Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home (11 page)

“Well, if you find that you’re going to be delayed, you call up. Just excuse yourself and say you have a previous engagement you’ve got to cancel, and you call up and say you’re going to be late. Now that’s the proper way to do it. And if this man is any kind of businessman, he’ll respect you for it.”

“Okay; Ma. Guess you’re right. Thanks for the money. You’ll get it back no later than Friday.”

From the hall closet he took his light-beige cotton raincoat, turned up the collar, and surveyed himself in the hall mirror. He was satisfied at what he saw – the young collegian, just like in Playboy. From the mirror he could see that his mother was watching him and that she was proud. He winked at his reflection and then with a gay, “Be seeing you,” he left.

Didi cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and whispered to her mother. “Remember that boy from school I told you about? Alan Jenkins? The colored boy? Well, he’s in Lynn and wants to come over. What shall I tell him?”

“Ask him to come over, if you want.” said Mrs. Epstein matter-of-factly. “Does he have a car?”

“He’s got a motorcycle. But what about the cookout –”

“Invite him along if he wants to come.”

“You think it will be all right.”

“I don’t see why not. What’s he like, anyway?”

“Oh, he’s a little older than most of the freshmen; he was out working a couple of years. He’s terribly talented. And he’s easygoing and pleasant – I mean he’s not surly or – you know – angry like some of them. I mean at school, it being an art school, well, it doesn’t make any difference. I mean we don’t think of him as being different, if you know what I mean.”

“Then –” Mrs. Epstein shrugged her shoulders.

Didi uncupped the mouthpiece and said, “Oh, Alan? Sorry to keep you waiting. Look, some of the kids I went to school with – we’re having a cookout on the beach. How would you like to make the scene?… About six or eight of us…. You can? Good – Oh, I just thought of something; I promised our rabbi I’d show him that painting I was working on at school – you know, Moses and the tables of the Law? So why don’t you pick me up there?… No, we won’t get hung up…. All right, here’s what you do: Take the shore road out of Lynn and go along until the first set of traffic lights….”

Alan gunned the motor and then let it die. Didi in white slacks climbed down from behind him, and he walked the bike up the driveway to the garage. “That rabbi seemed like a straight guy,” he said. “Funny, I thought he’d be an old crock with a long beard. I thought all rabbis have beards.”

Didi giggled. “No, just the kids at school. Come to think of it, though, I’ve never seen one with a beard.”

“I figured he’d talk like a preacher – you know, about God and all that.”

“Rabbis really aren’t preachers; they’re more like teachers,” she explained. “Actually, according to our rabbi, his real job is interpreting and applying the law – like a lawyer or a judge.”

Mrs. Epstein greeted them in the living room. “Your first time in Barnard’s Crossing, Mr. Jenkins? Didi has told me so much about you.” He was a nice-looking young man, of a deep coffee-brown. His lips, though bluish, were not over-large. His nose, too, was high-bridged and well-formed. His hair was cut close to his head, and she was pleased to see no attempt had been made either to straighten or to smooth it down. He was of medium height but had a large chest and square shoulders, which seemed tensed at the moment.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been to the North Shore a couple of times – to Lynn. There’s a guy – a man who sometimes sells some of my paintings for me there –”

“An art dealer? I didn’t know there was an art store or gallery in Lynn,” she said, offering him a chair.

“No. ma’am. He’s got like a bookstore and greeting cards and some gift items – things like that. He hangs up some of my paintings when he’s got the space, and when he sells one, he pays me.”

“And do you sell many?” she asked.

He laughed, a fine, open laugh. “Not enough to retire on. I’m riding down to New York first thing tomorrow morning, and I was hoping he might have some loot for me.” He shook his head. “Zilch – although he did say he had a couple of people interested in one picture.”

“And what kind of pictures do you paint, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Oh. Alan does these marvelous abstracts –”

An auto horn sounded outside. “There’s Stu now. Come on. Alan.” said Didi.

“Take a sweater, dear. It can get chilly on the Point.”

“Don’t need one.”

“Well, have a nice time, dear. Goodbye. Mr. Jenkins. And good luck on those paintings.”

