a familiar figure at lease auctions and distress sales. The transactions were frequently cash on the barrel-head. And on at least one occasion Pop’s briefcase contained a million dollars of Jake’s money.
While Pop made and continued to make a great deal of money with Jake, “the Southwest’s Rockefeller” himself profited vastly by the association. Even as he watched over Pop, so did Pop watch over him, checking the ugly temper and cynical attitude which, as Jake would surlily admit, had cost him millions and made him a public-relations man’s headache.
Unfortunately, no one likes to be reminded of his faults, real and harmful as they may be. And the closer their association became and the greater their familiarity, the more flaws they found with one another. Nothing that the other did was right. Pop was a “softie,” Jake an “illiterate boor.” Jake was a “slob,” Pop a “high-toned dude.” So it went.
Since Pop was genuinely fond of Jake, and vice versa, and both had given concrete proof of that liking, it always seemed incredible to me that they could have come to a parting of the ways.
Pop refused to talk about the breakup for a long time. When he finally did explain, I could only sit and gape, for the casus belli had been a suit of underwear.
It had happened—the breakup—in the sweltering hotel room of an Oklahoma boom town. They were there, pending the closing of a business deal, and during their stay Jake’s mistress had arrived. He got her a room across the hall from theirs, and spent the nights with her. During the day he stayed in his and Pop’s room, conferring upon business matters.
It was hot, as I have said. He seldom wore anything but his underwear. And one morning, when he was prowling restlessly about their room, he surprised Pop in a disgusted frown.
“What’s the matter with you?” he inquired gruffly.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Pop retorted.
“What do you mean? What are you staring at, anyway?”
“Since you asked me,” said Pop, coldly, “I was looking at your underclothes. When was the last time you changed them?”
“Why, you—” Jake’s face turned scarlet. “You two-bit bookkeeper, I ought to—!”
He exploded into a torrent of abuse.
Pop replied similarly.
Before they could see the ridiculousness of the situation and get control of themselves, each had said unforgivable—or at least unforgettable—things and their partnership was ended.
They saw one another after that, but there was a certain stiffness between them. And Pop had reason to suspect—or felt he had—that Jake still bore a grudge against him.
Next, Pop lost almost ten thousand dollars in a poker game with Jake, Gaston B. Means and Warren G. Harding.
The game took place on the Harding presidential campaign train, upon which, as two of the Southwest’s most prominent Republicans, Pop and Jake were guests of honor. It began with relatively low stakes which Jake, with much jibing and jeering, managed to steadily increase. Finally, with all the cash available in the pot, Means dropped out, and the contest was between Jake, Harding and Pop. In other words, since Pop was too stiffnecked and proud to demand a table-stakes game, it was no contest.
Jake could write his check for any amount. And certainly the I.O.U. of a future president was good for any amount. Only Pop’s betting was restricted.
He tossed in his hand, a club flush. Immediately, although he had anted heavily on the previous round, Jake laid down his hand—the value of which was absolutely nothing. Harding took the pot with three threes.
Pop was considerably, if not justifiably, irritated. He did not see Jake again until some two years later when the latter summoned him to his death bed. Then, with matters past mending, they sadly agreed that the biggest mistake of their lives had been the ending of their association.
Pop, feeling that Oklahoma was not big enough for the two of them, had transferred his
While Pop made and continued to make a great deal of money with Jake, “the Southwest’s Rockefeller” himself profited vastly by the association. Even as he watched over Pop, so did Pop watch over him, checking the ugly temper and cynical attitude which, as Jake would surlily admit, had cost him millions and made him a public-relations man’s headache.
Unfortunately, no one likes to be reminded of his faults, real and harmful as they may be. And the closer their association became and the greater their familiarity, the more flaws they found with one another. Nothing that the other did was right. Pop was a “softie,” Jake an “illiterate boor.” Jake was a “slob,” Pop a “high-toned dude.” So it went.
Since Pop was genuinely fond of Jake, and vice versa, and both had given concrete proof of that liking, it always seemed incredible to me that they could have come to a parting of the ways.
Pop refused to talk about the breakup for a long time. When he finally did explain, I could only sit and gape, for the casus belli had been a suit of underwear.
It had happened—the breakup—in the sweltering hotel room of an Oklahoma boom town. They were there, pending the closing of a business deal, and during their stay Jake’s mistress had arrived. He got her a room across the hall from theirs, and spent the nights with her. During the day he stayed in his and Pop’s room, conferring upon business matters.
It was hot, as I have said. He seldom wore anything but his underwear. And one morning, when he was prowling restlessly about their room, he surprised Pop in a disgusted frown.
“What’s the matter with you?” he inquired gruffly.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Pop retorted.
“What do you mean? What are you staring at, anyway?”
“Since you asked me,” said Pop, coldly, “I was looking at your underclothes. When was the last time you changed them?”
“Why, you—” Jake’s face turned scarlet. “You two-bit bookkeeper, I ought to—!”
He exploded into a torrent of abuse.
Pop replied similarly.
Before they could see the ridiculousness of the situation and get control of themselves, each had said unforgivable—or at least unforgettable—things and their partnership was ended.
They saw one another after that, but there was a certain stiffness between them. And Pop had reason to suspect—or felt he had—that Jake still bore a grudge against him.
Next, Pop lost almost ten thousand dollars in a poker game with Jake, Gaston B. Means and Warren G. Harding.
The game took place on the Harding presidential campaign train, upon which, as two of the Southwest’s most prominent Republicans, Pop and Jake were guests of honor. It began with relatively low stakes which Jake, with much jibing and jeering, managed to steadily increase. Finally, with all the cash available in the pot, Means dropped out, and the contest was between Jake, Harding and Pop. In other words, since Pop was too stiffnecked and proud to demand a table-stakes game, it was no contest.
Jake could write his check for any amount. And certainly the I.O.U. of a future president was good for any amount. Only Pop’s betting was restricted.
He tossed in his hand, a club flush. Immediately, although he had anted heavily on the previous round, Jake laid down his hand—the value of which was absolutely nothing. Harding took the pot with three threes.
Pop was considerably, if not justifiably, irritated. He did not see Jake again until some two years later when the latter summoned him to his death bed. Then, with matters past mending, they sadly agreed that the biggest mistake of their lives had been the ending of their association.
Pop, feeling that Oklahoma was not big enough for the two of them, had transferred his
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