting he’s kidnapped. Anyway Jesus your Lordship, look at the good publicity for the show will you.”

“Schultz you are, aren’t you, utterly without conscience. I hardly think having my identification dragged into the paper in this manner is good publicity.”

“Shit I got arrested. I’ve just been up in the dock in court before a judge. Blamed for assaulting people. There wasn’t even decent toilet paper in my cell where everybody could watch you taking a crap. The media made me look like a criminal. And look it says everywhere you were one of England’s best all time cricketers. Isn’t that the national fucking sport. I mean if you could play American baseball that well you’d have people asking for your autograph everywhere you went. Anyway I’m dead beat. That police cell all night, people and noise waking you up every five minutes. And Jesus I need a clean shirt. I got to rush right out this second. Where’s an extra couple of copies of my budget Binky. This big property developer I was going to meet before you made me go down to the fucking hospital that day is dying at the end of the phone now to get his money into the show.”

“Just a moment, Schultz allow me, the sleeves may be a mite too long but otherwise it should fit.”

“Hey christ Binky, you’re giving me the shirt off your back.”

“Schultz, yes, I have that honor.”

“Hey christ, wait a minute. I’m touched. I really am. Thanks. And it’s silk.”

The shirts exchanged across the chairman’s desk. Schultz removing his undershirt stained with blood. As Binky, the window light playing over his bare shoulders, turned a page of newspaper.

“Holy shit Binky you’re built like an adonis. Isn’t there anything you guys weren’t born with.”

“Of course Schultz over the generations and centuries of selective breeding for muscles, brains and beauty, not to mention land holdings, coal mines and distilleries, such results have given his Lordship and I a few advantages we enjoy over your usual upper-middle classes. And I’m flattered Schultz that you should remark so about my physique but dear me you must not jump overboard. I think both his Royal Grace and I, among many other things, lack your unquenchable fighting spirit. And ah Schultz, you’re not even stopping to look at your mail.”

“Binky I got no time this morning. My door on the house is busted. Fucking rooms flooded. In court this morning I got fined twenty five bloody quid and told by the Judge I was a menace. When I was the fucking one who was attacked by two maniacs. I’m telling you if I can only stay alive for another month or so, just alive that’s all. I’m going to have the biggest smash on my hands that you guys or this town has ever seen. Hey this shirt fits swell. And boy I can use the temporary confidence of these gold cuff links.”