The switch clicked as the girl transferred the call. "Needlenose!" David said. "How the hell are you?"
Needlenose laughed softly. "O.K. And you, Davy?"
"Fine. I've been working like a dog, though."
"I know," Needlenose said. "I been hearin' lots of good things about you. Makes a guy feel good when he sees one of his friends from the old neighborhood make it big."
"Not so big. It's still nothing but a job." This was beginning to sound like a touch. He figured rapidly how much old friends were worth. Fifty or a hundred?
"It's an important job, though."
"Enough about me," David said, eager to change the subject. "What about you? What are you doing out here?"
"I'm doin' O.K. I'm livin' out here now. I got a house up in Coldwater Canyon."
David almost whistled. His old friend was doing all right. Houses up there started at seventy-five grand. At least it wasn't a touch. "That's great," he said. "But it's a hell of a long way from Rivington Street."
"It sure is. I’d like to see you, Davy boy."
"I’d like to see you, too," David said. "But I’m so god-damned tied up here."
Needlenose's voice was still quiet, but insistent. "I know you are, Davy," he said. "If I didn't think it was important, I wouldn't bother you."
David thought for a moment. Now that it wasn't a touch, what could it be that was so important? "Tell you what," he said. "Why don't you come out to the studio? We can have lunch here, then I'll show you around."
"That's no good, Davy. We got to meet someplace where nobody'd see us."
"What about your house, then?"
"No good," Needlenose replied. "I don't trust the servants. No restaurants, either. Someone might snoop us out."
"Can't we talk on the telephone?"
Needlenose laughed. "I don't trust telephones much, either."
'"Wait a minute," David said, remembering suddenly. "I'm having dinner at my mother's tonight. Come and eat with us. She's at the Park Apartments in Westwood."
"That sounds O.K. She still make those knaidlach in soup swimming with chicken fat?"
David laughed. "Sure. The matzo balls hit your stomach like a ton of bricks. You'll think you never left home."
"O.K.," Needlenose said, "What time?"
"Seven o'clock."
"I’ll be there."
David put down the telephone, still curious about what Needlenose wanted. He didn't have long to wonder, for Dan came into his office, his face flushed and excited, his heavy jowls glistening with sweat. "You just get a call from a guy named Schwartz?"
"Yeah," David said, surprised.
"You going to see him?"
"Tonight."
"Thank God!" Dan said, sinking into a chair in front of the desk. He took out a handkerchief and mopped at his face.
David looked at him curiously. "What's so important about my seeing a guy I grew up with?"
Dan stared at him. "Don't you know who he is?"
"Sure," David said. "He lived in the house next to me on Rivington Street. We went to school together."
Dan laughed shortly. "Your friend from the East Side has come a long way. They sent him out here six months ago when Bioff and Brown got into trouble. He's union officially, but he's also top man for the Syndicate on the West Coast."
David stared at him, speechless.
"I hope you can get to him," Dan added. "Because, God knows, I tried and I couldn't. If you don't, we'll be out of business in a week. We're going to have the biggest, god-damnedest strike you ever saw. They'll close down everything. Studio, theaters, the whole works."
10
David looked at the dining-room table as he followed his mother into the kitchen. Places were set for five people. "You didn't tell me you were having a lot of company for dinner."
His mother, who was peering into a pot on the stove, didn't turn around. "A nice girl should come to supper for the first time with a young man without her parents?"
David suppressed a groan. It was going to be even worse than he'd suspected. "By the way, Mama," he said. "You better set another place at the table. I invited an old friend to have dinner with us."
His mother fixed him with a piercing glance. "Tonight, you invited?"
"I had to, Mama," he said. "Business."
The doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. "I'll get it, Mama," he said quickly. It was probably Needlenose.
He opened the door on a short, worried-looking man in his early sixties with iron-gray hair. A woman of about the same age and a young girl were standing beside him. The worried look disappeared when the man smiled. He held out his hand. "You must be David. I’m Otto Strassmer."
David shook his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Strassmer."
