J. Donleavy - Schultz

“So now you smear the girl. You should have got strychnine. And she should sue you for slander.”

“Al there is no use talking to you is there. But I made this last desperate effort just because I happen to be feeling good to tell you drop the case.”

“Drop dead.”

“I’ll counterclaim Al.”

“Counterclaim.”

“Al it’s against my principles to pay up six hundred and forty nine pounds and ten shillings when it was me who was attacked. The fucking two of you attacked me.”

“Why don’t you dry up. People like you are a menace to society. And if you think I’m kidding about what I’m going to do to you, I’m giving my lawyers the details of what you just said as soon as you hang up.”

“Al, I ask you with my deepest sincerity to forget suing me. Because so help me god I’ll tear you limb from limb, legally or otherwise.”

“Threatening me with violence now.”

“Yeah, I am now. And for final and all time. Fuck you Al. Goodbye.”

Schultz with his whitened knuckles gripped hanging up the ivory phone and popping out of the pearly grey motor car. Looking at his watch. And running up the steps of this Victorian building. Impatiently going into a series of wrong doors.

“What the shit is wrong with this building, why do all these openings lead nowhere.”

Until Schultz found a narrow elegantly carpeted staircase heading upwards. Past posters of productions. The paraphernalia of hits. And into a large reception office. A sour smiling mousy faced girl looking up from her novel she’s reading as she nods and says parting words into the telephone.

“He’ll ring you the first chance he gets. Yes. Thank you. Yes. Good afternoon. Can I help you.”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Gayboy, my name is Schultz.”

“O yes Mr. Schultz. At two forty five.”

“It’s two forty seven right now.”

“I’m afraid that he’s busy at the moment. Do you mind waiting.”

“How long.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. He does have his do not disturb auditioning light on, which often means Mr. Gayboy, when he’s suddenly busy like this, can be up to half an hour or more.”

“I just made this appointment. And come rushing over here. You mean to tell me he’s auditioning.”

“I’m sorry but I’m afraid that’s how it is sir.”

“Well you just get on that intercom there and tell your Mr. Gayboy that Sigmund Franz Schultz is out here waiting. And I want to see him.”

“I can’t do that sir.”

“You can’t do that. What the fuck are you here for. Like the angel Gabriel stationed at the gates of heaven.”

“I don’t think I will be spoken to in that manner.”

“You just have been spoken to in that manner. Well what are you going to do. You going to tell him I’m here. Or you going to keep me standing here like this.”

“You could sit down sir.”

“Like hell I will. I’m in a hurry. And I’m fucking well going in there.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Well you just try and stop me baby.”

“Sir come back.”

“No two bit son of a bitch theatre operator is going to keep me waiting like this.”

Schultz opening a door. Into a dark hall. And along another deep carpeted passage lined with theatrical posters. Rapping on a door marked with a prominent brass plate.

PRIVATE

Schultz pushing it open. Entering this large sombre room. Lined with books. More theatrical posters on the panelled walls. A fire glowing in the grate. Sketches and paintings of stage sets. And center room Mr. Gayboy standing, turning to look back over his shoulder. As he spoke to his young lady lying in front of him prostrate on her back across the large desk, her skirt up around her neck and her ample white thighs up over Mr. Gayboy’s shoulders.

“You stupid girl you left the door open.”

“Whoops excuse me folks I’m sorry. I’m Sigmund Schultz. I had an appointment.”

“Well can’t you see I’m busy.”

“Look, just a second of your time. I wouldn’t interrupt you like this if it wasn’t really urgent. I want to book the Regent. From the fifteenth. I got a smash hit lined up.”

“Please get out. If you don’t mind.”

“It only takes a second to say yes or no.”

“No. Now get out.”

“Hey you’re crazy. I’ll pay eleven weeks rent in advance. Right today. It’s a good deal for you. I’m telling you.”

“Very well. Leave your check for sixteen thousand five hundred pounds with my secretary outside. We’ll call your bank and I’ll have an Agreement prepared. You’re from that management.”

“Yes the one and only Sperm Productions.”

“I’d rather you’d go now if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Pardon my intrusion. Have a good day.”

Schultz smiling at the secretary wide eyed aghast in the hall. And while slowly closing this door so prominently marked private, taking one more fast look at this scene. Of bare bottomed Mr. Gayboy in his striped shirt sleeves and dangling blazing crimson braces. His garters peeking over his trousers down around his ankles. And clearly several miles up the pleasantly chubby blond on his desk. In whom his grunting in and out attention was not once interrupted. Jesus just when everything’s suddenly going swell. Everything suddenly starts going even better. And I get one of the best theatres in this town.

Which

Not only

Groans but

Moans

With lust

Schultz that afternoon leaving the theatre operator’s office, stood in utter ecstasy at the top of the flight of stairs. Clenching fists at his sides and putting his head back to roar.

“Holy shit I’m off to the fucking races again.”

And stepping forth triumphantly at the top carpeted stair, Schultz tripped. Pitching forward to descend head over heels tumbling to the bottom. Gasping for breath on his hands and knees, feeling for injuries and reaching for his sunglasses in the middle of the lobby floor. As an attractive scarlet suited young lady dropped a file of papers as she leaned over to assist.

“My goodness can I help you.”

“Jesus christ thanks honey. I should sue the owners of this fucking building for negligence. Do you mind giving me your phone number as a witness.”

Pigeons fluttering in a clear blue sky. Fresh big white clouds floating westerly over London. With new bruises but bones unbroken, Schultz in Arabesque Street carefully alighted from the pearl grey limousine. The door of number four opening once more on its hinges. To reveal an already amazing transformation. The scene designers on Sperm Productions’ scaffolding working on the library ceiling. Smiling down at Schultz smiling up.

“Hey Jesus fellas you’re doing a real great fucking job, no kidding.”

Schultz in his bedroom throwing clothes into the pigskin Gladstone bag. Purchased out of his first management money from his first big London flop. And looking in the mirror. One’s scars miraculously healing. Black eyes fading. I might even look human once more. With my career at last taking off in the direction of my golden dreams. That bitch and her clap finally out of my life. A pity her luscious gorgeous white body had to go with her.

Outside Sperm Productions his Lordship’s limousine packed purring and ready for the road. Binky’s pearl grey motor now taking up the rear with his shotgun cases, fishing rods, riding gear and luggage.

“Ah Schultz après vous. His Royal Grace any moment shall be flying out to be with us. Seat yourself. I trust you found Gayboy up one of his assistants prodding away as is his wont.”

“Jesus Binky he actually was. He agreed the deal right in the middle of it. Soon as I offered him the rent.”

“Ah I see. Amazing isn’t it Schultz, how people’s interest in money is so easily aroused when they ought to be otherwise engrossed.”