The story nobody ever mentioned to his face had to do with the girl. There were many versions. But about several facts there could be no question. Before his illness Jerry Dingleman had been engaged to Olive Brucker and two weeks afterwards she had sailed for Europe alone. There was some dispute about who had broken the engagement, but there was no argument over whether or not the two young people had been in love.
“You must never repeat this. Not a word of it,” was how Max always began the Wonder-Olive story, “but you should have seen the Wonder in those days. Handsome? Handsome. had a smile that melted the rubber bands in the girls’ panties left, right, and center. For good looks he could have wiped the floor with Clark Gable or any other star. You take your pick. And Olive? A knockout! If old man Brucker wasn’t so stinking with cash, if it wasn’t that she needed money like I need a headache, she could have raked in plenty as a model. When she walked down St. Catherine Street it was enough to stop the traffic… only the Wonder was always by her side and the guys stepped on the gas quick again, let me tell you. They were inseparable. Not only that but they looked so right together that complete strangers would take one look and smile, they felt so good inside.
“That son of a bitch Brucker should only live long enough to choke to death on razor blades. They say it was the Wonder who called it off because he didn’t want her stuck with a cripple. But that’s a dirty lie. The old scum-bag, may his stocks fall through the bottom of a graph tomorrow and his balls float in sulphuric acid the day after, he was the one. He packed her off to Europe before she could say Jack Robinson.”
Some other facts were beyond dispute too. Polio wrought immense physical changes in Jerry Dingleman. At thirty he was no longer a handsome man. His shoulders and chest developed enormously and his legs dwindled to thin bony sticks. He put on lots of weight. Everywhere he went the Boy Wonder huffed and puffed and had to wipe the sweat from the back of his rolled hairy neck with a handkerchief. The bony head suddenly seemed massive. The gray inquisitor’s eyes whether hidden behind dark glasses — an affectation he abhorred — or flashing under rimless ones unfailingly led people to look over his shoulder or down at the floor. His curly black hair had dried. The mouth began to turn down sharply at the corners. But the most noticeable and unexplained change was in the flesh of his face. After his illness it turned red and wet and shiny. His teeth, however, remained as white as ever and his smile was still unnervingly fresh.
The smile that somehow retained an aura of innocence made those who feared or disliked the Boy Wonder resent him all the more. A man, they said, after a certain age is responsible for his face, and following that they always brought up in a whisper the riddle of the Wonder’s sex life since his personal trouble. He was still capable. But some insisted he was now indefatigable and others said that he had picked up some dirty specialties. There was the question of the girls in and out of his apartment three-four at a time, a rumor of incredible films imported from Europe, books of photographs, and amazing statues. Nobody really knew. It was intriguing, that’s all.
But people did know what had happened to Olive — and it was a dirty shame. She had gone through three husbands; two she had divorced and one had committed suicide. All of them had been handsome and, they said, had looked a lot like the Wonder before his personal trouble. Olive darted to and fro between Montreal, New York, Paris, and the Riviera. She usually looked potted and there were some who said you don’t get like that on booze: it was something else. Olive never stayed in Montreal for more than three weeks at a time but each visit spawned a multitude of scandalous stories. Murray Gold swore that he had seen her come running out of the Wonder’s apartment building one wintry night with a bloody nose and no shoes. She was not allowed into the gambling house on the other side of the river or any of his restaurants or night spots. Olive, they said, had a head-shrinker in New York that cost fifty bucks a crack. The same people said that although he wouldn’t see her in Montreal the Wonder visited her in New York. It was Dingleman, they said, who got her out of Bellevue that time.
But little was known for certain about the Boy Wonder’s activities. Only a favored few, not counting the girls, ever actually got inside his apartment, and even on Schnorrer’s Day his visitors had to pass Mickey “The Mauler” Shub before they were allowed inside the poky little office.
Shub, another F.F.H.S. graduate, had in his prime been rated number one challenger for the welterweight crown in Ring Magazine. had fought lots of bouts in Madison Square Garden in the days before television when a fight there drew maybe twenty thousand fans. People in the know said that had he been handled right, if he hadn’t got mixed up with gamblers, Shub could have been world champion. He had the stuff. He also fought too long and his two comeback attempts were disastrous. The last time out Ike Williams had knocked him silly in three rounds. So naturally Shub came to see Jerry Dingleman. He said he wanted to cash in while he still had a name and open up a fancy tailor shop right in the downtown area. His father and his younger brother would do the cutting for him. The Boy Wonder backed him, but the tailor shop developed into more of a hangout than a business. Shub’s father, for instance, seldom got a chance to use the cutting table because it was generally in use for poker. The occasions when it was free he just had enough time to scrub it clean of smoked meat fat and pickle juice before another game got started or some friend in a hurry came in with a girl and the old man was sent on a long message. After the tailor shop failed, Dingleman hired Shub to be his chauffeur and all-round personal assistant.
Shub was a pale, shuffle-shouldered man with little puzzled eyes and a huge spread of shapeless nose. From time to time he was fuzzy in the head and had to stay home. There were some guys who liked to suddenly bang a fist on the table when Shub wasn’t looking. This unfailingly made Shub leap to his feet, assuming his famous stance, and the guys would look at each other and laugh. Bang, bang, bang, the fist would come crashing down again. Then, while they still had him on the go, some guy was sure to shout in his ear, “Ike Williams!”
