hen Annie and I arrived at Superior Court both sides to the dispute over the sale of the house were assembled outside the hearing room. Gray little Attorney Birnbaum in his gray suit was chatting with David Harris’s young attorney who towered over him, projecting a cultivated look of Ivy League superiority, and a hint of hangdog embarrassment at being reduced to the level of representing his ratty client. The two attorneys were obviously acquainted, alternately chuckling and checking their watches, as if they couldn’t wait to get this thing the hell over with. Standing with them was Attorney Birnbaum’s expert witness, a man of about 50 who had been called upon in a similar capacity on many occasions. He was wearing an orange and red checked suit that must have been spiffy in the 1920’s and black shoes. He brimmed with self-confidence and seemed very pleased to have been called upon once again to give his opinion, for which he would be paid out of la Señora’s account. Off by himself was the plaintiff, David Harris, dressed in his soiled corduroy pants and a rumpled tweed jacket. With his back turned to the rest of us, he was picking his nose, depositing the little harvested balls into the pockets of his jacket. Sissy Sweatland was all aflutter, sidling up to Annie and me, cheerful and optimistic, and reeking of cosmetics which set off Annie into a sneezing fit.
At twenty minutes after the scheduled hearing time, the doors to the courtroom were opened by a bailiff. It was an airless room with no windows, smelling like an attic. A lady court recorder with a face uncannily like a police chief was arranging herself in front of her dictation machine, positioning on her nose jeweled rim glasses that draped loops of ribbon from around her neck. Since this was a civil hearing there was very little security. The bailiff who admitted us retired to one side of the room and stood at ease by an American flag stand. Another bailiff, digging into his mouth with a toothpick, stationed himself opposite on the other side of the room.
We were asked to rise as Superior Court Judge T. Coleman Wolcott, an elderly gentleman obviously close to retirement, entered from a door behind the bench. Settling himself comfortably in his leather swivel chair he emitted a loud belch which he failed to squelch in the crevice of his fist. He commenced by shuffling some papers around, apparently searching to find out why we were all there. Finally, he raised his head, and in a low voice which we couldn’t hear he mumbled some docket numbers to the court recorder, then turned to his audience, giving the impression of a faded matinee idol.
“Mr. Birnbaum” he said, looking at Attorney Birnbaum (They knew each other, of course, from previous similar hearings) “do you want to go first?”
Attorney Birnbaum stood, announced his name for the record, then spoke from his position in front of his chair. “Good afternoon, Your Honor.”
The judge mumbled a “good afternoon.”
Much to Annie’s and my surprise, Attorney Birnbaum made a pretty good case for the sale. He pointed out that the old house was devoid of insulation (which we could certainly attest to), that the heating system was inadequate, the floors unstable, the roof in need of repair, the plumbing pipes crumbling. (He cited the current instance of water dripping through the ceiling into our dining room). He then went on to point out that the plaintiff, Mr. David Harris, had lived rent-free in the house for the past two years during which time he had made no repairs that Attorney Birnbaum was aware of, but at the same time had raided Mrs. Hollingshead’s savings account –
Objection here from David Harris’s Ivy league attorney whose name for the benefit of the court recorder he gave stentorously as Townsend Foster Noble. “Prejudicial and irrelevant, your honor.”
Objection sustained.
Attorney Birnbaum raised a conciliatory palm, accepting the objection, but then took a moment to rummage through his briefcase, withdrawing some papers from which he proceeded to read that on such-and-such dates David Harris had withdrawn certain specified sums from Mrs. Hollingshead’s account, for which there was no evidence of it having been used to benefit in any way the estate of the said Mrs. Hollingshead. Mr. Harris’s interest in the house seemed to be to take advantage of free rent while –
Objection.
Sustained.
“No improvements were made, as far as we know, your honor,” Attorney Birnbaum went on. “If you have any receipts for repairs,” Mr. Birnbaum said, giving David Harris a contemptuous challenging look, “we would ask that you present them to the court at this time.”
David Harris simply squirmed and looked down between his legs at the floor while his attorney looked impassively into the distance.