"My wife, Frieda, and my daughter, Rosa," Mr. Strassmer said.
David smiled at them. Mrs. Strassmer nodded nervously and said something in German, which was followed by the girl's pleasant, "How do you do?"
There was something in her voice that made David suddenly look at her. She was not tall, perhaps five four, and from what he could see, she was slim. Her dark hair, cropped in close ringlets to her head, framed a broad brow over deep-set gray eyes that were almost hidden behind long lashes. There was a faint defiance in the curve of her mouth and the set of her chin. An instant realization came to David. The girl no more cared for this meeting than he did.
"Who is it, David?" His mother called from the kitchen.
"I beg your pardon," he said quickly. "Won't you come in?" He stepped aside to let them enter. "It's the Strassmers, Mama."
"Take them into the living room," his mother called. "There's schnapps on the table."
David closed the door behind him. "May I take your coat?" he asked the girl.
She nodded and slipped it off. She was wearing a simple man-tailored blouse and a skirt that was gathered at her tiny waist by a wide leather belt. He was surprised. He was experienced enough to know that the pert thrust of her breasts against the silk of the blouse was not fashioned by any brassière.
Her mother said something in German. Rosa looked at him. "Mother says you and Papa go in and have your drink," she said. "We'll go into the kitchen and see if we can help."
David looked at her. Again that voice. An accent and yet not an accent. At least, it wasn't an accent like her father's. The women turned and started toward the kitchen. He looked at Mr. Strassmer. The little man smiled and followed him into the living room.
David found a bottle of whisky on the coffee table, surrounded by shot glasses. A pint bottle of Old Overholt. David suppressed a grimace. It was the traditional whisky that appeared at all ceremonies — births, bar mizvahs, weddings, deaths. A strong blend of straight rye whiskies that burned your throat on the way down and flooded your nose unpleasantly with the smell of alcohol. He should have had enough brains to bring a bottle of Scotch. He was sure it was Old Overholt that had kept the Jews from ever acquiring a taste for whisky.
It was apparent that Mr. Strassmer didn't share his feelings. He picked up the bottle and looked at it. He turned to David, smiling. "Ah, Gut schnapps."
David smiled and took the bottle from his hand. "Straight or with water?" he asked, breaking the seal. That was another thing that was traditional. The bottle was always sealed. Once it was opened and not finished, it was never brought out for company again. He wondered what happened to all the open, half-empty bottles. They must be languishing in some dark closet awaiting the day of liberation.
"Straight," Mr. Strassmer said, a faintly horrified note in his voice.
David filled a shot glass and handed it to him. "I’ll have to get a little water," he apologized.
Just then Rosa came in, carrying a pitcher of water and some tumblers. "I thought you might need this." She smiled, setting them on the coffee table.
"Thank you."
She smiled and went out again as David mixed himself a drink, liberally diluting it with water. He turned to Mr. Strassme
r. The little German held up his glass. "L'chaim."
"L'chaim," David repeated.
Mr. Strassmer swallowed his drink in one head-tilted-back gesture. He coughed politely and turned to David, his eyes watering. "Ach, gut."
David nodded and sipped at his own. It tasted terrible, even with water. "Another?" he asked politely.
Otto Strassmer smiled. David refilled his glass and the little man turned and sat down on the couch. "So you're David," he said. "I’ve heard a great deal about you."
David smiled back and nodded. This was the kind of evening it would be. By the time it was over, his face would ache from all this polite smiling.
"Yes," Mr. Strassmer continued. "I have heard a great deal about you. For a long time, I've wanted to meet you. We both work for the same man, you know."
"The same man?"
"Yes." Mr. Strassmer nodded. "Jonas Cord. You work for him in the movie business. I work for him in the plastics business. We met your mother at shul last year when we went there for the High Holy Day services." Mr. Strassmer smiled. "We got to talking and found that my wife, Frieda, was a second cousin to your father. Both families came originally from Silesia."
He swallowed the whisky in his glass. Again he coughed, and looked up at David through teary eyes. "A small world, isn't it?"
