Schultz

by J. P. Donleavy

  “Jesus christ, Jesus christ, I got to fly to fucking New York.”

  “Schultz if I may say so, you are already flying. Over the fucking carpet that you’re prematurely and unnecessarily wearing out.”

  But again too, his Lordship realised that Schultz, even seen in his very worst panics might be the real McCoy. And a genuine man of the theatre. Who knew deep in his aesthetic bones what the unpredictable public wanted. And his Lordship was becoming nervously suspicious that this, Schultz’s latest musical attempt following his three previous resounding flops, might be the one which would set the West End ablaze with its glory.

  “Ah Schultz you read all the theatre and film trade magazines cover to cover. You know off by heart the current gross of every Broadway and West End theatre. You have on your fingertips the name of every actress’s agent as well as the actress’s home telephone number. Surely that must impress investors to invest.”

  “Come on your Lordship, do you want to be fucking well left behind, I’m telling you, it’s going to be a big hit.”

  His Lordship as he often did stood up and changed his seat in this Sperm Productions’ most commodious office. With its satin royal crimsons which dripped and draped everywhere. And which did provoke some unfeeling persons to refer to the decor as Whore’s Georgian. His Lordship now crossing to sit down on the blue and white striped chaise longue to regard the pleading Schultz benignly as the latter like an all in wrestler stood there in the foreground, waiting to come to grips with his hair carefully combed to accentuate his black curly locks and his foot idly kicking to dislodge little whorls of wool from the new crimson carpet.

  “God you are a poor wretched sod Schultz, aren’t you.”

  “Sure sure, O.K. but I’m telling you this is a fucking hit we’re talking about.”

  The wall photographs of past Kings and Queens of London’s theatre and of current famous Hollywood stars flashed in the bursts of afternoon sunlight. But through it all, his extremely eccentric Lordship, who upon occasion wore his shirts inside out or even brushed his teeth with the back of his toothbrush, merely seemed to wait for Schultz’s anxiety to explode.

  “Ah Schultz, if you did but realise it, I do at times expect to find you left in scattered pieces all over the floor.”

  “Sure. But I get the fucking show on the road every time.”

  “Ah Schultz, but there are other times, that you can be found to be such a charmer.”

  “Come on, holy shit your Lordship don’t you want to become fucking rich.”

  Although his Lordship did not hugely enjoy making bad business judgements he would, when he found people at their most abject and in their most miserable moments, back them when no one else would. Taking it all in good grace when later the time came to heartily and most financially regret. But such instances he regarded as adding spice to life.

  “Now Schultz, something that intrigues me. Where did you unearth your list of investors. In this morning’s post alone came four returned letters marked deceased. I think that might indicate that your list is not quite up to date. Or else you obtained it from some funeral furnisher.”

  And on this particular day and in this last hour of rapidly hung up telephones, Schultz’s every other investing prospect had opted out and the afternoon was ending in real deep horror for this embattled impresario. Yet not once did Schultz offer to increase his Lordship’s share of the profits on his sixteen thousand pounds. Which was lucky. As this made his Lordship cautiously conclude that there might be some real possibilities in the deal after all.

  “Ah Schultz indeed, perhaps you do have some actual acumen in you.”

  “Boy thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t thank me. I think you should thank that uncle of yours the diamond merchant.”

  “Jesus Uncle Werb. Don’t remind me. Sometimes I think I should have listened to him. I wish the fuck I had some of the money that bastard has. He’d say, now Sigmund, before your very eyes. That. That is two million dollars worth of diamonds.”

  “Of course Schultz, didn’t he want you to apprentice. To that more than likely profitable trade.”

  “Holy shit. I didn’t want to go haggling around in those black hatted and coated little groups with those yiddish guys for the rest of my fucking life. And hey your Lordship, meanwhile would you mind if I borrowed a cigarette.”

  “My god Schultz you’ve got your nerve to ask me for a cigarette at a time like this. And you must not address me as your Lordship unless you merely intend being amusing since it is the style used by those assuming an employee status.”