“Yeah, how long did you last against Williams?”
“… Fifteen rounds…”
“Three, you bastard. Three.”
But nobody ever got funny with him when the Boy Wonder was around and there were times when Shub got his own back too. “On Schnorrer’s Day,” Murray Gold once said, “Dingleman sits like God in that office and this one, a regular St. Peter, stands outside with the keys.” When one of his tormentors showed up for a loan Shub always kept him waiting.
Shub, however, had no grudge against Duddy and he did not keep him waiting. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Kravitz.”
Duddy sat down beside an embarrassed man with a briefcase on his lap and watched as Shub slipped inside the office.
“The Kravitz boy is here,” Shub said.
“Who?”
“Don’t you remember, Mr. Dingleman? The taxi driver’s kid. He was here to ask you about him a few days ago.”
“Oh, I remember. Listen, take him to see Charlie. Say I said he should start him as a busboy and see how he does. Will you send Kennedy in, please?”
Shub told Mr. Kennedy to step inside and turned to Duddy. “You’ve made it, kid. We’re going to take you on as a busboy right here at the Tico-Tico. Isn’t that something?”
“There must be some mistake. Did you tell him it was Kravitz? Duddy Kravitz.”
“Look, you’ve got to start somewhere. If you’re O.K. Charlie’ll be giving you some tables of your own in no time. C’mon.”
“Isn’t Mr. Dingleman even going to see me?”
“He’s a very busy man, you know.”
“But I’m no waiter. Didn’t you tell him that I was Max Kravitz’s boy?”
“Sure I did. Let’s go, kid. Come on.”
Duddy turned pale. “I’m not moving,” he said. “I’m staying right here until he comes out.”
The office door opened and Mr. Kennedy stepped out. He looked shaken. “By this afterno
on,” Dingleman shouted after him.
“I’ll try my best, Jerry. That’s all I can do.”
Duddy slipped past Shub into the office. “I’m Max’s boy,” he began. “Duddy Kravitz. There must be some mistake. I —”
“What’s this?”
Shub grabbed Duddy quickly from behind. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dingleman.”
“I’m no shnook,” Duddy shouted. “I don’t need your help to become a lousy waiter.”
“Let him go.”
Duddy rubbed his shoulder where Shub had held him.
“Are you in the habit of barging into other people’s offices, sonny?”
“My father said we had an appointment.” Duddy whipped out his newspaper clippings. “I’d like you to look at these, please, sir.”
Dingleman grimaced.
“We can help each other,” Duddy said.
He laughed. “Another time, sonny.”
The phone rang. “Get it, Mickey. If it’s New York I’m here.”
“Won’t you even look at them? One’s from Mel West’s column.”
“Are you still here?”
“It’s New York, Mr. Dingleman.”
Dingleman wiped his face with a handkerchief and held the receiver to his breast. “I’ll see you next Wednesday, sonny.”
“Oh, sonny yourself, you big fat lump of —”
Shub gripped Duddy’s collar with one hand and the seat of his pants with the other and lifted him out of the office.
“He’s still got my clippings,” Duddy said.
“Are you looking for real trouble?”
Duddy picked up his coat and ran to the door. “Tell him he can go and kiss my ass,” he shouted on the run.
Shub started after him.
“Mickey! Mickey!”
“I’m coming. I’m here.”
Dingleman wiped his neck and spit into his handkerchief. “Where’s that boy gone to?”
“He beat it.”
“Get the car. I want to see him right away. Wait. Tell Shirley to book two sleepers on tonight’s train to New York. Tell her to phone Kennedy’s office and remind him that I said this
5
Duddy had to wait a half hour before Max turned up at Eddy’s, but he was no calmer when his father entered the store with a smile.
“Hi, Duddy. How’d you make out?”
“You lousy liar. Afraid I’d embarrass you, you?”
The other taxi drivers began to file out. Only Walsh stayed. He had three free games coming to him on the pinball machine.
“An intimate of the Boy Wonder? Hah! He doesn’t know you from a hole in the ground.”
“Duddy, please. Not here. The other guys —”
“All those stories. Ever since I was a kid. How could you let me build on it when I need a stake so badly right now?”
“Easy. Easy, kid.”
“Couldn’t you have told me the truth? Do you think I would have cared? It’s the time wasted and the hopes. It’s — How could you do this to me?”
“Do what? You talk so fast I can’t keep up with you. You ask me to get an appointment and you got one. Right? Right. think any shtunk walk in off the street and see the Wonder just like that?”
“Aw, forget it. Skip it.”
“Oh, no. No sir. Not just like that. You said some dirty things to me.”
“Yeah,” Duddy said in a small voice.
“Take them back.”
“I take them back.”
“There. Isn’t that better than yelling at the old man?”
But Duddy stiffened when Max tried to ruffle his hair. “I’m a big boy now,” he said.
“O.K. Sure.”
