This was only the beginning. They were still outsiders and it would be a long time before they knew as much about the company as he did. And by that time, it wouldn't matter any more.
Once he signed the contract, he was in charge.
The connecting door between his room and his uncle's opened and light spilled through into the darkness. "Are you in there, David?"
He sat up on the bed and swung his feet to the floor. He reached out and turned on the lamp next to the bed. "Yes, Uncle Bernie."
Norman came into the room. "Nu?" he said. "You saw him?"
David nodded, reaching for a cigarette. "I saw him." He lit the cigarette. "He looks terrible. Rina's death must have hit him pretty hard."
The old man laughed. "Sorry for him I can't feel," he said bitterly. "Not after what he's done to me." He took a cigar from his pocket and stuck it into his mouth unlit. "He offered you a job, no?"
David nodded.
"What job?"
"Executive vice-president."
His uncle raised his eyebrows. "That so?" he asked interestedly. "Who's president?"
"Dan Pierce. He's going to make the pictures. I'm to run everything else – administration, sales and theaters."
The cigar bobbed up and down excitedly in the old man's mouth. A broad smile came over his face. "My boy, I'm proud of you." He clapped his hand on David's shoulder. "I always said someday you'd amount to something."
David looked at his uncle in surprise. This wasn't the reaction he had expected. An accusation of betrayal would have been more like it. "You are?"
"Of course I am," Bernie said enthusiastically. "What else did I expect of my own sister's son?"
David stared up at him. "I thought- "
"Thought?" the old man said, still smiling. "What difference does it make what you thought? Bygones is bygones. Now we can really put our heads together. I'll show you ways to make money you never dreamed about."
"Make money?"
"Sure," Bernie replied, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. "A goyishe kopf is always a goyishe kopf. With you in charge, who will know what's going on? Tomorrow, I'll let all the suppliers know the old deal is still on. Only now you get twenty-five per cent of the kickback."
"Twenty-five per cent?"
"What's the matter?" Bernie asked shrewdly. "Twenty-five per cent isn't enough for you?"
David didn't answer.
"So your Uncle Bernie ain't a chazer. All right. Fifty, then."
David ground out his cigarette in the ash tray. He got to his feet and walked silently to the window. He looked down into the park across the street.
"What's the matter?" his uncle said behind him. "Fifty-fifty ain't fair? You owe me something. If it wasn't for me, you'd never have got this job."
David felt his bitterness rise up into his throat. He turned and looked at the old man. "I owe you something?" he said angrily. "Something for all those years you kept me hustling my tail off for a lousy three fifty a week? Every time I asked you for more money you cried about how much the company was losing. And all the time, you were siphoning off a million bucks a year into your own pocket."
"That was different," the old man said. "You don't understand."
David laughed. "I understand all right, Uncle Bernie. What I understand is that you've got fifteen million dollars free and clear. If you live to be a thousand, you couldn't spend all you've got. And still you want more."
"So what's wrong with that?" Bernie demanded. "I worked for it. I'm entitled to it. You want I should let go everything just because some shlemiel screwed me out of my own business?"
"Yes."
"You take the side of that- that Nazi against your own flesh and blood?" the old man shrieked at him, his face flushing angrily.
David stared at the old man. "I don't have to take sides, Uncle Bernie," he said quietly. "You yourself have admitted it's not your company any more."
"But you're running the company."
"That's right." David nodded. "I’m running the company. Not you."
"Then you're keeping everything for yourself?" the old man said accusingly.
David turned his back on his uncle, without speaking. For a moment, there was silence, then his uncle's voice. "You're even worse than him," Bernie said bitterly. "At least, he wasn't stealing from his own flesh and blood."
"Leave me alone, Uncle Bernie," David said without turning around. "I'm tired. I want to get some sleep."
He heard the old man's footsteps cross the room and the door slam angrily behind him. He leaned his head wearily against the side of the window. So that was why the old man hadn't gone back to California right after the meeting. He felt a lump come into his throat. He didn't know why but suddenly he felt like crying.
The faint sound of a clanging bell came floating up to him from the street. He moved his head slightly, looking out of the window. The clanging grew louder as an ambulance turned west on to Fifty-ninth from Fifth Avenue. He turned and walked slowly from the window back into the room, the clanging growing fainter in his ears. All his life it had been like that, somehow.
When he rode up front on the junk wagon, with his father sitting next to him on the hard wooden seat, it had seemed that was the only sound he'd ever heard. The clanging of a bell.
2
The cowbells suspended across the wagon behind him clanged lazily as the weary horse inched along through the pushcarts that lined both sides of Rivington Street. The oppressive summer heat beat down on his head. He let the reins lay idle in his fingers. There wasn't much you could do to guide the horse. It would pick its own way through the crowded street, moving automatically each time a space opened up.
"Aiyee caash clothes!" His father's singsong call penetrated the sounds of the market street, lifting its message high to the windows of the tenements, naked, blind eyes staring out unseeing into the hungry world.
"Aiyee caash clothes!"
He looked down from the wagon to where his father was striding along the crowded sidewalk, his beard waving wildly as his eyes searched the windows for signs of business. There was a certain dignity about the old man – the broad-brimmed black beaver hat that had come from the old country; the long black coat that flapped around his ankles; the shirt with its heavily starched but slightly wilted wing collar; and the tie with the big knot resting just below his prominent Adam's apple. The face was pale and cool, not even a faint sign of perspiration dampened the brow, while David's was dripping with sweat. It seemed almost as if the heavy black clothing provided insulation against the heat.
"Hey, Mister Junkman!"
His father moved out into the gutter to get a better look. But it was David who saw her first – an old woman waving from the fifth-floor window. "It's Mrs. Saperstein, Pop."
"You think I can't see?" his father asked, grumbling. "Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Saperstein!"
"Is that you, Mr. Woolf?" the woman called down.
"Yes," the old man shouted. "What you got?"
"Come up, I’ll show to you."
"I don't want winter clothes," the old man shouted. "Who's to buy?"
"Who said about winter clothes? Come up, you'll see!"
"Tie the horse over there," his father said, pointing to an open space between two pushcarts. "Then come to carry down the stuff."
David nodded as his father crossed the street and disappeared into the entrance of a house. He nudged the horse over and tied it to a fire hydrant. Then he slipped a feed bag over its weary muzzle and started after his father.
He felt his way up through the dark, unlit hallway and staircase and stopped outside the door. He knocked. The door opened immediately. Mrs. Saperstein stood there, her long gray hair folded in coils on top of her head. "Come in, come in."
David came into the kitchen and saw his father sitting at the table. In front of him was a plate filled with cookies. "A gluz tay, David?" the old woman asked, going to the stove.