  Regarding cigarettes, these same words were used by his Lordship on his first meeting with Schultz and persisted throughout their relationship. As Schultz had given up smoking only during such times as he was not in his Lordship’s presence. But whenever his Lordship lit up, Schultz would invariably request a white tube of tobacco to light up as well.

  “For god’s sake Schultz why don’t you buy your own cigarettes.”

  “Well I don’t smoke.”

  “Well you smoke whenever you see me.”

  “Well, the rest of the time I don’t.”

  “Well I do sometimes wish you would Schultz so you’d have your own cigarettes. And although I myself indulge this insanitary and unhealthy habit I dislike encouraging it in others.”

  “Now come on, if you won’t come in for sixteen thou the least you can do is give me those addresses and phone numbers of these rich aristocrat friends you know all over the place.”

  “I assure you Schultz that the words rich and aristocrat which were once so inseparable are no longer and it is more than likely you’ll find that either word rarely these days becomes the adjective of the other in describing any of my acquaintances.”

  Their strange compatibility seemed to proceed on these lines. First his Lordship’s absolute refusal then a slight weakening and finally after nonstop afternoon’s harassment his Lordship’s acquiescence. Except that his Lordship always firmly reneged in the matter of Schultz being allowed access to his Lordship’s affluent influential friends.

  “Come on for christ’s sake, how can that hurt you if I meet these other aristocrats you know. Well what about your sisters or their husbands then. I meant christ, they’re family. They’d understand.”

  “Good god Schultz do you think I would for one second release you uncollared upon innocent people. To rip and tear at them the way you do me. Sometimes Schultz you are exactly like a stage show.”

  “What do you mean, stage show. What stage show.”

  “One which ought to be closed.”

  Above all his Lordship was most relieved that Schultz had not managed to impress his two younger and stunningly beautiful sisters Lady Audrey and Emeline who from time to time when up to London shopping, left packages and messages at the offices of Sperm Productions. And who were contentedly married to gentlemen in the Foreign Office, and Royal Navy respectively.

  “Jesus your Lordship I got real starring parts to cast your sisters in.”

  “Schultz. I shall cast you. Out the window. If you’re not careful.”

  The many times now that his Lordship sat or stood observing Schultz, a mild amusement overcame him. For Schultz, upon each occasion of meeting these two wondrous ladies, slapped himself repeatedly on the forehead exclaiming.

  “Holy shit. Jesus if I only knew you had such sisters I could have married one of them.”

  “And thank god for them Schultz that you didn’t.”

  “But Jesus they’re so fucking beautiful and so fucking rich.”

  “And you Schultz in your fucking ridiculous excitement are like a fucking roaring bullock. With your balls cut off.”

  But it was upon an afternoon when Binky had the same morning departed in his grey topper, striped trousers and cutaway coat to take part in a spot of racing at Ascot, that his Lordship had really come to grips with Schultz. A pair of pigeons had nested together under a water tank out on a back rooftop terrace. And his Lordship who
had been out late lunching with the board of directors of one of London’s larger banks always liked to return to see if any of the eggs had hatched. And he now appeared at four o’clock out of the lift and cheerfully greeted by the secretaries, came along the hall and took his turning left and was about to turn his usual immediate right when he heard Schultz in the chairman’s office talking in a highly British accent.

  “That’s correct, this is Lord Nectarine. Speaking. Yes, Lord Nectarine of Walham Green.”

  His Lordship with his movements now speeded up more than somewhat, bounding into the room. With Schultz standing behind the chair’s desk on the telephone. In three large strides his Lordship was across the carpet. And in a lightning grab with his knuckles turning white hot his Lordship had hold of the phone.

  “How dare you Schultz. Give me that. What do you think you’re doing.”

  Schultz, inadvisedly attempting further polite remarks into the black instrument, hung on. To suddenly find himself lifted bodily from the floor and before he knew it, with feet aloft, he had already completed one and a half orbits of the room.