"A small world," David agreed.
His mother's voice came from behind him. "So, nu, it's time to sit down to supper already and where's this friend?"
"He should be here any minute, Mama."
"Seven o'clock you told him?" his mother asked suspiciously.
David nodded.
"So why isn't he here? Don't he know when it's time to eat, you should eat or everything gets spoiled?"
Just then the doorbell rang and David heaved a sigh of relief. "Here he is now, Mama," he said, starting for the door.
The fall, good-looking young man who stood in the doorway was nothing like the thin, intense, dark-eyed boy he remembered. In place of the sharp, beaklike proboscis that had earned him his nickname was a fine, almost aquiline nose that contrasted handsomely with his wide mouth and lantern-like jaw. He smiled when he saw David's startled expression. "I went to a face factory and had it fixed. It wouldn't look good I should walk around Beverly Hills with an East Side nose." He held out his hand. "It's good to see you, Davy."
David took his hand. The grip was firm and warm. "Come on in," he said. "Mama's ready to bust. Dinner's ready."
They went into the living room. Mr. Strassmer got to his feet and his mother looked at Needlenose suspiciously. David glanced around quickly. Rosa was not in the room. "Mama," he said. "You remember Irving Schwartz?"
"Hello, Mrs. Woolf."
"Yitzchak Schwartz," she said. "Sure I remember. What happened to your nose?"
"Mama," David protested.
Needlenose smiled. "That's all right, David. I had it fixed, Mrs. Woolf."
"A mishegass. With such a small nose, it's a wonder you can breathe. You got a job, Yitzchak?" she demanded belligerently. "Or are you still hanging around with the bums by Shocky's garage?"
"Mama!" David said quickly. "Irving lives out here now."
"So it's Irving now." His mother's voice was angry. "Fixing his nose is not enough. His name, too, he's got to fix. What's wrong with the name your parents gave you — Isidore — hah?"
Needlenose began to laugh. He looked at David. "I see what you mean," he said. "Nothing's changed. Nothing's wrong with it, Mrs. Woolf. Irving's easier to spell."
"You'd finish school like my son, David," she retorted, "it shouldn't be so hard to spell."
"Come on, Mrs. Woolf. David promised me knaidlach. I couldn't wait; all day I was so hungry thinking about it."
Mrs. Woolf stared at him suspiciously. "You be a good boy, now," she said, somewhat mollified, "and every Friday you come for knaidlach.''
"I will, Mrs. Woolf."
"All right," she said. "So now I'll go see if the soup is hot."
Rosa came into the room just as David was about to introduce Needlenose to the Strassmers. She stopped in the doorway, a look of surprise on her face. Then she smiled and came into the room. "Why, Mr. Schwartz," she said. "How nice to see you."
Irving looked up. He held out his hand. "Hey, Doc," he said. "I didn't know you knew my friend David."
She took his hand. "We just met this evening."
Irving looked at David. "Doc Strassmer did my nose retread. She's really great, David. Did you know she did that job on Linda Davis last year?"
David looked at Rosa curiously. No one had ever said anything about her being a doctor. And the Linda Davis operation had been a big one. The actress's face had been cut to ribbons in an automobile accident, yet when she went before the cameras a year later, there wasn't the slightest visible trace of disfigurement.
He was suddenly aware that Mr. and Mrs. Strassmer were staring at him nervously. He smiled at Rosa. "Doctor, you're just the one I wanted to talk to. What do you think I ought to do about the terribly empty feeling I suddenly got in my stomach?"
She looked at him gratefully. The nervousness was gone from her eyes now and they glinted mischievously. "I think a few of your mother's knaidlach might fix that."
"Knaidlach? Who said something about my knaidlach?" his mother said from the doorway. She bustled into the room importantly. "So everybody sit down," she said. "The soup's on the table and already it's getting cold."
11
When they had finished dinner, Rosa looked at her watch. "You'll have to excuse me for a little while," she said. "I have to run over to the hospital to see a patient."
David looked at her. "I’ll drive you over, if you like."
