Anyone Got a Match?

by Max Shulman

  The Shapians shrugged and followed the waiter to a table overlooking a genuine waterfall. Seated there, smiling whitely in his black suit, was Harry Clendennon.

  He leaped to his feet. “Polly honey!” he cried, kissing her cheek. “Ira baby!” he cried, wringing his hand. “Sit, sit, sit!”

  “Well, well, if it ain’t old Mephisto,” said Polly and sat.

  Ira, shaking his head, sank into a rattan chair. “Harry, how do you do it?” he asked with grudging respect.

  “American know-how,” said Clendennon. He turned to the waiter. “Boy, bring us three Reverend Davidsons.… And, boy: chop-chop!”

  Giggling, the waiter rushed away. “Kids,” said Clendennon to the Shapians, “let me do the ordering. I really dig this Polynesian jazz.”

  “Swell,” said Ira.

  “I head for the islands whenever I can,” said Clendennon. “Wild! That sweet, scented air, that blue, blue sea, that white surf breaking on the white sand—”

  “I’m getting all choked up,” said Polly.

  “Me too,” said Ira, “but could we say aloha and turn to business?”

  “By all means,” said Clendonnon. “Ira baby, I flew out here to tell you, friendly like, that I know your game and you’re a loser. You are not going to goose Mr. Davies into firing me. He can’t. Where would he find a duplicate?”

  “The Cosa Nostra?” suggested Polly helpfully.

  “Amusing,” said Clendennon, favoring her with a smile. “Also amusing when you called me Mephisto, and that’s just my point. Ira chickie, be smart: settle for the devil you know.”

  “I suppose I should,” agreed Ira. “Still, what if your replacement turns out to be not altogether a bastard?”

  “Slim chance.”

  “Yes, but hope springs eternal.”

  “Ira, I’ve got a little shock for you. I’m going to level with you tonight. You won’t believe me, of course, but I’m going to speak the truth. Your game is not completely a bust. You do have Mr. Davies just a tiny bit worried. If you stall long enough on the new contract, there is a possibility that Mr. Davies will lower the boom on me—just a flyspeck of a possibility, but nevertheless a possibility. I’d be a whole lot happier if I had your signature right now. My happiness, of course, is not exactly what you’re after, but, Ira sweetie, I’ve figured out a way to make you happier too.”

  “Ah!” said Polly. “Here comes the zinger.”

  “No, not quite yet,” said Ira. “He’s still got a few bars of introduction.”

  “You’re right, Ira baby,” said Clendennon. “Just a bit more—but here’s our drinks.”

  “Three Reverend Davidsons,” grinned the waiter and placed before them three hollowed-out pineapples filled with crushed ice, grenadine syrup, and a ropy admixture of rums.

  “Bring us a plate of ramaki, boy,” said Clendennon to the waiter.

  “Chop-chop!” replied the waiter merrily and jogged away.

  “I’m queer for this Polynesian chow,” confessed Clendennon. “Drink up, troops.”

  “Later,” said Ira. “I want to be alert while you tell the lie.”

  “No lies,” declared Clendennon. “Plain truth. I know what’s bugging you, Ira. You think you’ve got a big hate on for me. Well, you’re wrong. Me, guys like me, we’re facts of television. And you long ago accepted it.… No, buddy boy, it’s not me you’re teed off at; it’s somebody else.”

  “Now comes the zinger,” said Ira to Polly.

  “I can hardly wait,” she said, leaning forward.

  “Yes, now comes the zinger,” said Clendennon. He paused a moment for dramatic effect. “Hear me good, Ira lover. Listen to the zinger: you are not mad at me at all. Who you are mad at is a guy named Ira Shapian.”

  Polly watched nervously as a thoughtful frown creased Ira’s forehead. “Ira,” she said, plucking his sleeve, “Ira, he’s getting to you.”

  Ira gave Polly a reassuring pat, which failed signally to reassure her. “Go on, Clendennon,” he said.

  “You hate yourself,” Clendennon continued. “You feel filthy, violated, used. But most of all, you feel you’ve sold out a big talent for a fistful of loot. And it was a big talent, Ira. I remember the shows you used to make—bold, gutsy, important shows.”

