“What else,” said Lippit “The rest is glass and black wood. And we stock this model,” he went on, “with cocktail music and wee-hours-type music. I mean class.”
I had not heard of wee-hours-type music before and neither had Stonewall. But he nodded, shy and impressed.
“What you get special on this machine,” Lippit told him, “is a counter which tells us which record pulls and which doesn’t. And our statistical branch figures out how long to keep the hot ones before they get tiresome and how soon to toss the slow ones, before we lose money. Before you and me lose money, huh, Stonewall?”
I had not heard of our statistical branch before, even though I had been around for a while and was usually present when Lippit made a pitch for a new place. But he talked different every time. He was very inventive. He let each occasion inspire him afresh.
I felt what Stonewall offered as inspiration was nothing. He nodded and smiled and waited for more. This bored Lippit, I could tell, because he stopped inventing a pitch and turned to the figures. He did not enjoy conning a mouse.
“The machine costs as much as a good car. You couldn’t afford it. The machine is ours, we insure it, and you use it All you pay, Stonewall, is the juice to run it, which is less than your cooler back there, but with the following profit. Twenty per cent base cut on this model. The more nickels it makes, the higher your cut. Up to forty per cent, like it shows here on this contract. Now, let’s say something gets stuck. You call us. Except for willful damage, we pay all the expenses, except for repairs over fifty per month, where we cut your percentage to help with the cost. That’s still no money out of your pocket. That’s all, Stonewall, except for these figures I brought you,” and Lippit handed over a printed page.
We had that page made up to show how profit rose in various places after a jukebox was put in. We had some wonderful statistics there, with real names and real dates and most of the rest was basically true also.
And that was all the pitch Lippit gave the man, because what else was needed? Lippit could afford to be a pig without acting like one, since there was no competition. And he could leave a few things unsaid. Like the down payment, for security, part of which was not returnable. Like what was willful damage? And like when is a repair more than fifty a month? And what do you think happens when you say no to all this, Mister Stonewall?
Probably nothing, as a matter of fact, since Lippit had not acted the pig in a very long time.
“So you read this thing over,” said Lippit, “and you look at the contract, Mister Stonewall, and I’ll send a crew over tomorrow so you can look at the machine.”
“You mean you’re going to put your machine…”
“You want to try it out, don’t you?” said Lippit. “And if there’s something you don’t understand, Jack St Louis here will be over tomorrow and explain away what is troubling you.”
Which was all the pressure Lippit ever needed these days, my going around and explaining things. It was not the same as in the beginning, but at this point it made quite enough money. It was faintly boring for Lippit and me, but we never talked about that, just about money. Not that he and I had been broke that time we joined up, but there had been more action.
I want three things from my work. It’s got to move, it’s got to make money, and I’ve got to like whom I deal with. All this was true with the Lippit deal, was still almost true, except that it had lost a great deal of motion. As with Mister Stonewall’s bar. Mister Stonewall, now with contract and statistics in hand, had not even opened his mouth through all of Lippit’s spiel. And tomorrow, Mister Stonewall would have one of the new machines. Then Mister Stonewall did open his mouth.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think I want one.”
Lippit had already started to go. He smiled, as if he hadn’t heard right, and put his big hands on the bar, gently.
“What?” he said. “You said what, Mister Stonewall?”
“I-uh, don’t find the deal very attractive.”
Lippit looked at me, as if to apologize for his friend, Mister Stonewall. Then he looked at Stonewall.
“I didn’t make clear that this costs you nothing? What I mean is,” said Lippit, “ if you take my machine, then it costs you nothing?”
I think Stonewall got the tone all right, but Lippit was still quietly smiling, which was no theatrical trick with him but real amusement at how stupid Mister Stonewall was acting. However, Stonewall must have thought it meant Lippit was deaf. He said the same thing again. He said:
“I don’t find the deal very attractive.”
Lippit sighed, being bored, and I was bored. Lippit said, “You got a better deal?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“There was a-there is this Mister Benotti who was here.”
All of a sudden the boredom was gone.
But Lippit looked at his watch and then pushed away from the bar.
“Just look over the contract,” he said, “and then we’ll talk more tomorrow.”
He smiled, waved, and walked out. I had never seen him smile that much, leave that abruptly, or delay things for later.
I nodded at Stonewall and walked after Lippit. At the last moment, I thought, Stonewall looked as if he wanted to talk some more, which was no wonder, seeing how he had been left up in the air. I could appreciate that, because I felt the same way.
Chapter 2
He was waiting for me by his car which was built so long and low that when he leaned up against it he practically sat on the roof. He leaned like that and was clicking one thumbnail against his front teeth.
“That was the real touch of class,” he said, “you walking in there with that monkey suit on.”
“I notice how it helped.”
“Maybe blue jeans tomorrow,” he said, which was the sort of no-account comment he sometimes made, making you wonder about his humor and his intelligence.
“Ever hear of him before?” was the next thing he said.
“Huh?”
“Benotti.”
I had, of course, heard of Benotti before, the four times he had done outside repairs and that other time, which had nothing to do with Lippit.
“Yes,” I said. “Four jobs,” and told him about Morry having called for this outside repair man.
“He still sound like a repair man to you?”
“Mostly. Plus trying to place some machines of his own.”
“I’m sure he’s new in town,” said Lippit, “though that don’t mean he hasn’t heard about me.”
“Maybe Benotti’s just stupid.”
“Yes,” said Lippit. “That would be nice.”
Then he got into his long, low car, which put his head at about the level of my knees, and when he had the motor going he looked up at me and said, “Before the party, Jack, run on over to Louie’s.”
“Which Louie’s?”
“Delicatessen. He was due for a new stack today and for a collection. And our man couldn’t get in.” He drove off and left me standing there in my workday tuxedo.
Louie’s restaurant was way off on the East Side, and the errand could as easily have waited till morning. Except Lippit, not having talked much at all after Stonewall, must have been preoccupied with that repair man’s dumb stunt, or with his party that evening, or maybe with his girl, Pat. That would have been my reason, though the thought was useless. I got into my car and drove over to Louie’s, where he sold matzo balls, pizza, Danish pastry, and klops. I think Louie, in that way, took care of all the minorities on that side of town.
The restaurant was dark and two couples stood in front of the door, complaining and arguing. I couldn’t make out the language. I left the car and walked past these people when one of them looked at me and said, “Gangster-”.