As Moose found himself picking his way between clumps of trash barrels and groups of squalling children, who spilled all over the street in the South End of Boston, he began to have misgivings. To be sure, the street must at one time have been very fine; it was divided in the middle by a broad grass plot, with wooden park benches set at regular intervals. But the grass even this early in the spring looked ill-cared for, and a litter of papers, tin cans, and bottles had piled up under the benches. Once grand brownstone-front town houses with short flights of granite stairs, each with its wrought-iron railing, were set back from the sidewalk. The ornate wooden doors, which no doubt had had massive brass knockers and brass doorknobs, showed years of wear and abuse; there was a hole in the door where the knocker had originally been, and instead of the doorknob only a round hole with a thong of greasy leather hanging from it to serve the purpose. Peeling, blistered paint showed layers of different colors on the door, flanking which were long, narrow windows suggesting high-ceilinged rooms inside. But most of the windows were cracked, and in one case the window had been shattered and replaced by a piece of weather-beaten plywood. The sidewalks and sides of the houses were liberally sprinkled with chalk graffiti.

Moose found the number he was looking for and climbed the stairs. Finding no bell button (there was only a hole through which a couple of wires protruded), he rapped on the door. He waited a moment and, receiving no answer, pushed the door open. It was held closed by a coiled spring under considerable tension, so that the moment he released it the door slammed shut. At the noise a slatternly old woman poked her head into the vestibule and looked at him inquiringly.

“I’m looking for Mr. Wilcox,” said Moose.

“Top floor, last bell,” she said and closed her door.

Then Moose noticed a row of mailboxes, and he pushed the button under the name. Almost immediately there was an answering “Hello” through the speaking tube.

“I’m Moose Carter, Mr. Wilcox,” he called into the tube. “I spoke to you on the phone.”

“Come on up.”

His initial misgivings were immediately allayed as he stepped inside. The room was large and well-furnished. There was an Oriental rug on the floor and oil paintings in heavy gold frames on the walls; large overstuffed chairs were scattered around the room, and facing a large window, from which could be seen the neighboring rooftops, was a massive sofa. Nearby was a marble-topped desk in carved mahogany and behind it a black-leather modern swivel chair set on a chrome pedestal.

Wilcox himself was not what Moose had expected. With his flannel slacks and tweed jacket, he reminded him of a youngish professor, like some of the ones he had known in college. His brown hair was cut close and showed signs of graying at the temples; his manner, easy and friendly.

“Some view you’ve got here,” said Moose, approaching the window.

“I like it,” said Wilcox. “I like to sit on that sofa there and just look out over the rooftops. Very relaxing.”

“It’s nice,” said Moose. “I wouldn’t have…” He stopped.

“Expected it? You mean from the appearance of the street? A lot of these houses are being bought and fixed up, like this one.” He smiled, and it was a nice smile. “It’s a sort of private slum reclamation project. This apartment here belonged to an artist friend of mine. He took a long-term lease and fixed it up as a studio, which accounts for the picture window. Then he decided to go to Europe. It’s actually in a convenient part of the city here.”

“This your office, Mr. Wilcox?”

The other eyed him speculatively and then said. “I do some business here.” He motioned Moose to the sofa and then sat down at the other end, facing him. “You said you were interested in working with us.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, the stuff we deal in is not hard to get in the city, and there are plenty of people, retailers, who buy the stuff on their own from Tom, Dick, or Harry, and I guess maybe they make out all right. But we don’t operate that way. We’re an organization. Maybe at first it looks as though it might cost you a little bit more, but our people think it’s worth it. When you buy from us, you can be sure the stuff is good. You don’t have to worry whether it’s mixed with oregano or catnip or worse, which could get you into a lot of trouble. You get any customers for other kinds of stuff we can supply them, but when we sell grass, grass is what you get. That’s the way I like to operate.

“There are advantages to working with an organization.” Wilcox went on. “We keep the competition down. Somebody comes in town and gets a supply, passes it on to his friends, or maybe sells it at his cost, we don’t bother with that. But someone coming into your territory who is an operator, well – we take care of it. And then there are times when you get into trouble, and if it can be fixed, we’ll fix it. Of course, one reason we’d like to have you with us is that the kids all know you and you can operate on a friendly basis with customers in your hometown, and that’s a good thing.”

