by Max Shulman
She looked at me for a long time and then took a pull on the bottle of champagne. “All right,” she shrugged.
“Oh, boy!” I cried and started to undo the frogs on Dad Geddes’s jacket.
“But put the cat out first,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
I flew on wings of love to put Tabby outside. What Tabby? We didn’t have a cat, I suddenly remembered as I reached the foot of the stairs. By the time I got back up, Miss Geddes’s door was bolted.
Little minx.
CHAPTER 18
“Mr. Atterbury to see you, stud,” said Mrs. Hargreaves.
“Show him in! Show him in!” I cried. I leaped up and wrung my client’s hand as he entered my office. “Just in time, sir. I have only this minute finished my assignment. There it is.”
I pointed to a stack of typewritten pages that stood next to, and slightly higher than, the filing cabinet. “Come see,” I invited.
But Mr. Atterbury only nodded absently. There was a look of great distress on his face. “Is anything the matter, sir?” I inquired, taking his hands in mine.
“It’s George Overmeyer,” he said hoarsely and shook with silent sobs.
“What’s happened to him?”
“It’s too terrible,” said Mr. Atterbury. He sat down for a moment and composed himself. “His business is on the verge of collapse. He has no liquor left and he can’t get credit to buy more.”
“I didn’t realize it had gone that far,” I said, shocked. “I knew he was in trouble. He asked me to lend him some money not long ago.”
“You didn’t, did you?” asked Mr. Atterbury sharply.
“No, sir. I suggested that he borrow from you, but he said you were a stinker.”
“I know,” sighed Mr. Atterbury. “He has some delusion that I’m not an honorable man. I don’t know where he ever got such an idea.”
“Beats hell out of me,” I confessed.
“Well, no matter,” said my client. “Even if George doesn’t like me, I like him and I want to help him.”
I blinked back a tear.
“George has a fine business,” he continued. “That store makes a lot of money. But he, the stupid bastard, loses it all at the races. Poor, misguided soul,” he added tenderly.
I sighed.
“But I think he’s learned his lesson now. I think if somebody lent him the money to make a fresh start, he’d buckle down and make a go of the business. I want to lend him the money. I don’t care what he says or thinks about me, I want to do this for him.”
I groped for words to express my admiration of this greatheartedness, but none came.
“And I don’t even want any interest on the money, just a nominal amount—say 2 per cent—to make it legal.”
I turned my back so he could not see the tears streaming down my cheeks.
“I just want to rehabilitate George, to make him a useful, self-respecting member of society. That’s what I want.”
I snatched up the telephone on my desk. “Mr. Atterbury, I’m going to call him this minute and tell him everything you’ve said.”
“No, you cretin!” he screamed, yanking the telephone out of my hand. “I mean,” he went on in a gentler tone, “that isn’t the way to do it. George, for some obscure reason, doesn’t trust me. He’d never accept any help from me.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. “You, Harry, are going to lend him the money.”
“I, sir?”
“Yes. I’ll give you the money and you’ll give it to George. You must let him think that it’s your own. You must never, never mention my name, or the whole thing won’t work. Keep me out of it. You take all the credit.”
To be charitable is admirable. To be charitable anonymously is doubly admirable. But to be charitable anonymously and deliberately let another take the credit is admirable beyond even my vast powers to describe. I flung myself on the divan and wept without shame.
“There, there,” said Mr. Atterbury, cradling me in his arms. “There, there.”
At length I collected myself. “I will do as you say, sir,” I declared. “I will keep your noble secret.”
We shook hands silently, not trusting ourselves to speak.
“Now, listen,” said Mr. Atterbury when the charged moment was over. “We’re not only going to rescue George from his present predicament. We’re going to make him a bigger, richer, more important man than he ever dreamed. I have plans for his business.”
“Do you mean,” I asked incredulously, “that lending him money is not the extent of your generosity? Do you mean that you are also going to contribute your tremendous business acumen to George’s problem?”
He lowered his eyes modestly, but seized me before I could hurl myself on the divan again.
