I Can Get It for You Wholesale (7 page)

“Okay, Harry, but—”

“Just let me handle the buts. You tell them to break some heads.”

“Yeah, but gee whiz, Harry—”

“Gee whiz what?” I said, scowling at him. “You got any complaints maybe, or something?”

“Nothing,” he said, biting his lip. “I was just—”

“Save it for later,” I said sharply. “Get going.”

“Okay,” he said.

“And another thing,” I said. “I’ll try to stay put right here. You keep on circulating around and report here, say, every fifteen minutes or so. Anything comes up, something you don’t know what to do, you can find me here. But first of all, remember, we want them to kick the nuts off every scab they get their hands on. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

From where I stood I had my eye on about three buildings. I watched carefully, but nothing happened. The pickets kept on marching in front of the entrances and the small crowds gathered to watch them for a while and then dispersed. So far as I could see, no packages were going in or coming out of the freight entrances.

But soon I began to notice a truckful of dresses passing me in the street every once in a while. Where the hell were they coming from? The couple of buildings I could see were watertight. Where was the leak?

By the time Tootsie reported, I was good and sore. But I don’t go around shooting off my mouth until I lay the groundwork.

“How does it look?”

“Great,” he said.

“Great, hah?”

“You bet. I went over the whole route again, and there isn’t a single building that we haven’t got covered.”

“So everything is covered, hah? You got the whole thing in the palm of your hand, hah?”

“I sure have. You oughta see the way they’ve got those entrances stopped.”

“I ought to, hah? I knew I was missing something.”

“You wanna come around with me? You wanna take a look?”

“That’ll be just dandy, won’t it? That certainly is goddam nice of you, Tootsie. I gotta say it. It certainly is nice of you.”

“Say, what the hell is the matter with you, anyway? You nuts or something? You sound like you dropped a load in your pants.”

I stopped smiling.

“You just worry a little less about me and my pants,” I said, “and do a little more worrying about this strike. Then maybe we’ll be better off.”

“What’s the matter now? Isn’t everything okay?”

“Sure everything is okay. Everything is just one hundred per cent. One hundred per cent lousy, that’s what it is.”

“Listen, I’m no mind reader. If you got a kick or something, so tell me. But don’t make me speeches without telling me what it’s all about. What’s the matter, anyway? I thought everything was okay?”

“Well, in the future you just let me do the thinking. And besides,” I said, “what’s okay by you, isn’t exactly okay by me.”

“Jesus Christ alive! Will you tell me already what you want? What the hell is the matter?”

Before I could tell him what I wanted to, I spotted one of those hand trucks coming up the Avenue, about a block down, with two guys pushing it.

I grabbed his arm and twisted him around to face the truck. Then I pointed to it.

“Take a good look,” I said. “Ever see one of those before?”

“Where? What?”

Can you imagine a blind bastard like that?

“There. There! Right in front of you! What do you want me to do, carry you over in my arms? Can’t you see straight any more?”

“You mean that hand truck?”

“No, the Washington monument! What the hell do you
think
I mean?”

“So what about it?”

Go give him answers in writing!

“Listen, you balloon-headed schmuck,” I said, keeping my voice down, and talking quickly. “That’s a dress truck, see? And those two baloneys that are pushing it aren’t taking it to the Automat so they can get a bite to eat, see? And those canvas curtains they got hanging over the truck aren’t put there to protect the wooden sides, either. They’re there to protect dresses, see? And trucks full of dresses don’t grow in the middle of Seventh Avenue like potatoes. If it’s there so you can see it, it means it came from some place. And it also means it’s going some place. And if it came from some place then it means that some of those lousy pickets of yours are blocking some of those buildings like with a sieve. And if any more of those trucks start floating around you might as well tell those pickets to go home and go to sleep, for all the good they’ll be doing around here. Because before you know it the whole goddam strike won’t be worth a fart.
Now
do you understand?”

I stopped to get my breath, but I swear he didn’t look any more intelligent than he had looked before I started.

“So what am I supposed to do?” he said.

This was my first lieutenant, my right arm!