  “Ira, you’re buying it,” said Polly sadly.

  “For the moment, yes,” Ira agreed. “Because for the moment, Clendennon isn’t lying.”

  “He will,” said Polly.

  “He won’t,” said Clendennon. He whipped a document out of his breast pocket. “Here it is, all legal and binding—a brand-new contract with a brand-new wrinkle. The raise, of course. The stock options, of course. But here’s the weenie: you sign this paper tonight and tomorrow you get a six-months’ leave of absence to produce a show for Star Spangled. And here’s the list you can choose from: you can do Oedipus Rex, two full hours, with Olivier and Judith Anderson; or you can sail with the first atomic sub to go under the Antarctic icecap; or you can do the Central Intelligence Agency, everything below top secret; or you can do the oral contraceptive test in Puerto Rico with full cooperation from Muñoz Marín; or you can do the NASA Space Center at Houston; or you can do the heroin traffic—Hong Kong to Sicily to New York, with actual film. All these things are locked in, pussycat. Just pick the one you want, and we’ll provide full financing and all the crew, cast, and equipment you need. This is the big time, Ira baby, not like those nickel-and-dime epics you made back in the old days.… Well, what do you say?”

  There was silence now and a total lack of motion. Ira sat wrapped in thought; Polly, eyes closed, sent out a steady beam of prayer; Clendennon was as still as an expert angler watching a trout sniff a fly.

  “Ramaki!” announced the waiter proudly and laid a plate on the table. Clendennon dismissed him with a quick, angry gesture.

  Ira spoke. “No,” he said.

  “No what, Ira baby?” asked Clendennon with a cautious smile.

  “No deal,” said Ira, and Polly opened her eyes and cast them gratefully heavenward.

  Clendennon kept smiling. “What is it, Ira? Don’t you like these projects?”

  “I love these projects,” answered Ira. “Who would not?”

  “But?”

  “But what I love even better is the possibility that I can get you fired.”

  “A small possibility. A dim possibility. An infinitesimal possibility.”

  “True … but my only possibility.”

  Without changing expression, Clendennon picked up a piece of ramaki. His smiling teeth lopped it in half like a guillotine. Rage boiled inside him, rage against Ira that demanded release. But he was far too shrewd to direct the wrath toward its proper target. “Waiter!” he roared.

  The waiter—wide grin and lei—was instantly at his side. “Sahib?” he said pleasantly.

  “You call this ramaki?” snarled Clendennon.

  “Yes, sir,” said the waiter, his grin fixed. “Very good. Specialty of the house.”

  “Look, boy, save that palaver for the tourists. Now take this slop back to the kitchen and bring me some ramaki!”

  Suddenly a newcomer was at the table, a large, handsome man the color of ancient copper. He was dressed not in lei and chicken bones but in a well-cut dinner jacket. “Something wrong?” he asked in a deep, smooth voice.

  Polly and Ira bounded to their feet.

  “Linus!” they shouted. “Linus Calloway!”

  They hurled themselves upon him, clasping his hands, slapping his back, hugging him with pure joy. And Linus replied in kind. “Polly! Ira! Ira! Polly!” he cried delightedly and enveloped them in his great, brawny arms.

  Clendennon gaped. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Linus’ face grew instantly sober. “Excuse me,” he said, releasing Polly and Ira. “Something you wanted, sir?” he said to Clendennon.

  “You the manager?” asked Clendennon sharply.

  “Manager and owner,” replied Linus.

  “Good …
Now, about this so-called ramaki—”

  “Oh, ignore him,” said Ira, grabbing Linus again. “He’s just my boss.”

  “What is all this?” asked Polly, indicating the hokey Polynesian motif. “What in the world are you up to?”

  “It’s a long, long story,” answered Linus.

  “So sit down and tell it,” said Ira and pushed Linus into a fan-backed chair.

  “Look—” said Clendennon.

  “Butt out,” said Ira.

  “Linus, why didn’t you tell us you were in Los Angeles?” said Polly.

  “Where have you been for the last twenty years?” said Ira.

  “How did you get into the restaurant business?” said Polly.

  “Why haven’t we heard from you?” said Ira.

  “If you will forgive this intrusion—” said Clendennon.