She smiled. "You don't have to do that. I have my own car."
"It's no bother," David said politely. "At least, let me keep you company."
Irving got to his feet. "I have to be going, too," he said. He turned to Mrs. Woolf. "Thank you for a delicious dinner. It made me homesick."
David's mother smiled. "So be a good boy, Yitzchak," she said, "and you can come again."
Rosa smiled at David's mother. "We won't be long."
"Go," Mrs. Woolf said. "Don't you children rush." She glanced beamingly at Rosa's parents. "We older ones have a lot to talk about."
"I'm sorry, Irving," David said as they came out of the apartment house. "We didn't have much of a chance to talk. Maybe we can make it tomorrow?"
"We can talk right now," Irving said quietly. "I’m sure we can trust Rosa. Can't we, Doc?"
Rosa made a gesture. "I can wait in the car," she said quickly.
David stopped her. "No, that's all right." He turned back to Irving. "I must have seemed stupid when you called yesterday. But Dan Pierce mostly handles our labor relations."
"That's O.K., Davy," Irving said. "I figured something like that."
"Dan tells me we're looking down the throat of a strike. I suppose you know we can't afford one. It'll bust us."
"I know," Irving answered. "And I'm trying to help. But I’m in a spot unless we can work out some kind of a deal."
"What kind of a spot can you be in? Nobody's pressing you to go out on strike. Your members are just getting over the effects of the depression layoffs."
"Yeah." Irving nodded. "They don't want to strike but the commies are moving in. And they're stirring up a lot of trouble about how the picture companies are keeping all the gravy for themselves. A lot of people are listening. They hear about the high salaries stars and executives get and it looks good to them. Why shouldn't they get a little of it? And the commies keep them stirred up."
"What about Bioff and Brown?"
"They were pigs," Irving said contemptuously. "One side wasn't enough for them. They were trying to take it from both. That's why we dumped them."
"You dumped them?" David asked skeptically. "I thought they got caught."
Irving stared at him. "Where do you think the government got its documentation to build a case? They didn't find it layin'
around in the street."
"It seems to me you're trying to use us to put out a fire your own people started," David said. "You're using the commies as an excuse."
Irving smiled. "Maybe we are, a little. But the communists are very active in the guilds. And the entire industry just signed new agreements with the Screen Directors Guild and Screen Writers Guild calling for the biggest increase they ever got. The commies are taking all the credit. Now they're starting to move in on the craft unions. And you know how the crafts are. They'll figure that if the commies can do it for the guilds, they can do it for them. The craft-union elections are coming up soon. The commies are putting up a big fight and if we don't come up with something soon, we're going to be on the outside looking in. If that happens, you'll find they're a lot harder to deal with than we were."
David looked at him. "What you're suggesting, then, is for us to decide who we want to deal with — you or the communists. How do the members feel about it? Haven't they got anything to say?"
Irving's voice was matter-of-fact. "Most of them are jerks," he said contemptuously. "All they care about is their pay envelope and who promises them the most." He took out a package of cigarettes. "Right now, the commies are beginning to look real good to them."
David was silent while his friend lit a cigarette. The gold lighter glowed briefly, then went back into Irving's pocket. His jacket opened slightly and David saw the black butt of a gun in a shoulder holster.
Gold lighters and guns. And two kids from the East Side of New York standing in a warm spring night under the California stars talking about money and power and communism. He wondered what Irving got out of it but he knew better than to ask. There were some things that were none of his business.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
Irving flicked the cigarette into the gutter. "The commies are asking an increase of twenty-five cents an hour and a thirty-five-hour week. We'll settle for five cents an hour now, another nickel next year and a thirty-seven-and-a-half-hour work week." He looked into David's eyes. "Dan Pierce says he hasn't the authority to do anything about it. He says he can't get to Cord. I been waiting three months. I can't wait any longer. You sit on your can, the strike is on. You lose and we lose. Only you lose more. Your whole company goes down the drain. We'll still get lots of action other places. The only real winners are the commies."
JC1 The Carpetbaggers Page 48