“Listen carefully, Harry. You’ve got to remember all this. Now, when you go to see George, this is what you’ll tell him …”
“George,” I said, “I’ve got all the money you need and I want to lend it to you.”
George looked at me curiously. “Where’d you get it?”
“I have sources,” I said with an inscrutable smile.
“How much interest?” he asked.
“A nominal amount—say 2 per cent—to make it legal.”
George scratched his chin. “Then it can’t be from Atterbury,” he said. “Now let me get this straight. You’ve got money and you’re going to lend it to me at 2 per cent. Why?”
“What are friends for?” I said simply.
George looked at me closely for a long time. “What do you want for collateral?”
“Only the assurance that you’ll mend your ways,” I replied.
“Huh?”
“George, I have investigated your business very thoroughly. It’s a good, sound business. In the last quarter your volume was nearly ninety thousand dollars. Your gross profit ran close to eighteen thousand dollars. Your net profit was a little over seven thousand dollars—at least it would have been if you’d left it in the register. Right?”
George nodded dumbly.
“That’s a very good business, not a business to milk and neglect. George, if I lend you the money, I want a guarantee that from now on you’re going to come to the store every morning, work all day, see that it’s properly run, and stop rifling the cash register. You’ve got to reform, old friend. I’m not going to lend you the money if you go back to your bad habits.”
“Look, Harry, I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but this is so strange. You want a guarantee that I’ll be a good boy. What kind of guarantee?”
“Simply this. I’ll put you on a three-month trial period. At the end of that time if the store doesn’t show a profit it belongs to me.”
“And if it does show a profit?”
“Then it’s yours forever. You can pay me back the loan whenever you like. Ten years—twenty years, if you want.”
George got up and paced back and forth silently. At last he stopped. “Harry,” he said earnestly, “if this is a swindle, please don’t do it. It would be like shooting birds on the ground. I don’t know my butt from my elbow when it comes to business. Anybody with an ounce of larceny can pauperize me.”
“A swindle!” I cried. For a moment I was angry. “This is the most decent thing one human being has ever done for another.”
“But these things don’t happen in business.”
“It’s happening now.”
“You’re quite sure you’re not giving me the finger?”
“No, George, the hand. The helping hand. Unlimited credit. All the money you need. Why, you haven’t even scratched the surface with your liquor store. You’re going to get bigger, better, richer.”
“How? I’ve got all the business in Ivanhoe Gardens now.”
“But Ivanhoe Gardens isn’t the whole city. You have delivery trucks. You could sell your liquor all over town. Run big ads in the papers. Compete with the downtown stores. Cut prices.”
“But I don’t operate on that scale.”
“That’s right, you don’t. You’re small-time now. But things are going to be different. No more ordering a few measly cases at a time from Rossi. Who needs Rossi anyhow? Cut out the middleman. Order car lots direct from the distillery.”
I leaped up and strode back and forth, waving my arms. “You’re going to get big, George,” I declared. “All you have to do is to start thinking big. Buy big. Sell big. Volume, volume, volume—that’s the secret. You’ll be a millionaire, George—a multimillionaire.”
“What the hell have you been smoking?”
“English Ovals, but I think I’m going to change. I’ve got a cigarette holder now and they won’t fit. Why?”
“Harry, try to concentrate. What do you get out of all this?”
“The thrill of helping a friend in need. I’m going to help, George. Not just with the money. I’m going to help with the business—buying, selling, advertising, everything.”
“For nothing?”
“Let us say,” I suggested with a warm smile, “for love.”
George examined me as minutely as a specimen under a microscope. “There is no guile,” he said, “in your vapid face. Your brain is incapable of the sustained thought required for commercial highbindery. You are always sincere even when uttering the veriest crap … Harry, I trust you. It’s a deal.”
I clasped his hand.
“And, Harry,” he said with a shy grin, “thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
“If there is ever anything I can do for you—”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“I’ll see if I can find you an oval cigarette holder,” he said.
CHAPTER 19
Talk about excitement!
