“Plenty of time for a young man like you. Now I rather like some of these latter lyrics of your show. Hear rather encouraging things of the production. Mr. Magillacurdy a performer of whom it’s widely said that he will achieve the heights.”
“That’s right. Signed up.”
“Wouldn’t it be fairer to say Mr. Schultz that you hope to sign him.”
“He’s going to be signed don’t worry.”
“Now. In our little preliminary misunderstanding I haven’t had a chance to introduce Miss Sphincter.”
“How do you do Mr. Schultz.”
“Hi ya.”
“Miss Sphincter was recently runner up as Miss West Midlands. Talented singer and dancer. And as it happens, reading the script of your show.”
“Fifteen per increase in the rent, no increase in the share of the gross.”
“Perhaps you might consider auditioning Miss Sphincter.”
“Sure I’ll do better. Honey if you don’t fall on your face every two seconds I’ll guarantee a prominent position in the chorus.”
“Ah Mr. Schultz, that’s so sweet of you not to be averse to one’s little artistic contribution. Then let’s not argue, twenty per cent on rent, plus five on gross.”
“Argue. That’s highway robbery. Fifteen per cent on rent and two on gross. Take it or leave it.”
“I think unfortunately I shall leave it.”
“Goodbye.”
“Now wait a moment Mr. Schultz. Come back. Sit down. Why not be reasonable about this.”
“Sure, why not. Fifteen per cent on rent and two on gross.”
“You’re being most singularly stubborn.”
“That’s right.”
“I must say if it weren’t for Miss Sphincter here having an opportunity one would dismiss your counter proposal out of hand.”
“What. Holy Jesus christ almighty. The rent already and your cut of the gross is a fucking holdup.”
Schultz sweeping out with his clutched sheets of contract as the door closed on a pleased Miss West Midlands and Mr. Gayboy’s strangely smiling face. Guiding down the bannister to avoid tripping on the stairs. In a fresh smelling brand new taxi to diesel throb back through the late lunchtime street. Wiped my feet on his carpets. Like I was wiping them on his face. Poor son of a bitch had me by the balls and didn’t know it just as I kicked his.
Aromatic mouth watering smells in the door of Sperm Productions. The Italian chef and his assistant scurrying around his Lordship and Binky seated at table. Binky lifting a glass of wine to his lips.
“Ah, Schultz, just the man we want to see. Take a pew. Help us knock back a little late lunch. Mario’s specialty, oeuf mollet au ragout fin. His Royal Grace and I are engaged in a last minute discussion of honeymoon plans and how one might avoid those traditionally embarrassing bed chamber wretched first moments of laying hand to one’s dear brand new little wife trembling so with her schoolgirl modesty. Mario, do pop down another place for our loyal felow director, Mr. Schultz.”
“Of course sir.”
“I got calls to make.”
“Dear me, always business Schultz. Never a moment to relax.”
“Jesus we were all just relaxing. A whole weekend nonstop.”
“Ah but do tell us how did your little meeting with Gayboy go, Schultz.”
“That fucking cunt. Wanted thirty three and a third per cent increase in rent and five in gross. But naturellement I’m tough. I want my price. It was a battle of nerves. He was having a shit fit screaming and squirming as I stood right up and walked out. And he calls me back. Like the nice guy I suddenly decided to be I agreed to let him make a little artistic contribution to the show and to cast his gorgeous girl friend in the chorus. And in the end all he got was fifteen extra per cent on the rent and two on the gross.”
“Schultz.”
“And what can I do for you your Lordship.”
“Schultz, my god.”
“What’s the matter.”
“You’ve been had Schultz.”
“What the fuck do you mean.”
“Schultz, while you’ve been gone we have learned that as recently as three o’clock yesterday afternoon Gayboy who didn’t think you had any money, was offering another production a third reduction in rent and no gross at all.”
“I don’t believe it. Is that true Binky. This is another joke. I had Gayboy on his knees begging for mercy. Beaten. Hey sit down your Lordship, don’t go laughing around the room like that.”
“O my god Schultz, O my god, you take the fucking cake, you really do.”
“Hey Binky stop him, he’s going to hurt his stomach.”
“O dear, Schultz while his Royal Grace is indisposed with laughter, you ought to pay attention to the more gastronomic matters at hand.”
Mario’s assistant nearly toppling a tray as his hunched over Lordship lurched helplessly holding his belly, to struggle to stand straight again as Rebecca stood at the door, her neat shapely fist knocking.
“Mr. Schultz there’s an urgent call for you on Lord Nectarine’s private line.”
“And Schultz, how many times have I told you. Not to use my line.”
“You guys tie up this joint, what am I supposed to do. Your weddings, appointments with tailors, shooting parties, races. Jesus christ excuse me.”
“Schultz, I want to fervently urge you not to be long. Or you’ll miss Mario’s triumphant soufflé aux fruits de la passion.”
“I shouldn’t miss a deal. That’s what I shouldn’t miss.”
Schultz rushing into the hall. With a crash. Tripping over two shotgun cases parked against the wall. A renewed roar of his Lordship’s laughter. Rebecca helping Schultz up, and holding open his Lordship’s door, her hand lowering suddenly to stay Mr. Schultz on the arm.”
“Mr. Schultz, be prepared, I think it’s rather bad news.”
“What, I could have bad news. That’ll be a big novelty all of a sudden. But thanks. I appreciate your warning.”
Mario the chef pouring brandy and cutting cigars, his assistant brewing coffee. A moment of golden sunlight in the windows fading. Sky darkening and a roll of thunder. Schultz slowly entering the chairman’s office. His head shaking back and forth. Binky holding out his cigar between his lips as Mario flourishes a flame to it.
“Schultz, whatever is the trouble, you’re wearing your most quizzical frown.”
“You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I simply don’t believe it.”
“What don’t you believe Schultz.”
“It’s like suddenly there’s nothing anymore you can have faith in. Like England. Something solid. Hear that. Just listen. The newspaper guys down in the street are shouting it out. One of the most prestigious firms in this country. Suddenly. Has gone bust. And my biggest investor involved with them is pulling every penny he’s got out of the show. I feel sick.”
“Pour Mr. Schultz a large brandy Mario.”
“Everything was coming together. And now. In a fraction of a second all that was rosy, promising and wonderful suddenly becomes insane, disastrous and horrifying. I got to pay wages at the end of the week. Astronomical bills at the Dorchester. Where on top of their laundry, long distance phone calls and dry cleaning, they want sitting rooms. Jesus. And what a mistake I’m making telling you guys. Look at you. You’re grinning. Like vultures who are going to descend any second on what’s left of my bones.”
“Schultz you always accuse one with that unflattering description.”
“Sure I do. You’ve got me at your mercy. Haven’t you. You’re going to squeeze me out. You’re going to ruin me.”
“But of course we are, Schultz. Whatever did you expect. Don’t you want us to finance you one hundred per cent.”
“And make me just an employee. Hey your Lordship you wouldn’t when my defences are down do this to me would you.”
“Ah Schultz, my dear Schultz, in mitigation it must be admitted you have for a long time now made the best of bad situations. Which however has always made them worse.”