  “For fucks sake. Don’t kill me.”

  “I’ll kill you Schultz.”

  Schultz luckily on the next circuit, before flying through a window, crashed into the chaise longue. Separating the upright backrest from the lengthier reclining part of this colorful piece of furniture. And he was, with eyes focusing to see straight, now lying on the floor, still holding the phone trailing its broken wire. And crowned with a shattered picture of a female Hollywood star propped on his head.

  “I’m only using your title for fucks sake.”

  “You have no right to do so.”

  “What is it, going to fucking well hurt you for christ’s sake. Look what you’ve done, broke the furniture and ripped out the telephone. And I got to fucking call New York.”

  “My dear Schultz let me assure you, if ever you do that again, you’ll be calling the fucking undertakers.”

  And be

  Unable

  In your

  Rigor mortis

  To pay

  The bill

  2

  It was Schultz’s crass indifference to the obvious slight that so intrigued his Lordship. Not only how he seemed to arise sprightly from insult and injury but especially the nervy way Schultz would come up on the rehearsal stage to the elbow of a leading actor or actress and attempt to look over their shoulders as they read their personal fan mail.

  “Schultz you really do at times behave in the most overly familiar manner.”

  “Holy shit what are you talking about.”

  “I’m talking about your sometimes discomforting proximity Schultz.”

  “What do you mean proximity. What do you want me to do. Stand outside the door. I got to know what the fucking public thinks of the fucking show.”

  “Ah Schultz you do so easily get hot under the collar.”

  In his continued association with both his Lordship and Binky in the regrettably named Sperm Productions Schultz was, after much guff and rubbish, as his Lordship was fond of referring to company general meetings, finally made a company director. His Lordship and Binky owning equally between them nine hundred and ninety shares and Schultz the remaining ten.

  “Holy shit, ten shares. You guys are squeezing me out already before I’ve even got in.”

  “But of course, Schultz, with your three flops surely you don’t expect to be invited to be chairman of the board.”

  “Jesus, you generous guys.”

  Although his Lordship and Binky were pleased that Schultz had acquired a patina of British upper class habits to practise in the acceptable places, they did rather enjoy when Schultz got overexcited and lapsed back into his hysterical American mannerisms. Which inevitably happened when Schultz, ever eager to gather his show’s investment together, would confront his Lordship and Binky, their feet up and saucy magazines open as they late afternoon contentedly perused the latest in filthy illustrated literature.

  “Don’t you think your Grace that the position this extremely black chap has taken up upon this extremely white lady affords him little opportunity to enjoy the position the other extremely white lady has taken up upon him.”

  And one particularly peaceful afternoon during a stretch of no phone calls, Binky had on his desk his usual copy of a theatrical photographic reference book featuring actresses and children, a gold ruler weighting open a page displaying juvenile and younger juvenile women. And Binky, holding his head slightly tilted back turned to announce to his gathered fellow directors.

  “Now in this Sarah. We have here a red head. Five foot six and a half inches. The way the light is thrown across the bosoms makes for a young lady I do believe our provincial audiences might quite fancy. A most remarkable cleavage. She’d do for replacing Suzie in It’s A Long Way To Piccadilly. Obviously the daughter of a parson. Just gave her agent a little call earlier. The good chap just this second rushed over more particulars by hand. Either straight or musical. And ah. Her abilities seem rather extensive. Recently played Putsie at the Palace Theatre, Western Super Mare. How nice. And my word. Schultz.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She played Margo in your ill fated and Sperm Productions’ ill advised provincial tour of The Best Bloody End’s Up.”

  “Hey Jesus what are you reminding me for.”

  “It’s her efficient agent Schultz, reminding us of her previous martyrdom under our joint banners.”

  “Christ she couldn’t dance to save her arse. But Jesus what a fucking arse.”

