J. Donleavy - Schultz

“Joe don’t ask him, please. Let’s talk artistic standards first.”

“I’m only asking for a figure Al. Artistic standards can come later. O.K. kid. Give me the number of figures you got in mind. Three figures. No. Then it’s four figures. What. No. Hey kid you’re nuts.”

“I told you Joe. Please. Don’t ask him. I’m telling you please don’t ask him money at this stage. It’s too volatile.”

“Al keep your shirt on. Mr. Schultz, AI, don’t worry, he’s got a price. And the number of figures in the price is all I’m asking.”

“And Joe I’m begging don’t ask him the number of figures right now.”

“Kid, O.K. what is it. You don’t sit there and tell me you’re trying to go above four figures in dollars on this.”

“It’s five figures. And it’s in pounds sterling.”

“You see, Joe. Didn’t I tell you. I told you, I told you, didn’t I, not to ask him. And you had to ask.”

“So now Al, we got near a figure. It’s five figures. So we know at the low end of the scale that means at least ten thousand pounds. So Mr. Schultz, you tell me, is it ten thousand pounds you want.”

“It’s fifty Mr. Jewels.”

“So sonny boy, let me tell you what you can do with the numeral five that is followed by four zeros. You can, in pounds, shove them. One zero at a time right up your ass. I’m not interested. What are you, Mr. Schultz, some kind of maniac that you go around asking for that kind of money with a show dying on your hands.”

“That’s right. But you wouldn’t be here if it was dead. With two of the biggest star discoveries in recent theatrical history.”

“Well goodbye Mr. Schultz, it takes me a phone call to a publicity agent to create all the star discoveries the public can stomach in any one week. Nobody with fifty thousand is stupid enough to buy at your price.”

Joe Jewels shrugging and squaring his shoulders. The corners of his mouth turning down in a nose dive as he stood up. Departing in his black vicuna coat. His black silk socks in his black patent leather loafers sliding forward on his tiny feet. Al turning on Schultz. A fist made which he shakes.

“You son of a bitch. Now he’s gone. You stupid son of a bitch. You blew it. Blew it. What the fuck’s wrong with you. Asking like that for a ransom. If the show dies now it’s dead for always.”

“Jesus Al, you are the one that’s stupid. He’ll be back. With his tongue hanging out.”

“Stupid. Huh. Look you fucking son of a bitch, if your cock should be out right now I would choke your stupid mouth with it. I went through the embarrassment of my life getting that guy even to sit down with you again. Now you’ve fucked this up like you have done everything else. You’re dead. Believe me. You’re dead.”

“Hey Al your toupee is slipping.”

“Never mind my fucking toupee. I got a mirror right here anytime I need to straighten it.”

“Jesus Al, not in public like this. You’re not turning into a narcissistic creep are you.”

“Never mind what I’m turning into. You’ve turned into an asshole. Who should be covered up in bandages. I had in the dining room there for lunch already reserved the best white wines of this century.”

“Jesus everybody gets to hate me for doing what I think is right.”

“With good reason because it’s wrong. What is it with you Sigmund that you cause in me always guilt, always anger. Always shame.”

“Hey shit Al stop it. All this about guilt, anger and shame. How about innocence, joy and pride too that I cause.”

“Ha, ha, I’m laughing. You, you bum, you should go in search of yourself with an analyst. Showing you the direction. You’re so lost.”

“I’m right here having my grapefruit juice, Al, that’s all I need to know.”

“You use people. That’s what you do.”

“Jump off a cliff will you Al. Please.”

“Not only are you a business disaster but your sense of beauty and love is destroyed.”

“What are you trying to be a fucking humourist Al.”

“I’m at least functioning as a human being. While your ego has taken you on a balloon ride miles out of reality.”

Al standing. His open hands shaking at his sides. Taking a long last look at Schultz. And turning and storming out of the soft blue hued cocktail room. Bumping into a table on the way. Knocking over four empty glasses. His voice shouting as he pushed through the plate glass door.

“That’s the ungrateful thanks you get. For helping a schlemiel.”

Schultz dumping back his grapefruit juice. Paying the bill and passing the waiter picking up the broken glass left by Al. Jesus christ, maybe I fucking well did make a shambles. When I see a shit like Jewels so fucking smooth. So fucking sure of himself. It makes me see red.

Schultz out of the hotel popping into a taxi. Through the familiar streets of Belgravia. A moving van parked in front of the Ambassador’s. The windows shuttered. And the Zumzimzamgazi flag at half mast as Pricilla stood shouting out the open door of number four Arabesque Street, with Schultz hopping away down the steps. Taking another cab back into the West End. Approaching a counter with his big battered box. The assistant opening it. And frowning deeply as he slowly handled the garments.

“I fear sir, that not only is this morning suit and top hat and accessories long overdue but I’m afraid they are also a total write off.”

“Hey what’s wrong, a few little rips and dents, can’t you sew and clean them up.”

“I regret not sir, our clientele simply would not want to wear these after this extent of damage has happened to them.”

“What’s happened, nothing. I was raised in the garment business. I know fabric. A little tear down the back of the coat, simple to fix, the threads must have been weak in the first place.”

“Considerable force, sir, would be necessary to part this garment in this manner. This hat sir is in an absolute state of destruction.”

“Just knocked around a little bit, that’s all.”

“Sir I suggest you keep these and have them repaired yourself.”

“What do I want with them, I’m never going to go to another damn wedding in my life.”

“Well sir that’s entirely your affair. Our affair is to keep our customers satisfied.”

“I’m a customer. I’ve also been hiring clothes and costumes from costumiers all my life. Satisfy me. Fix them up and rent them out again who’s going to know.”

“Sir this firm is long proud of its reputation and we simply won’t do such a thing.”

“Wipe your fucking ass with them then.”

“I beg your pardon sir. I think I had better call the manager.”

“You call him.”

“I shall. And meanwhile here you are sir, in return for your cheque which I shall be happy to accept in the amount of one hundred and fifty guineas, they’re yours to keep.”

The assistant pushing the clothes back at Schultz across the counter. Schultz picking up the trousers and held by their braces, swinging them across the assistant’s face.

“I told you once, I don’t want them.”

The assistant stunned. Staring at Schultz in horror. Schultz two handed taking the grey top hat and clamping it down over the startled assistant’s ears. Who pulled the hat off and threw back the trousers across the counter into Schultz’s arms. The battle on. A crash of glass as Schultz lashed out with a fist. And kicked a plaster cast morning suited mannequin in the balls. Clothes flying in all direction. As other assistants’ shouts brought the manager running.

“I say what is the difficulty here.”

Schultz proffering his cheque in the manager’s office. Outraged sensibilities soothed and ruffled feathers smoothed. One hundred and fifty guineas. For the writing off of the wedding regalia. One hundred and sixty five guineas for the damage to three male display mannequins and the busting of a display case containing silk handkerchiefs now sprinkled with broken glass. Because a fucking customer could get a bloody nose if he blows with one. Holy living shit. Why do I have to go cause damage in a place charging in guineas. Which means three hundred and twenty five pounds and ten shillings down the drain. How much longer can I stand it.