Attorney Birnbaum then called upon the real estate appraiser who gave his name as Charles Kozlowski. Prompted by Attorney Birnbaum, Mr. Kozlowski testified that houses of this nature and of this era were generally available for purchase at the amount offered by the intended buyers here present, but in most cases the houses were in better condition than the one belonging to Mrs. Hollyhead. (sic).
Attorney Noble immediately rose from his chair and asked permission to question the witness, a request which Judge Wolcott granted.
“Are you being paid to testify today, Mr. Kowleski?”
“Kozlowski,” the witness corrected him.
“Sorry, Kozlowski, of course.” It was not lost on anyone that the mispronunciation of his name was a not so subtle attempt to denigrate his qualifications. “Are you being paid to testify here, Mr. Kozlowski?”
To which Mr. Kozlowski grinned, and replied without embarrassment, “Absolutely.”
“And when did you inspect the property under discussion?.”
“I haven’t seen it.”
I flashed a look at Attorney Birnbaum, who fluttered his hand at me, not to worry.
“You haven’t seen it?” Attorney Noble placed a hand theatrically on his chest. “Did I just hear you say –”
“You heard him,” Judge Wolcott interrupted impatiently.
“I am something of an expert on the value of these old 19th century farmhouses,” Mr. Kozlowski added, looking very confident.
Townsend Harrison Noble summoned up a look of enormous outrage which was primarily for the benefit of Judge Wolcott who wasn’t looking. “Would you care to tell the court something of your expertise?” he said, looking as though he had just caught a rabbit in a trap.
Judge Wolcott interrupted. “We know Mr. Kozlowski’s credentials, counselor. He’s in here at least once a month. Let’s get on with it.”
Mr. Kozlowski craned his neck around to give the judge a wide grin which was not returned.
Crestfallen, Townsend Harrison Noble retired to his chair next to his surly client.
Sissy Sweatland was the next witness. It was exhilarating just watching her trot from her seat at the back of the courtroom. In her clattering high heals she moved forward rapidly flapping her hands in front of her as if either dog paddling underwater or preparing to take off into flight.
Sissy’s name, it turned out, was Ethel Sweatland. (which perhaps went a long way toward explaining why she was generally known as Sissy). She simply added to what had gone before, that the property had been on the market for two years, and there had been no offers made to buy, which was why the house was now being rented, to gather “a teensy weensy bit of income” for poor Mrs. Hollingshead’s estate which seemed to have dwindled dramatically in the last two years during which time –
Objection.
Sustained.
Sissy Sweatland floated back to her chair, and Attorney Birnbaum asked Judge Wolcott if he might add one more quick word.
Objection.
Over-ruled.
Attorney Birnbaum said that the real reason that it was “essential” that this sale go through was because Mrs. Hollingshead’s available funds were almost depleted, and that the lady was a victim of Alzheimer’s disease, receiving excellent care in The Restful Arms Nursing facility, but without cash immediately available she would not be able to cover her expenses. The rental fee charged to the prospective buyers, Mr. and Mrs. Brock, was not even sufficient to pay taxes on the house. Attorney Birnbaum thanked the judge, and sat down.
Attorney Noble had the final word, explaining that his client did not oppose sale of the house, but did oppose sale of the house for an amount of $75,000 which he deemed unacceptably low. He alluded to the neighborhood, casting a glance in Sissy Sweatland’s direction and adding, “Location, location, location, Mrs. Sweatland,” giving her an arch smile. He mentioned the duck pond and the 4.5 acres of land that went with the house. He thanked the judge and sat down.
That was about it. The whole procedure had taken no more than 30 minutes at the end of which Judge Wolcott announced that he would take the arguments under advisement, and give an opinion “in due time.”
“So we don’t have the house?” I said to Attorney Birnbaum as we departed the courtroom.
“It’s all right,” he answered. “The judge doesn’t want to seem precipitate.”
Annie and I exchanged looks. David Harris was talking to his attorney. The look on his face seemed to indicate he was satisfied that the sale temporarily, at least, had been blocked. There was nothing we could do, so we thanked Sissy Sweatland for her testimony, and headed back toward Mrs. Hollingshead’s farmhouse to empty the pans of rising water in the dining room.
Patience, of course, was the only option. As difficult as it was to get on with things, Annie was a calming influence. “We’re here,” she said. “The judge will ultimately make a ruling.”