  “Eat your ramaki,” said Polly.

  “It is not ramaki!” said Clendennon crossly.

  “Come on, Linus, start at the beginning,” said Ira.

  Linus laughed his deep, booming laugh. “Okay, kids, but I’ll have to give it to you fast—I mean like in five minutes. This is opening night, remember, and the joint’s full of customers.”

  “So get started already,” said Polly.

  “Right! Five-minute version: the adventures of Linus Calloway. Now, let’s see. When’s the last time we were all together?”

  “New York, 1942,” replied Ira. “Just before you went into the Navy.”

  “As a mess boy!” said Polly indignantly. “Scandalous! Making a mess boy out of a man like you just because you happen to have dark skin! Scandalous!”

  “Damn right!” agreed Ira. “Well, thank God we’ve gotten a little more civilized since then.”

  “Have we?” asked Linus mildly.

  “Haven’t we?” asked Polly, searching his eyes. “Oh, sure, I know we’ve only just scratched the surface in race relations, but we have made a little progress.… Haven’t we?” she repeated uncertainly.

  “Look, I’ve given up on the ramaki,” said Clendennon. “All I’d like to say is this: Polly and Ira, if you want to learn about Mr. Calloway in five minutes, wouldn’t it be wise to postpone the symposium on the color problem till another time?”

  “But Linus’ life is the color problem,” said Ira. “Anyhow, it was. Is it still?”

  “It is,” said Linus.

  “Good!” said Polly.

  “And we’re with you one hundred percent,” said Ira.

  “But what about this restaurant?” said Polly.

  “May I be moderator?” said Clendennon. “So far we have established that Mr. Calloway joined the Navy as a mess boy in 1942. Will you proceed, sir?”

  “Thank you,” said Linus. “Well, I was a damn good mess boy. Us folks got natural rhythm, you know, even in the kitchen. I got so good that by 1944 I was chef to an admiral at Pearl Harbor. Pretty soft gig; all I had to do was keep coming up with new Hawaiian recipes. So I made friends with the colorful natives, and by the end of the war, I could whip up one hell of a luau.”

  “With the possible exception of ramaki,” said Clendennon. “All right, Mr. Calloway, the war is over now and you have mastered the haute cuisine of Micronesia. Then what?”

  “I have also mastered a game called craps. I land in San Francisco with ten thousand dollars in my skivvy shirt. I open a little place just off Market Street. The Muu-Muu, I call it. I bring in a few of my kinfolk and they bring in a few of their kinfolk, and I teach ’em a bit of pidgin and how to braid chicken bones in their hair. The place is a smash. I expand. I open another Muu-Muu in Portland, then another in Seattle. And now, tonight, still another in Beverly Hills, and we’re up to date.”

  “Why have you never called or written?” asked Ira.

  “For a good reason,” replied Linus, looking directly at Ira. “Because there’s something I need from you, and you won’t give it to me, and we’ll both be horribly embarrassed.”

  “Ridiculous!” said Ira stoutly. “There’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you. Now, come on, Linus, tell me what you need.”

  “A program director,” said Linus.

  Ira looked puzzled. “For your restaurants?”

  “For my television station,” replied Linus.

  A tremor of nervousness shook Clendennon. “You have a television station, Mr. Calloway?”

  “I’m about to open one.”

  “Where?”

  Linus laughed. “Here comes the funny part, Mr. Clendennon. You may possibly have noticed that I am a Negro? Well, my television station is located in Birmingham.”

  “Oy!” said Clendennon.

  “Precisely,” said Linus.

  Distress clouded Ira’s face. “Linus, do you mind if I ask some questions?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Where did you get the money to buy this station?”

  “From my restaurants.”

  “And where will you get the money to operate it?”

  “Same place.”

  “You have no grants from foundations or the government or like that?”

  “No.”

  “Do you expect to sell any advertising?”

  “Me? Black Linus sell advertising in Birmingham? Surely you jest.”

  “Are you aware that you won’t get any network affiliation?”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Do you know what it costs to operate a tv station?”

  “I do.”

  “Will your income from the restaurants cover it?”

  “Just barely.”

  “So what have you got left to buy programs with?”