“I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do,” I said quietly. What was the sense of getting excited? With dopes like Tootsie Maltz there’s only one rule. The easier you take it, the longer you’ll last. “I already told you what you’re supposed to do,” I said, “but I’ll tell you again.”

“
When
did you tell me?”

He
was getting excited!

“Keep your drawers on,” I said. “Less than a half-hour ago, that’s when I told you. Didn’t I tell you to pass the word around that they should break a couple of heads?”

“Sure, but what—?”

“Then what the hell are you waiting for?”

He stood there, undecided, and suddenly the truck was abreast of us and I could read the words that were painted on the canvas sides. Don’t try to guess, because you wouldn’t get it right in a thousand years.
Toney Frocks, Inc.!

I grabbed his shoulder and shook him until his teeth rattled.

“You get some of those pickets of yours and clean those son of a bitches off the street right now,” I yelled. I was so excited that I forgot I was supposed to be one of those cool, bored, well-dressed wise guys that have marked the sidewalk in front of Schrafft’s for their very own. “Come on, you fat-head,” I almost screamed, “get after them!”

For another second he hesitated. But I wouldn’t even spare him that. The truck was moving past us, and I was so afraid I’d lose this chance to get even with that fat bastard Schmul that I used to work for, that I almost ran after it myself. Almost, but not quite. Even when I’m so excited that I can’t see straight, I’ve still got enough brains left to keep from pushing my puss into a jam.

I gave Tootsie a shove that sent him flying out into the gutter. The blow must have cleared the horse manure out of his head. Because he had sense enough not to slow down, but to keep running.

In a few seconds he was across the street and in the middle of the gang of pickets in front of 525. He didn’t waste much time talking and they wasted even less listening. Before I recovered my balance from the shove I’d given him, they were speeding down the street after the truck. They reached it near the corner of Thirty-Sixth Street.

For half a minute or less I had a clear view. Four of them piled onto the scabs and laid them out in the gutter. The others pitched into the truck. They ripped off the canvas cover and sent the bright red and yellow dresses flying into the mud and dirt. They still had the scabs on the ground and were pasting hell out of them, and they were still making ribbons out of the dresses and toothpicks out of the truck when the crowd closed in around them and cut off my view.

But I wouldn’t miss a second of this for all the pussy in Paris. I joined the mob that was rushing over to see the scrap and fought my way in until I had a ringside seat. What that truck and those dresses and those two slobs looked like was nobody’s business. Maybe that fat louse Schmul didn’t remember a certain kid named Bogen who had worked for him as a shipping clerk about a year before. But that certain kid named Bogen had remembered Mr. Schmul all right.

The two guys who had been shoving the truck were out cold, but those pickets were half-crazy. They kept pounding away at them.

“Kill the goddam scabs,” they kept yelling, “kill the lousy jerks.” And then they went ahead with the job of doing it.

They would have done it, too, if it wasn’t for the cops. Two of them came running up, took a quick look around, and sailed in with their clubs. But those shipping clerks were too far gone to worry much about the color of a guy’s coat or the fact that it was trimmed with brass buttons. And besides, they were about a dozen strong. They just took the cops in their stride.

But new ones began to arrive. And in a few minutes the sirens of the radio cars were screaming and coming closer. The mob cleared a path and the reinforcements took control. When the patrol wagon arrived it was all over. They piled the whole bunch of them in and drove away.

The crowd began to melt and the traffic that had been stopped for blocks around began to move.

I felt so good about the whole thing that I whistled as I walked back to Schrafft’s. From my post on the sidewalk I gave the Avenue the once-over. Another dozen pickets had taken the place of the squad that had been arrested in front of 525. Everybody was talking about the strike, but this time they weren’t laughing. Broken heads don’t mean a thing on Seventh Avenue. But ripped-up dresses do. This was serious.

I watched the traffic that passed me very carefully, but I didn’t see any dress trucks. For the time being, the strike was a success.

I was just going in to celebrate with a soda, when Tootsie came up on the run. I felt so good that I wanted to take him inside and treat him to a soda, but I changed my mind. Tootsie isn’t the kind of guy you take into Schrafft’s for a soda. He looks more natural in Max’s Busy Bee with a hamburger in one hand and a mug of root beer in the other. Schrafft’s is for people like me, not Tootsie.