Moose hesitated. “How about –”

Wilcox nodded. “Yes, the territory has been assigned already, but we’re not entirely satisfied with the way it’s been operated. Then you can argue that the territory has grown too big for one man.” He reflected. “Maybe that would be the best angle. You need two to really work a good territory. So you can go and see him and tell him we said you’re to come in with him. The arrangement will be a straight fifty-fifty split. Of course, he’s paid for his present stock, so you could offer to work that off on a commission or a percentage basis. Say a quarter. I’d say that would be about right. A quarter on the old stock and a half on the new. We’ll see how that goes for a while, and then maybe we’ll make some changes.”

“What kind of changes?”

Wilcox pursed his lips. “Well, if things go the way I’m hoping, there’s no reason you couldn’t handle it yourself some day. So we’d transfer him – that’s right, we’d transfer him to another territory. That’s kind of our regular policy. We transfer him to another territory.” Wilcox opened a cigarette box on the coffee table and offered Moose a cigarette.

“When would I start?” asked Moose, lighting up.

“What’s wrong with right away? Tomorrow, day after, tonight if you can arrange it.”

“Well, when will you talk to him? I mean when are you going to let him know?”

Wilcox smiled. “I figured on you telling him.”

“Me? But – but what if he doesn’t believe me?”

“Well. I was counting on you to make him believe you. You might consider it a kind of test. Yes, that’s what it is – a kind of test. You take an operation like ours, we don’t have too much staff. Every man operates on his own. We can’t have a man calling up the home office every time he runs into a little problem. So – you’ve got your instructions; you look like a persuasive lad” – he eyed Moose’s size and smiled – “you’ll know what to do. Of course, if he does contact us, we’ll tell him what the situation is.”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Wilcox. I understand. And I’d like you to know that I appreciate this chance, and I’ll do my best –”

Wilcox smiled sardonically. “I mean it, sir. I –”

Wilcox cut him off with a wave of the hand. “Everybody tries to knock a little off the top. We expect it. Just don’t get greedy.” He reached for his wallet. “You need a little expense money to tide you over?”

“I can manage.”

Wilcox riffled through a sheaf of bills and then drew out two new twenties. “Well, call it an advance. Just a minute.” He left the room but returned almost immediately with a plastic tobacco pouch, which he tossed to Moose. “There’s an ounce package. You can consider this a kind of promotion package, uh – samples. There’s no charge for this. But after this, everything is cash on the barrelhead. Get it?”

“Oh sure. And thanks.”

Wilcox went over to the cigarette box and pressed a catch on the side. The top tray of cigarettes swiveled to one side, exposing another layer of cigarettes underneath – somewhat irregular in shape and obviously homemade. “Have a couple for yourself.” he offered.

“Gee, that’s neat.”

Wilcox smiled. “A gimmick. Nothing to rely on if cops get around to actually looking.” Moose picked up a cigarette from the box, rolled it in his fingers, and sniffed deeply.

“I don’t think you’d better smoke it here. Take a few with you. You got a cigarette case? Wait a minute.” He searched in the desk drawer and brought out a flat cigarette case of German silver. He slid a number of the cigarettes inside the elastic band of the case. “Here.” he said. As Moose reached for it he had another thought. From the top tray of the cigarette box he took several ordinary cigarettes and slid them alongside the others. “Now you got an assortment.” he said.

Much of the beach was rocky, and what sand there was was coarse and gravelly. But it was secluded. Principally that was because it was situated on a kind of peninsula, and when the tide was in – which would be shortly – it was surrounded by water on three sides. Broken branches from the stand of pines provided plenty of wood for a fire; and driftwood was plentiful, too, since the point jutted out into the current.

Bill Jacobs, who had been a camp counselor for the last two years, took command automatically. “Someone, put the beer and Cokes in the water to chill. You guys get some of these bigger rocks for a fireplace, and the chicks can gather the wood.”

“Hey,” said Adam Sussman, “remember when we had a cookout here some years ago – the Sea Scouts? Were you in that, Stu?”