He was a very intelligent, articulate man, and he talked well. What impressed me most about him was his animal energy. He attacked his sandwich wolfishly, forked the salad into his mouth in great, gulping mouthfuls, swilled the beer in throat-wrenching swallows.
'But it all costs money,' he was saying. 'Money, money, money: the name of the game. There's no church available for me — for any of the tentmakers. So we have to make our own way. Earn enough to do the work we want to do.'
'Maybe that's an advantage,' I said.
He looked at me, startled. 'You're very perceptive, Joshua,' he said. 'If you mean what I think you mean, and I think you do. Yes, it's an advantage in that is keeps us in closer touch with the secular life, gives us a better understanding of the everyday problems and frustrations 211
of the ordinary working stiff — and stiffess! A pastor who's in the same church for years and years grows moss. Sees the same people day in and day out until he's bored out of his skull. There's a great big, cruel, wonderful, striving world out there, but the average preacher is stuck in his little backwater with weekly sermons, organ music, and the terrible problem of how to pay for a new altar cloth. No wonder so many of them crawl in a bottle or run off with the soprano in the choir.'
'How did you meet Tippi Kipper?' I asked.
Something fleeting through his eyes. He became a little less voluble.
'A friend of a friend of a friend,' he said. 'Joshua, the rich of New York are a city within a city. They all know each other. Go to the same parties. I was lucky enough to break into the magic circle. They pass me along, one to another. A friend of a friend of a friend. That's how I met Tippi.'
'Was she in the theatre?' I asked.
He grinned. 'That's what she says. But no matter. If she wants to play Lady Bountiful, I'm the bucko who'll show her how. Don't get me wrong, Joshua. I'm grateful to Tippi Kipper and I'll be eternally grateful to her kind, generous husband and remember him in my prayers for the rest of my life. But I'm a realist, Joshua. It was an ego thing with the Kippers, I suppose. As it is for all my patrons. And patronesses.'
'Sol Kipper contributed to your, uh, activities?' I asked.
'Oh sure. Regularly. What the hell — he took it off his taxes. I'm registered in the State of New York. Strictly non-profit. Not by choice!' he added with a harsh bark of laughter.
'When you counsel your patrons,' I said slowly, trying to frame the question, 'the rich patrons, like Tippi Kipper, what are their problems mostly? I mean, it seems unreal to me that people of such wealth should have problems.'
'Very real problems,' he said soberly. 'First of all, guilt for their wealth when they see poverty and suffering all around them. And then they have the same problems we all have: loneliness, the need for love, a sense of our own worthlessness.'
He was staring at me steadily, openly, it was very difficult to meet these hard, challenging eyes.
'He left a suicide note,' I said. 'Did you know that?'
'Yes, Tippi told me.'
'In the note, he apologized to her. For something he had done. I wonder what it was?'
'Oh, who the hell knows? I never asked Tippi and she never volunteered the information. It could have been anything. It could have been something ridiculous. I know they had been having, ah, sexual problems. It could have been that, it could have been a dozen other things. Sol was the worst hypochondriac I've ever met. I'm sure others have told you that.'
'When did you see him last?' I asked casually.
'The day before he died,' he said promptly. 'On a Tuesday. We had a grand talk in his office and he gave me a very generous cheque. Then he had to go somewhere for a meeting.'
We sat a few moments in silence. We finished our second beers. Then I glanced at my watch.
'Good heavens!' I said. 'I had no idea it was so late. I've got to get back to my office while I still have a job. Pastor, thank you for a very delightful and instructive lunch. I've enjoyed every minute of it.'
'Come again,' he said. 'And often. You're a good listener; did anyone ever tell you that? And bring your friends. And tell them to bring their chequebooks!'
I returned to the TORT building at about 2.50, scurrying out of a drizzly rain that threatened to turn to snow. Yetta Apatoff greeted me with a giggle.
'She's waiting for you,' she whispered.
'Who?'
She indicated with a nod of her head, then covered her mouth with her palm. There was a woman waiting in the corridor outside my office.
She was at least 78 inches tall, and wearing a fake monkey fur coat that made her look like an erect gorilla.
As I approached her, I thought this was Hamish Hooter's particularly tasteless joke, and wondered how many applicants he had interviewed before he found this one.
But as I drew closer, I saw she was no gorgon. She was, in fact, quite pleasant looking, with a quiet smile and that resigned placidity I recognized. All very short, very tall, and very fat people have it.
'Hello,' I said. 'I'm Joshua Bigg. Waiting for me?'
'Yes, Mr Bigg,' she said, not even blinking at my diminutive size. Perhaps she had been forewarned. She handed me an employment slip from Hooter's office. 'My name is Gertrude Kletz.'
'Come in,' I said. 'Let me take your coat.'
I sat behind the desk and she sat in my visitor's chair.
We chatted for almost half an hour, and as we talked, my enthusiasm for her grew. Hooter had seen only her huge size, but I found her sensible, calm, apparently qualified, and with a wry sense of humour.
She was married to a sanitation worker and, since their three children were grown and able to take care of themselves, she had decided to become a temporary clerk-typist-secretary: work she had done before her marriage. If possible, she didn't want to work later than 3.00 p.m., so she could be back in Brooklyn in time to cook dinner. We agreed on four hours a day, 11.00 a.m. to 3.00 p.m., with no lunch period, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
She was a ruddy woman with horsey features and a maiden's innocent eyes. Her hair was iron-grey and wispy.
For a woman her size, her voice was surprisingly light. She was dressed awkwardly, although I could not conceive how a woman of her heft could possibly be garbed elegantly.
She wore a full grey flannel skirt that would have provided enough material for a suit for me. With vest. A no-nonsense white blouse was closed at the neck with a narrow black ribbon, and she wore a tweed jacket in a hellish plaid that would have looked better on Man-o-War. Opaque hose and sensible brogues completed her ensemble. She wore only a thin gold wedding band on her capable hands.
I explained to her as best I could the nature of my work at Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. Then I told her what I expected from her: filing, typing finished letters from my rough drafts, answering my phone, taking messages, doing simple, basic research from sources that I would provide.
'Think you can handle that, Mrs Kletz?' I asked.
'Oh yes,' she said confidently. 'You must expect me to make mistakes, but I won't make the same mistake twice.'
She sounded better and better.
'There is one other thing,' I said. 'Much of my work — and thus your work, too — will involve matters in litigation.
It is all strictly confidential. You cannot take the job home with you. You cannot discuss what you learn here with anyone else, including husband, family, friends. I must be able to depend upon your discretion.'
'You can depend on it,' she said almost grimly. 'I don't blab.'
'Good,' I said, rising. 'Would you like to start tomorrow or would you prefer to begin on Monday?'
'Tomorrow will be fine,' she said, heaving herself upright. 'Will you be here then?'
'Probably,' I said, thinking about my Friday schedule.
'If not, I'll leave instructions for you on my desk. Will that be satisfactory?'
'Sure,' she said equably.