A car stopped outside and Shub opened the door for Jerry Dingleman. “Max Kravitz,” Dingleman said, smiling his freshest smile, “how are you?”
“Mr. Dingleman!” Max grinned broadly and gave Duddy a poke. “Hey, Eddy. Eddy quick! Would you like a drink?”
“No thanks. Hullo, Duddy.”
“A sandwich maybe?”
“I’m on a diet.”
“A coffee?”
“Stop begging him.”
“You shettup. I’m your father and you shettup. Mr. Dingleman and I are old pals. Isn’t that right?”
Dingleman nodded. “Here,” he said, handing Duddy his clippings. “That’s an intriguing idea you have there. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“You don’t say?”
“Be polite,” Max said, gritting his teeth. “Talk nice.”
“I have to go to New York tonight. We can talk on the train.”
“Wha’?”
“You heard what the man said.”
“We’ll only be gone three days. I’ll handle your fare and expenses and something more. Mr. Shub can’t come with me. Can you drive a car?”
“Sure he can, Mr. Dingleman.”
“I don’t get it.”
Max stepped in front of Duddy. “What time do you want him at the station, Mr. Dingleman?”
“Ten.”
“He’ll be there.”
“One minute.” That would mean leaving Mr. Friar on his own for a few days. He could do plenty of damage.
“He’ll be there with bells on,” Max said.
Dingleman left and the other taxi drivers hurried back into the store.
“No questions,” Max said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “I’m not free to talk.”
Debrofsky ordered a lean on rye.
“Jerry’s taking Duddy to New York tonight. More I can’t say.”
Shub missed two traffic lights running.
“What’s wrong, Mickey?”
“Nuttin’.”
But Shub was concerned. It was true that Mr. Dingleman’s hunches had always worked out right before, but —“Don’t worry,” Dingleman said. “The boy is innocent. He’s perfect.”
Dingleman didn’t turn up at Central Station until a minute before departure time. He smiled absently at Duddy and led him into the club car. “Here,” he said, handing him a one-hundred-dollar bill. “Order anything you want. I’m going to sleep. We can talk tomorrow.” But the next morning at breakfast in the hotel Dingleman did not say a word to Duddy. He read the market reports in the Times.
“It’s nice here,” Duddy said. “I’ve never been to New York before like.”
Dingleman lowered his newspaper. “I’m going to be tied up all day,” he said. “Why don’t you see the sights?”
“Didn’t you want me to drive you around or something?”
“Not today.”
Duddy bit his lip. “What do you want me here for?” he asked.
“Meet me in the lobby at seven-thirty. We’re going to a play together tonight. Afterwards I’d like to talk to you about your film company. It sounds fascinating.”
Duddy went to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. He visited the planetarium, he sent postcards to his father, Lennie, and Yvette, and he wandered up and down Broadway until his legs ached. He got back to the hotel on time but Dingleman was more than three quarters of an hour late. “Did you enjoy yourself today?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Good.”
There were some new books lying on the taxi seat beside Dingleman. One was by somebody called Waugh and two others, Duddy observed gleefully, were in French with plain covers.
“Have you ever read God’s Little Acre?” asked.
Dingleman laughed. He squeezed Duddy’s knee. “Here we are,” he said. “I hope you’ll like the play. It was very difficult for me to get tickets.”
There were no movie stars in it. Some bit players. Duddy recognized Lee J. Cobb from the movie with William Holden about the boxer and the violin. He thought he had seen the Kennedy guy before too, but he couldn’t remember in what movie. The play went on and on with people shouting and using dirty language. The jokes were from hunger and there was only one sexy scene, but the broad in it was old and not much to look at. A big deal, he thought.
“Did you like it?”
“It had a lot to say about life,” Duddy said.
At supper Duddy began to talk uneasily about his film company, and gathering courage with the wine, he gave away more than he had intended. Dingleman asked him more and more questions, and at first Duddy took this for genuine interest, but each reply made the Wonder laugh harder, and when Duddy told him about Mr. Friar, Dingleman slapped the table again and again and said, “That’s too much. Too much.”
“What I’m really looking for is a silent partner. An investor.”
“I’m sure you’ll find one. Let’s get out of here. We’re invited to a party.”
The party started off to be a bore for Duddy. There was lots to drink, it’s true, the view of the river from the window was A-1, and three or four of the broads there he wouldn’t have tossed out of bed on a cold night, but for a long time nobody spoke to him. He could have been a piece of wood for all they seemed to care. Two o’clock came, soon it was after three, and nobody even bothered to turn the lights out. New guests were still arriving, in fact. Then, all at once, Dingleman summoned Duddy to his crowded corner and he became the center of attention. “Tell them what you thought of the play,” Dingleman said.
He did.
“Isn’t he the end,” a girl said.
She was, Duddy noticed, as flat as a board. The jerk with her was introduced to him as a painter and Duddy, winking at Dingleman, asked, “Inside or outside?”
Dingleman explained that Duddy was a movie producer. A vital new Canadian talent. “Tell them about Mr. Friar,” he said.
Duddy’s imitation of Mr. Friar went over bigger than anything Cuckoo Kaplan had ever done. Dingleman laughed so hard he had to keep wiping his neck.