  “Nothing—or close to it.”

  “I see,” said Ira and returned to gloom.

  “Now me,” said Polly. “Just one question, Linus, but a big one: Why?”

  “Same old reason. I still believe we can do something about race relations. Only I believe it in a different way now. When you kids knew me twenty years ago, I believed it simply because I had to. But today there’s a whole new face on it; there’s an added ingredient—a thing called hope.”

  “You are encouraged then?” asked Polly eagerly. “I mean about the progress we’ve made in desegregation?”

  “Not a bit. Oh, sure, there’s a few places we can get into today where we couldn’t get into before. But there’s one place we still can’t enter, and we must, or else the rest is meaningless. I’m talking about the Caucasian heart.”

  “But, Linus, what can we do about that? Can we pass laws? Can we legislate love?”

  “No, but we can educate love, or, at least, the appearance of love. Every politician and clergyman on earth, working day and night, can’t persuade one white man to love one Negro unless the white man wants to. But the white man can be taught that hatred—overt, active hatred, fire hoses and police dogs—that kind of thing is plain bad business. The whites need us for our big, untapped reservoir of brainpower and purchasing power; we need them because they’ve got the tools to open the floodgates.… I sure wouldn’t call it love, but it’ll have to do until the real thing comes along.”

  “And you think it will come along? I mean the real thing?”

  Linus shrugged. “Someday maybe. At least there’s hope. It’s not a very big hope, I’ll admit; in fact, it’s pretty damn dim, but, for the first time, it’s hope that can honestly be called hope. Because today we have a new way to educate people, not to love—that’s too much to ask for—but to show them where their self-interest lies. Today we have in our hands the most powerful, most persuasive, most graphic, most convincing teaching device since the beginning of time. I’m talking about television!”

  “Ah, now I understand,” said Polly. “You’re starting an educational tv station.”

  “Good God, no!” exclaimed Linus. “And I’ll thank you never to use those words again. You say ‘educational tv’ and people immediately think of four guys with glasses discussing Babylonian artifacts.… No, Polly, I intend to give ’em shows as fun
ny as Beverly Hillbillies and as scary as Twilight Zone, but all the time, slyly, so cute they never even notice it, I’m going to slip ’em a little learning.”

  “Would you mind a question from me?” asked Clendennon.

  “You’re my guest.”

  “Mr. Calloway, I agree that your approach is basically sound. But how do you expect to buy all these shows with no money?”

  “Well, if I could find the right program director,” said Linus, carefully not looking at Ira, “if I was lucky enough to get a man who knew how to make good, honest, entertaining shows that didn’t cost a fortune, I’d be home free.”

  “And what would you be willing to pay such a person?” asked Clendennon.

  Linus threw back his head and laughed. “Hell, man, money’s no object! I could go as high as a hundred dollars a week.”

  Ira slid deeper into his chair, shame weighing on him like a millstone. “Do it, Ira!” cried Polly silently in her heart. “Do it! For your immortal soul—and mine—please, please, do it!” And Clendennon’s face was a mask concealing triumph.

  “Well, I certainly wish you all the luck in the world,” said Clendennon, offering his hand to Linus.

  “Thank you,” said Linus, rising. “I’ll take this ramaki back to the kitchen.”

  “No, no, no, no,” insisted Clendennon. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss. I was all wrong. It’s fine ramaki. That’s what confused me; it’s so much better than any ramaki I ever tasted.”

  “Yeah,” said Linus. “Well, good night, Polly. Good night, Ira.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Linus left. “Nice fellow,” said Clendennon.

  “Aah, shaddup,” snarled Ira. Then, turning on Polly, “And you too.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Polly.

  “You didn’t have to. I know what you’re thinking.… Well, forget it. You don’t buy diamond earrings for a hundred dollars a week.”

  “Who asked for diamond earrings?”

  “Who asked for two lamebrained sons?” countered Ira hotly. “Who asked for two stinking houses? Who asked for two lousy swmming pools?”

  Polly stood. “I’m going home. Excuse me, Harry.”

  Ira jumped to his feet. He grasped Polly’s hand. “I’m sorry, Polly,” he said, overcome with contrition. “I was way out of line. Please forgive me.”