Shelly was once more — as always — startled by the hard-muscled, trim condition of Freeport's big body.
"Fetch me those papers on the key clubs, will you, Shelly?" He said it over his shoulder as he lifted the big three-suiter onto the bed and unsnapped it.
"I think you'd better call Morrie in New York, Colonel, and find out how he did with MCA," Shelly said.
Freeport nodded without turning around. "Good idea. Get him for me." Shelly shook his head feebly, in resignation, and picked up the receiver.
After an interminable wait: "I want to call long distance, operator, New York City, MUrray Hill 2-4368, person-to-person to Mr. Morrie Needleman."
When the call went through, a bored, "Yeah, this is Needleman, go ahead," at the other end greeted him.
"Morrie? Shelly in Louisville. The Colonel wants to speak to you." He handed the receiver to Freeport, who continued brushing his hair with one hand while he fastened the instrument to his head with the other.
"Hello, Needleman? Did MCA come through for us?"
The eternally-weary voice of Morrie Needleman, entrepreneur second-grade, raced down the wire … slowly. "Yessir, but they asked for more for Satch so I met 'em halfway."
Freeport scowled. "You went beyond your authority, Needleman. How much more?"
"Another three yards, Colonel. That was as low as they'd show." He paused a moment, seeing his job fly South for the duration. "I tried to do better'n that, Colonel, but they had us over a barrel. We'd already announced Armstrong; papers, radio, billboards."
Colonel Jack Freeport scowled more intensely. "Well, hmm-hmm. All right, Needleman. No real harm done, I suppose. We'll make it up at the box office." He handed the phone back to Shelly.
Morgenstern took over as though he were merely a surrogate for the older man. "Morrie? Shelly again. Listen, baby, sit on the damned concert till the sonofabitch's SRO. So meanwhile, how's everything else? What d'ya hear from L.A.?"
The faint rustle of paper came from the New York end of the line, and Needleman's absorbed, "Ummm," filtered down with it. Finally, as though he had been consulting briefs, Needleman said, "I'm going to call Buddy Halpern out there and get him to pull off a stunt. Maybe soup up one of them Go-Karts and drag the L.A. cops down the main stem. Get the papers on it, and we might have the in we need."
"Wild, baby," Shelly said blithely, "keep us posted. We'll be back by Sunday night the latest."
Needleman's lazy voice lost its business edge. "Anything shakin' down there?"
With a disgruntled grunt Shelly replied, "Sure, sure. The whole damned town's a bacchanalian orgy. At least I'll be catching up on my sleep. So long." A reply, and he hung up.
As he turned, Freeport said softly, "Mark it down to let Needleman go, Shelly."
That easy. Five years with Freeport, and mark it down to let him go. It was always that easy with the Colonel. I'll mark it, Boss Man. I know the Bible says you're a jealous people . "Yes, sir," he said.
While Freeport pored over the proposed plans for a nation-wide chain of key clubs to be leased by major sports figures under their names (but run through Freeport's holding company, with gigantic kickbacks to Freeport's syndicate), Shelly returned to his room, visions of showers dancing in his head. He tried not to think of Needleman and his wife's breast cancer.
The shower was cold and sharp and good, and when he had toweled himself pink ( like a baby shrimp , he amused himself), he returned to his room, the towel around his waist. He surveyed himself in the full-length mirror, ignoring the slight protuberant bulge of his stomach, and struck a wholly ineffectual Muscle Beach attitude.
"I can do the Mr. America bit with either arm," he told his reflection, pressing first one fist to his temple, then the other, while maintaining a ferocious expression.
"Shelly, come in here, please," Freeport called.
Sighing, he hastened to do as he was bid, thinking:
But Mistah Lincoln done tole
"Fetch me those papers on the key clubs, will you, Shelly?" He said it over his shoulder as he lifted the big three-suiter onto the bed and unsnapped it.
"I think you'd better call Morrie in New York, Colonel, and find out how he did with MCA," Shelly said.
Freeport nodded without turning around. "Good idea. Get him for me." Shelly shook his head feebly, in resignation, and picked up the receiver.
After an interminable wait: "I want to call long distance, operator, New York City, MUrray Hill 2-4368, person-to-person to Mr. Morrie Needleman."
When the call went through, a bored, "Yeah, this is Needleman, go ahead," at the other end greeted him.
"Morrie? Shelly in Louisville. The Colonel wants to speak to you." He handed the receiver to Freeport, who continued brushing his hair with one hand while he fastened the instrument to his head with the other.
"Hello, Needleman? Did MCA come through for us?"
The eternally-weary voice of Morrie Needleman, entrepreneur second-grade, raced down the wire … slowly. "Yessir, but they asked for more for Satch so I met 'em halfway."
Freeport scowled. "You went beyond your authority, Needleman. How much more?"
"Another three yards, Colonel. That was as low as they'd show." He paused a moment, seeing his job fly South for the duration. "I tried to do better'n that, Colonel, but they had us over a barrel. We'd already announced Armstrong; papers, radio, billboards."
Colonel Jack Freeport scowled more intensely. "Well, hmm-hmm. All right, Needleman. No real harm done, I suppose. We'll make it up at the box office." He handed the phone back to Shelly.
Morgenstern took over as though he were merely a surrogate for the older man. "Morrie? Shelly again. Listen, baby, sit on the damned concert till the sonofabitch's SRO. So meanwhile, how's everything else? What d'ya hear from L.A.?"
The faint rustle of paper came from the New York end of the line, and Needleman's absorbed, "Ummm," filtered down with it. Finally, as though he had been consulting briefs, Needleman said, "I'm going to call Buddy Halpern out there and get him to pull off a stunt. Maybe soup up one of them Go-Karts and drag the L.A. cops down the main stem. Get the papers on it, and we might have the in we need."
"Wild, baby," Shelly said blithely, "keep us posted. We'll be back by Sunday night the latest."
Needleman's lazy voice lost its business edge. "Anything shakin' down there?"
With a disgruntled grunt Shelly replied, "Sure, sure. The whole damned town's a bacchanalian orgy. At least I'll be catching up on my sleep. So long." A reply, and he hung up.
As he turned, Freeport said softly, "Mark it down to let Needleman go, Shelly."
That easy. Five years with Freeport, and mark it down to let him go. It was always that easy with the Colonel. I'll mark it, Boss Man. I know the Bible says you're a jealous people . "Yes, sir," he said.
While Freeport pored over the proposed plans for a nation-wide chain of key clubs to be leased by major sports figures under their names (but run through Freeport's holding company, with gigantic kickbacks to Freeport's syndicate), Shelly returned to his room, visions of showers dancing in his head. He tried not to think of Needleman and his wife's breast cancer.
The shower was cold and sharp and good, and when he had toweled himself pink ( like a baby shrimp , he amused himself), he returned to his room, the towel around his waist. He surveyed himself in the full-length mirror, ignoring the slight protuberant bulge of his stomach, and struck a wholly ineffectual Muscle Beach attitude.
"I can do the Mr. America bit with either arm," he told his reflection, pressing first one fist to his temple, then the other, while maintaining a ferocious expression.
"Shelly, come in here, please," Freeport called.
Sighing, he hastened to do as he was bid, thinking:
But Mistah Lincoln done tole
Similar Books