First Mr. Atterbury calls me and says he’s got a line on a thousand cases of Old Popskull that can be picked up for practically nothing. I call George—pretending, of course, that I’ve made the discovery myself. “I think we ought to grab them,” I tell George, and he replies, “Anything you say, pal.”
So we buy a thousand cases of Old Popskull. Then it turns out that George hasn’t got room for them in his store. Fortunately I am able to rent a warehouse from Mr. Atterbury. Then I take an ad in the Daily News. Aware of the effectiveness of white space in advertising. I buy a full page and have just these few words printed in small type in the center:
OLD POPSKULL—$3.99
It is a striking ad. When I see a proof of it, I am so overcome with admiration that I overlook the fact I have neglected to mention the name of George’s store.
George calls the omission to my attention after the ad appears in the paper, and we have a good chuckle. The next morning we run the ad again, this time including the name of George’s store. Well, sir, the orders pour in all morning and George’s trucks speed madly around town delivering Old Popskull. This activity ceases suddenly at two o’clock, when the afternoon papers hit the street. They all carry ads of the big downtown liquor stores, cutting Old Popskull to $3.95, to $3.89, even to $3.75.
George calls me. “What do I do now?” he asks.
“Let me think,” I reply.
I call Mr. Atterbury. “What do I do now?” I ask.
“Cut the price,” says Mr. Atterbury.
I call George. “I’ve got it,” I say. “Cut the price.”
We cut to $3.59, to $3.29, to $2.98, to $2.49. Each time the downtown stores undercut us, we undercut them right back. My blood is tingling with the excitement of the contest. At last I understand the romance and adventure of business. It is as though I am the chief of staff of an army engaged in an arduous campaign. George is my field commander. Mr. Atterbury is the President of the United States.
George calls me one day. “Harry,” he says, “the way I’ve got it figured, I’m losing $1.23 on each bottle of Old Popskull.”
“Let me think,” I say.
I call Mr. Atterbury and report.
He tells me to forget about the Old Popskull campaign, for he has just made a deal with twelve unfrocked Benedictine monks to buy all their output. “I’m gettting it for a song,” he says.
“For a Gregorian chant, you mean,” I reply, giggling.
“Call George,” says Mr. Atterbury.
I call George and we order the unfrocked Benedictine. A few days later Mr. Atterbury is able to get his hands on a car of bargain rye. Later he finds scotch, bourbon, wine, gin, and cordials at prices we can’t possibly pass up. We have to rent another warehouse from him.
I continue to write the ads, but I start planning them more carefully. I seek for some unique feature, some felicitous phrase, something to make the ads really arresting. No good thoughts come to me. I decide to consult a word expert—Wrose Wrigley.
I go to her home and state my problem. “Can you help me?” I ask.
“Of course I can, Harrykins,” she replies. “But let’s get comfortable first.”
“Later,” I say, for I know she is inclined to sluggishness after union.
“First,” she insists, and I have no choice but to comply.
Spirits of ammonia fail to revive her. She is too heavy to drag to the shower, so I pull the garden hose in through the window and run a cold jet on her. Then I towel her until she glows dully, and we sit down to work.
She turns out some mighty catchy jingles for my ads. Here’s one:
Fishes, they have tails and fins.
Ragweeds, they have pollens.
Overmeyer’s has the gins
That make the best Tom Collins.
Here’s another one:
Overmeyer’s sells Three Feathers.
Overmeyer’s sells Park and Tilford.
You couldn’t get them any cheaper
Unless you went out in the dark and pilfered.
In the face of the crushing cleverness of our ads, our competitors quail. They do not, however, give up. They undercut our prices. We undercut theirs. They undercut ours again.
George confesses to a growing feeling of uneasiness. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” he keeps asking me.
“Of course, of course!” I roar jovially and phone Mr. Atterbury for instructions.
Mr. Atterbury is like a rock. “Cut prices,” he says. “Buy more liquor,” he says. “Cut prices,” he says. “Buy more liquor,” he says.
