didn’t lose money. The whole works was Loujack, Inc., Jack St. Louis on the top of the stock pile, but silently.
I’d rather not mix friends and business, and as for Loujack I wanted Walter Lippit to be just a friend. He knew that the outfit was there, the way you know there’s a lamp post down the street, but so what. He didn’t know—there were few who did—that Loujack was me. That would have been different. That would have been less like a lamp post down the street and more like uncle Walter Lippit observing the doings of his favorite nephew. Next, kindly interest. Next, this being all in the family, he might have dreamt dreams about mergers and empires and since Lippit was not much of a dreamer, next thing, he would grab. I’m not against Lippit—friend of mine—but I myself don’t like to be grabbed.
I sat on the bed and looked at the telephone. It was three A.M., but I picked up the phone and called Herbie who did the errands at Blue Beat.
It rang a long time and then I got disturbed. “Yessir?”
“Herbie, this is Jack. I’m sorry to be….”
“Honey, please!”
“ What? ”
Then there was sudden, dead calm in the earpiece which meant Herbie had his hand over the phone. When he came back on he did with a fierce whisper.
“Jack? It’s three o’clock!”
“I know I’m….”
“I’m not a,l,o,n,e.”
“What’s the matter, she doesn’t know how to spell?”
“I don’t know.”
I took a deep breath and started all over.
“I’ve got to know, Herbie, if you went over to Hough and Daly yesterday.”
“Yesterday? I didn’t do any pick-ups or deliveries yesterday. Today I did, though.”
“It’s after twelve, Herbie. That’s why I asked….”
“Oh. Yesterday. Yes. I took the recording equipment to the Rushmore Hotel, for that session with….”
“Did you go to Hough and Daly, Herbie?”
“Oh. Yes. But I didn’t pick up the mixer. Just the spools Conrad ordered and the new cable. Did you know about the new cable?”
I didn’t know about the new cable and I didn’t care about the new cable. I only cared about the mixer, and that hadn’t been picked up.
Herbie said, “Yes, honey,” again.
“I didn’t say anything,” I told him.
“I didn’t mean—what I was saying—”
“Tomorrow,” I told him. “Spell it for me tomorrow,” and I hung up.
I sat on the bed and worried about the mixer. This is a machine about the size of a portable bar and a good recording studio can’t do without it The one we used at Blue Beat cost twenty G’s plus. The wires come in from the pickups where the session goes on, the wires go out to the tape where everything is recorded. In between is the mixer, and it mixes. With a good operator listening in and working the dials a bull moose can come out like a choir of angels. Without the mixer a violin can drown out a drum.
Our machine was in the Hough and Daly building because it was getting repairs. A little job costing nine-o-five seventy. But the price wasn’t worrying me, only that the machine wasn’t back at the studio. It was after three A.M., and I looked at the phone and said, “Conrad, I’m sorry, and I hope you are only asleep.” Then I rang him up.
He answered very quickly.
“Conrad, I’m sorry….”
“Godammit, Jack, go to hell,” and he hung up on me.
I looked at the dead phone and thought Conrad should have been asleep. He wasn’t a kid like Herbie and working ten, twelve hours a day running Blue Beat Recording should have put Conrad to sleep long ago.
I called him up again.
“Conrad, don’t hang up again,” I said first thing.
He said, “Yes, honey,” rather softly, and then directly into my ear, “Jack, dammit, I thought I made clear that I wasn’t a,l,o,n,e.”
“Yours can’t spell either?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Listen, Conrad, it’ll only take a minute.”
“All right,” he said. “What the hell. But don’t ever do this again.”
“I won’t. I just talked to Herbie
I’d rather not mix friends and business, and as for Loujack I wanted Walter Lippit to be just a friend. He knew that the outfit was there, the way you know there’s a lamp post down the street, but so what. He didn’t know—there were few who did—that Loujack was me. That would have been different. That would have been less like a lamp post down the street and more like uncle Walter Lippit observing the doings of his favorite nephew. Next, kindly interest. Next, this being all in the family, he might have dreamt dreams about mergers and empires and since Lippit was not much of a dreamer, next thing, he would grab. I’m not against Lippit—friend of mine—but I myself don’t like to be grabbed.
I sat on the bed and looked at the telephone. It was three A.M., but I picked up the phone and called Herbie who did the errands at Blue Beat.
It rang a long time and then I got disturbed. “Yessir?”
“Herbie, this is Jack. I’m sorry to be….”
“Honey, please!”
“ What? ”
Then there was sudden, dead calm in the earpiece which meant Herbie had his hand over the phone. When he came back on he did with a fierce whisper.
“Jack? It’s three o’clock!”
“I know I’m….”
“I’m not a,l,o,n,e.”
“What’s the matter, she doesn’t know how to spell?”
“I don’t know.”
I took a deep breath and started all over.
“I’ve got to know, Herbie, if you went over to Hough and Daly yesterday.”
“Yesterday? I didn’t do any pick-ups or deliveries yesterday. Today I did, though.”
“It’s after twelve, Herbie. That’s why I asked….”
“Oh. Yesterday. Yes. I took the recording equipment to the Rushmore Hotel, for that session with….”
“Did you go to Hough and Daly, Herbie?”
“Oh. Yes. But I didn’t pick up the mixer. Just the spools Conrad ordered and the new cable. Did you know about the new cable?”
I didn’t know about the new cable and I didn’t care about the new cable. I only cared about the mixer, and that hadn’t been picked up.
Herbie said, “Yes, honey,” again.
“I didn’t say anything,” I told him.
“I didn’t mean—what I was saying—”
“Tomorrow,” I told him. “Spell it for me tomorrow,” and I hung up.
I sat on the bed and worried about the mixer. This is a machine about the size of a portable bar and a good recording studio can’t do without it The one we used at Blue Beat cost twenty G’s plus. The wires come in from the pickups where the session goes on, the wires go out to the tape where everything is recorded. In between is the mixer, and it mixes. With a good operator listening in and working the dials a bull moose can come out like a choir of angels. Without the mixer a violin can drown out a drum.
Our machine was in the Hough and Daly building because it was getting repairs. A little job costing nine-o-five seventy. But the price wasn’t worrying me, only that the machine wasn’t back at the studio. It was after three A.M., and I looked at the phone and said, “Conrad, I’m sorry, and I hope you are only asleep.” Then I rang him up.
He answered very quickly.
“Conrad, I’m sorry….”
“Godammit, Jack, go to hell,” and he hung up on me.
I looked at the dead phone and thought Conrad should have been asleep. He wasn’t a kid like Herbie and working ten, twelve hours a day running Blue Beat Recording should have put Conrad to sleep long ago.
I called him up again.
“Conrad, don’t hang up again,” I said first thing.
He said, “Yes, honey,” rather softly, and then directly into my ear, “Jack, dammit, I thought I made clear that I wasn’t a,l,o,n,e.”
“Yours can’t spell either?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Listen, Conrad, it’ll only take a minute.”
“All right,” he said. “What the hell. But don’t ever do this again.”
“I won’t. I just talked to Herbie
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