“What if he rules against us?”
“Well, we can either make another offer –”
“I’m not going a nickel higher than seventy-five!”
“Or we can find another place.” The logic of a superior human being.
“And that son of a bitch Hank Rosen hasn’t called about doing the play adaptation,” I complained, switching to another thorny subject.
“There’s nothing you can do about it, Bill.”
She was right, of course. But events were overwhelming me. The situation at Pro-Tec was suddenly threatening to deteriorate. Diana Payne-Pignatelli, increasingly emboldened by her close involvement with Morrie Glick, had taken it upon herself to write a memo to Mac McDougall, Chief Financial Officer and Executive V.P. in charge of personnel, to the effect that it would save the company extra man-hours (her terminology) if I were required to type my own letters and press releases, thus reducing an overload on the typing pool. I got the news when Mac called me into his office.
“Jesus Christ, Mac!” I exploded.
Mac couldn’t have been more sympathetic. “She’s a pain in the ass,” he said.
“Yes! And a fucking incompetent, as well.”
Mac grinned slyly. When Mac grinned, he looked like Sidney Greenstreet in “Casablanca.” He weighed close to 300 pounds. Fortunately, he was under 40 and probably had another four or five years before a heart attack., “Morrie’s getting it regularly,” he said.
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“The problem is, she put the suggestion in writing, and passed it on to Frank, who thinks it’s a great idea.”
“That’s the last time I ever put out anything to the financial guys that makes him look good!” I bawled at him.
Mac raised a cautionary finger to his lips. “Frank, I think, would like a little taste of that, too.”
“Jesus, everybody wants to ball that bitch.” I was trying without much success to lower the level of my voice.
Mac nodded.
“What the hell is her game?”
Mac smiled slyly. “She wants to be Frank’s assistant.”
I could only look at him with a dropped jaw. “What, is she going to be balling the two of them?”
“I doubt it. If Frank takes her on, she’ll drop Morrie like a hot potato.” Mac sure could come up with the apt metaphor.
“I think my days here are limited,” I said glumly.
Mac shook his head. “Not necessarily.” He paused, giving me his Sidney Greenstreet smile. Sometimes I saw him in my mind with a fez on his head and a satchel full of diamonds on the floor next to his desk.
“You owe me big-time, Brock. I talked Frank into holding off for awhile.”
“Aw, Mac. Mac.” It was all that I could say.
“Maybe we can get rid of the bitch.”
My eyes opened wide at this glorious idea.
“I had a little chat with Morrie, too. The idea of him needing an assistant is ridiculous.”
“Of course it is!”
“I suggested he ought to rein her in a little bit. We might have to transfer her to the typing pool.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Morrie will do anything to keep her. I think she’ll be keeping her head down for awhile.”
“You’re a genius, Mac. Oh, great. Thanks.”
“Wait. I may put her in there anyway.”
“That’s where she belongs.”
“Yeah. Except she can’t type worth a shit.” He waved the memo she had written in front of him. “At least, judging from the typos in this memo.”
I was on the edge of my chair, leaning toward Mac now. “Yes?”
“In which case I think we might have to relieve her of her new responsibilities.”
“Yes?”
“We could fire her ass out of here.”
“Would Frank go for that?”
“I’m in charge of personnel. If I tell him she’s a drag on the operation, Frank’s not gonna say shit.”
“Oh, Mac. You’re a genius.”
“It may take a little while.”
“It’s no joke, Mac. Getting that bitch out of here would be good for everybody.”
Mac settled back in his chair and gave me a look that said he was the brightest guy in the world. Which maybe he was.
“How long will it take, do you think?”
“Well, it ain’t gonna happen overnight.” His self-satisfied smile was punctuated by a raising of his eyebrows. “Patience, Billy. Patience.”
“You sound like my wife,” I said giving him a cheery smile.
“Okay, but don’t try to stick it to me when I bend over.”
Yes, indeed, patience does pay off. Two weeks after the court appearance, Hank Rosen called, and the news was good. Sort of. He had talked Moishe Goldman into giving me another chance.
“Giving me a chance!” I wanted to scream.
Hank had set up a meeting with the despoiler, and this time he would be joining in the meeting. “It’s not really his fault,” Hank reminded me. “The network wants a musical. Goldman’s situation isn’t so very different from your own. It’s a chance for him, and he has to give them what they want.”