“Listen, Harry,” he said, “what’ll we do about those kids?”

“What kids?”

“The ones that were arrested. What’ll we do about them?”

“Nothing,” I said.

He looked at me with his mouth open. I put my hand to his face, thumb on his chin and forefinger on his nose, and closed it.

“You mean you’re gonna do nothing about them?”

“Stop, Tootsie,” I said. “You’re killing me. You mean to say you actually understood something I said for the first time?”

“Gee whiz, Harry, this is no joking matter.”

“That’s true,” I said. “I never thought of that, now that you mention it, though, I’m inclined to agree with you. Yes, sir, Tootsie. You’re one hundred per cent right. This is no joking matter.”

“But they arrested them!” he cried.

“And hot dogs taste better with mustard. So what?”

“What are you, crazy?”

“No, are you?”

“But they arrested them!”

“I think you said that before. Watch your script there, Tootsie. You’re getting your cues all bollixed up.”

“And they just arrested another bunch over on Broadway. That’s what I came over to tell you. We gotta do something, Harry. I told them to stop every scab and every hand truck. There’ll be fights by the dozen.”

“Good,” I said. “That’s great. You say they just arrested some more of them over on Broadway?”

“Yeah, they saw some guys carrying—”

“That, my dear Tootsie, is the best news I’ve heard in three and a half minutes flat.”

“But Harry, we gotta do something.”

“Oh, no we don’t,” I said. “It’s perfectly okay, Tootsie. It’s good publicity.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Now don’t you worry your pretty little head over this,” I said. “You just keep after your pickets and see that they break the back of any guy who tries to get through with a package or a truck or anything.”

“But what about the guys they arrested?”

“That’s all right,” I said. “They’re doing their part. Being in jail is the best thing they can do for us. It won’t hurt them, because from the way things are going, it looks like this strike’ll be over in no time. In their own way, by parking their cans in a cell, they’re doing us more good than by wearing out their heels picketing. It’s good publicity having them in jail.”

“But Harry—”

“But Tootsie,” I said, imitating his voice. I put my arm through his and pulled him along with me. “Come on, I’ll take you in and buy you a soda to cool you off a little.” What the hell, let Schrafft’s worry. “Only you’ve got to promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll read the papers to-morrow. Just wait till you see them. Oh, boy!”

“I
S MR. PULVERMACHER IN
?”

It was a mouthful, but I managed to get it out without a slip.

The broad at the switchboard behind the information window looked me over. Well, she could look until her eyes wore out. I’ve never yet been ashamed of the way I dressed.

“Who wants to see him?”

I’m from J. P. Morgan’s office. I’ve got three million dollars I don’t know what to do with, so I came up to see Mr. Pulvermacher, maybe he’s got an idea of how I can get rid of it. But this was no time for clowning, so I said:

“Well, he doesn’t know me, but—”

“What’s the name, please?”

Snappy, eh? So this was the way they handled people who came up to see the great Pulvermacher of Pulvermacher, Betschmann & Kalisch, Inc., manufacturers of Pulbetkal Frocks, Gowns of Distinction, Street and Formal. Big-shot stuff. Well, I guess the great man of Seventh Avenue had to live up to his reputation.

“Bogen,” I said. “Harry Bogen.”

She closed the window in my face and pushed a plug into the board. Her lips moved for a few seconds, then she opened the window and turned to me again.

“What is it with reference to?”

Cross-examination, eh? Maybe I ought to begin worrying about an alibi.

“Tell him it’s about getting his dresses delivered.”

She gave me a dirty look.

“Say, you’re not one of these men from the union, are you? Because if you are, then you can just—”

I laughed.

“Oh, no. Not me. Just tell him I’ve got a service that’ll deliver his dresses for him, strike or no strike.”

“Oh,” she said and slammed the window in my face again.

Before I could begin to get sore, she had it open again.

“Go right into the showroom,” she said. “Straight ahead. Mr. P. said he’ll be out in a minute.”