I hustle and bustle. George worries and scurries.
And the three months pass as swiftly as three hours. For me they are three wonderful months—exciting months, tingling months, exhilarating months, electrifying months. In short, businessmen’s months.
CHAPTER 20
I stood looking out of my office window. A soft snow had fallen the night before, and now the streets glistened with fairyland brightness. The holly wreaths hanging on the lampposts were tinged with white; frost streaked the gaily decked windows of the stores. Christmas shoppers, heavy laden with packages, thronged the sidewalks. They pushed and jostled merrily, calling the greetings of the season to each other. The sound of caroling came out of the music stores, and passers-by paused to listen and, occasionally, to join in.
I turned and sat down at my desk, full of peace on earth, good will to men, and the spirit of giving. My Christmas shopping was all done. I had bought a handsomely packaged aphrodisiac for Miss Geddes. For Mother I had bought a three-year subscription to her trade journal—The Scrubwoman’s Home Companion. For Dad I had bought one thousand three-cent stamps. (Dad—clever man!—was now engaged in a scheme that was sure to bring about the return of men’s caps. It was a hellishly ingenious switch on the old chain-letter plan. Dad was sending letters to people all over the country. Each letter contained a list of ten names. The recipient of the letter was instructed to send a cap to the name at the head of the list, put his own name at the end of the list, and then mail copies of the letter to ten friends. Dad figured to have twenty million caps in circulation by the end of winter.)
I sat at my desk, basking in Yuletide cheer, and my mind turned to a lovely old Christmas story that had been a favorite of
my youth. “The Gift of the Magi,” it was called. There is also, I am told, a story of O. Henry’s by that name. The one I was thinking of was by F. Henry and quite a different tale. In F. Henry’s story there is a young couple named—
“Mr. Atterbury to see you,” said Mrs. Hargreaves, interrupting my reverie.
I rose with a warm smile. “How fitting that you should arrive at this moment,” I told my client as he entered the office. “I was just sitting here thinking about Christmas, and here you are—Santa Claus.”
“And here is one of my reindeer,” said Mr. Atterbury, pointing to a small, bald man with a brief case who had entered behind him. “Mr. Riddle, Mr. Young.”
“Now, isn’t that a coincidence!” I exclaimed. “I was just thinking about a story in which the hero’s name is Young—Jim Young.”
“Yatata, yatata,” said Mr. Young. He sat down and opened his brief case. “Come on already. My time is money.”
“Mr. Young is your accountant,” explained Mr. Atterbury.
“Really? I didn’t know I had one,” I confessed.
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Atterbury. “In fact, Mr. Young has just finished a big job for you—an audit of George Overmeyer’s books to see if George showed a profit in the first three months. You remember the agreement, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “This story I was telling you about is called ‘The Gift of the Magi.’ Are you familiar with it?”
“Sure, it’s O. Henry’s,” said Mr. Atterbury. “Now you listen to Mr. Young. He’s going to read you the figures.”
“Overmeyer’s Liquor Store. Quarterly report,” Mr. Young read from a large balance sheet. “Total sales—$183,064.35.”
“Wonderful!” I said, pleased. “It used to be only $90,000. It’s more than doubled.… You’re wrong about that story, P.A. It’s not O. Henry’s; it’s F. Henry’s. It’s about this poor New York couple, Jim and Della Young. They’re very poor and very much in love and it’s Christmas Eve and they haven’t got any money to buy presents for one another. Della is at home wondering how she can raise some money to buy Jim a Christmas present before he gets back from work. It looks impossible, but suddenly she gets an idea. She has beautiful long hair that hangs down almost to her knees. She’s terribly proud of her hair, but she loves Jim so much that she decides to sell her hair to a wigmaker in order to get money to buy Jim a watch chain. Jim, you see, has a very fine old watch, and he’s very proud of it, but he hasn’t got a chain for it. So she goes to a wigmaker and he cuts off her hair and gives her twenty dollars and she buys a beautiful platinum chain for Jim’s watch.”