  “Ah Schultz. Then we absolutely must think up something new and naughty to audition her for. One always searches for perfection in the theatre. And therefore it demands that the likes of this young lady must be explored fully. Do you remember the creature, Basil.”

  “Bottoms do make their impression on me Binky but I don’t recall this particular lady’s.”

  “Pity. She’d do for this rather promising recent script here. I mean she does character, tragedy, comedy or farce. Even dialects. Yiddish, Cockney, Lancashire. Even American. What about that Schultz.”

  “All these god damn girls put down a string of god damn things they can do as long as your arm whether they can do them or not.”

  “O dear, Schultz. I suppose you’re right. That’s the thing I hate most about show business. You really do feel sometimes that these girls care only about furthering their careers. And will grossly misrepresent themselves to gullible producers and prostitute their talent in anything just to do so. While we who love the theatre with all our hearts are put upon to suffer such subterfuge.”

  “Holy shit you fucking guys, come on, look what you’re doing, fucking nothing, be serious for a change, let’s get the show on the road.”

  “Schultz. Dear Schultz. What show. What road. And must you refer to us, and especially his Amazing Grace, as you fucking guys.”

  “Well what else are you, looking at porno magazines when there’s work to do.”

  Binky reaching out to stretch and adjust his leg into a new position where it was cradled on a leather cushion in the crescent comfort of a mahogany gout stool. His voice, as it did when taking folk slightly to task, became even softer and kinder than usual.

  “Dear Schultz, you are amazing aren’t you. Here I am chairman of this old and established theatrical management, beset by stage carpenters, librettists, wig makers, agents, composers, scene shifters, actresses’ husbands, theatre owners, guitar players, lawyers, playwrights, contortionists, posture artists and ponces, not to mention the continual stream of hoaxers and conmen, and here I sit, with an accredited reference book of actresses I have here open before me. Utterly sincere in my unending effort to cherish and promote the very highest standards in dramatic entertainment on the legitimate stage. Indeed to put it more briefly. Can’t you see I’m casting.”

  “Of course I can see. But Jesus, every time I look at you fucking guys I’m thinking of the fucking seconds ticking away.” />
  “Schultz, your obtuse devotion to duty is commendable. But dear me, I do think you rather are at times contemptuous of your fellow colleagues and I’m sure you must realise that such terminology as you fucking guys is most unbefitting his Royal Grace.”

  “Shit, you two were born with silver spoons in your mouths. I had to deliver fucking newspapers.”

  “But Schultz both his Royal Grace and I are aware that you are the owner of silk shirts.”

  “Every other stitch of clothing I’m wearing including the shoes, is from the men’s chorus line of The Best Bloody End’s Up. And what the fuck are silk shirts compared to your silver spoons from babyhood in big god damn castles. I never had chauffeurs, nannies, cooks, god damn grooms. And the way you sit around here doing nothing while I do all the work.”

  “Ah Schultz, dear Schultz. I think we must pretend that you’re just temporarily unable to be calm because of your hemorrhoids. But we would love to hear more of your difficult deprived background. You simply must tell us more. You must. We have so very little to go on.”

  Schultz’s immigrant parents had in the clothing business racked up considerable profits in their bargain basement Ladies’ Lingerie and Accessories store, first in Woonsocket and later in two other New England towns. While Schultz as a child prodigy with the violin had grown accustomed to being treated as a king by his family and near relations and as that sissy prick by the rest of the kids on his block. But having forsaken the violin and beaten the piss out of the astonished neighborhood bully, Schultz through a magazine advert applied to a school of dramatic art.

  “If they hadn’t fucking well accepted me I’d be up to my neck right now merchandising ladies’ underwear.”

  But a semester or two of this preparation for the acting stage so terrified Schultz’s parents that he might become a raging homosexual that they finally shipped him off to one of the better East Coast campuses to come into contact with brahmin gung ho ivy league type chaps while attending college. And a lacrosse and squash playing Schultz became at least superficially capable of waltzing and drawling in the best prep school manner when he cared to. Which to his credit was seldom.