“He wants a musical,” I said.
“Sure. That’s what he does. That’s why the network picked him.” He paused. “Are you unalterably opposed to working the adaptation into a musical?”
A yes answer meant good-bye to 50 g’s. “Of course not,” I said unenthusiastically.
Hank Rosen let me know that he was not convinced. “I’d suggest you show a little bit of enthusiasm when we meet with Goldman.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m enthusiastic!” I shouted into the phone. “How does that sound?”
“Better,” he said.
It was not going to be easy to build up enthusiasm. As Hank and I mounted the stairs to Moishe Goldman’s office there was the familiar punk rock music sound blaring from his stereo. At the open door we spotted Moishe seated behind his drum set banging out a rhythm accompaniment to the racket. Goldman was entranced, his head wobbling around on his short neck, eyes half-closed, his face directed at the ceiling. Hank and I were obliged to stand in the middle of the room waiting while he finished his number.
There was one change in the décor of the place since my last visit. Seated at the zebra covered conference table in the same chair formerly occupied by la Signorina Elena Piermontinini, was a lady of obvious southeast Asia extraction, most likely Indian. She was a beauty, much younger than her predecessor, with long black hair, black eyes reflecting light in the dark satin of her face. In the middle of her forehead was a perfectly round red cosmetic circle. Her slender body was draped in a vari-colored sari that called to my mind illustrations from the Bible, the Orient, the Casbah, ancient grottoes and Babylonian gardens.
The music tape came to a crashing halt, and Moishe Goldman stepped out from behind his drums, first smiling at Hank Rosen, then scowling at me. It was obvious he was not going to shake hands.
“You’re good,” Hank said, alluding to Moishe’s work on the drums.
That softened him a little. “You’re back,” he said, focusing on me. Which meant, I guessed, that I had his approval. I nodded. I wasn’t going to grovel. After all, in case anybody still remembered, I was the author of the play he was supposed to be producing. “Yeah. Okay,” I said.
Moishe clapped his hands together, and moved to the zebra covered table. “Miss Rabindorath,” he said, gesturing toward the Indian lady. “Satyawati.”
“It’s a lovely play,” Miss Rabindorath said, speaking right up with a perfect Oxford accent.
“Saty will be playing the protagonist’s wife,” Moishe said.
“What?!” I grabbed onto the back of the chair I had sat in the last time. “I mean, what – what happened to Signorina Piermontinini?” There was no response to this other than the sharp prodding of a tennis shoe against my ankle.
“Have a seat, you guys,” Moishe said, ignoring the sick expression on my face.
I turned to Saty, and smiled. She was such a delicate little creature one would never want to hurt her feelings. I decided to say nothing.
Moishe had my script before him, and I could see that it was hardly legible, the pages completely covered now with new handwritten dialogue and musical cues. “First of all,” Moishe began, “the title has to go.”
“What?!”
“It’s in fucking bad taste.”
I felt Hank Rosen’s hand patting me on the knee, and he gave me a reassuring smile. “We thought ‘Dumb Son of a Bitch Down the Street’ might be a grabber, Moishe.”
“I liked it myself,” Moishe confessed. “The network wants us to change it.”
“To what?” I said.
“‘Love Thy Neighbor’.”
I thought I might cry.
“But it’s not firm. We can talk about it,” Moishe was staring at me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said, sort of in a coma.
“It’s a fun play,” Moishe said. “We like the dialogue.”
“Oh, good,” I hastened to put in before he changed his mind.
“So we open big, with the dumb son of a bitch down the street –”
“I thought we were getting rid of that.”
“Only in the title.” He smiled at me reassuringly. “See, Brock, I think like you do. We keep that in the play itself.”
“Oh, good,” I heard myself repeating myself.
“A big opening with the hero –”
“-- Harold –”
“Right. And his wife Maggie.”
I was looking at the beautiful Satyawati Rabindorath. “We might have to change the wife’s name.”
Moishe nodded. “Good point.” He made a note on the edge of my script.
“More jokes.”
“Yes.”
“That will pad it out. And here’s what I think. There’s too much introspection. Why can’t the guy get the commission to do the girl’s dorm –”
“He’s not doing a dorm. He’s doing the whole school!” I interjected.
“Girl’s dorm is funnier.”
“Funnier?”
“Yeah. We can throw in a scene – you can do that, Brock – where the girls are having a pajama party – panties and bras – maybe dancing around – and they get the news –”
“Pajama party!”
“Is that too much of a stretch?” He gave me a look that was as much of a threat as it was a question.
“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “Pajama party. Do you have a piece of paper? I want to write that down.”
Hank, actually, retrieved a yellow legal pad from his briefcase, and slid it toward me.
“See, what we think is that with the pajama party and some more jokes, and getting rid of all this –” He scrunched up his face distastefully. He looked suddenly to me like a dried prune – “this self-examination shit he can get the commission to do the dorm, and there it is. The cast –” “—sings a rousing number of triumph,” I put in bitterly.
“Exactly!”
“Moishe,” I said, putting some starch in my backbone, “he gets the commission at the end of the first act. That’s only half the play. Then he goes through a period of doubt and self-reproof. Particularly if it’s just a girl’s dorm, for Christ sake! And then –”
“We don’t need all that other stuff. The play ends at the end of the first act. That’s it! It’s a fun thing, man.”
“It’s not my play!”
Goldman’s eyes widened in two enormous white orbs. He gave Hank Rosen a look. “I thought you said he wanted to do this, Hank.”
Hank remained calm, patting me on the knee again. “He does, Moishe. He does.” He turned to me. “Don’t you, Bill.”
“Oh, Hank,” I said.
“And he’s enthusiastic. Aren’t you, Bill.”
“Oh, Hank.”
“So let’s get on with it,” Hank said, ignoring all of us, and pulling some more papers from his briefcase. “The contract’s all drawn up.” He began distributing copies which were several pages in length to both Moishe and me.
Moishe looked dubious, but no more so than me.
“Sign, you guys, and we’re on our way.”
Moishe was reading the contract. During the next 15 minutes of silence, except for a couple of sighs from little Saty, I was trying not to be sick.
“You’ve got fifty thousand down here for the writer, Hank.” Moishe let out a forced hollow laugh.
“Well?” Hank asked, in all innocence.
“I told you before. Twenty-five.”
“Oh, no,” Hank said. “That must have been a misunderstanding, Moishe.”
I was nodding vigorously, suddenly becoming very interested.
“I’ll go to thirty-five,” Moishe said, taking a pen from Hank, and acting as if the deal was sealed.
“Forty,” Hank said. “That’s a hell of a deal for you, Moishe.”
Goldman gave him a sly smile. “You’re a fucking fox, Rosen.”
Hank disavowed it with a mild shake of his head. “You know better than that, Moishe. You won’t get Miller, Mailer, Styron, DeJonghe – any of them –for less than a hundred. I wouldn’t allow it. Even assuming they’d agree to do it.”
Goldman was shaking his head. “I’m signing.”
There was a flicker of a smile on Hank’s face as he turned to me. “Bill?”
“You said fifty,” I said.
“I don’t want to bring in Miller, Mailer, Styron –”
“Give me a pen,” I said.
“Atta boy.” He removed his hand from my knee, and gave me a little pat on the back.
Twenty for sale of the script, and another forty for the adaptation. That was sixty, less twenty percent commission, made it forty-eight thousand. I could still procure a mortgage and make a down payment on a BMW.
The contracts were signed, and Hank grabbed up the original copies, stuffing them in his briefcase. Copies for Goldman and me were practically illegible, but we knew what they said. Goldman would produce. He would call the tunes, so to speak. I would write a first draught, then subject to network approval, would write a second draught, then a final polish. Everybody would work together in good faith. If, for any reason, the network or the producer was dissatisfied with the final product, new writers would be brought in. Who cared? It wasn’t my play anymore, anyway. I would get paid.
“Bill is enthusiastic to get started, aren’t you Bill.” Hank was burning his eyes into mine.
“Oh, yes,” I said.
Everybody, including Saty, shook hands, suspiciously. One wondered if somebody might pull a gun. Jesus! Despite the screwing, suddenly, I could hardly believe it, I was being paid as a hotshot TV writer.
© Robert Riche