possibility of doing his PR, but I can’t get in his showroom. It’s not open.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said, trying to ignore me with all the pleasantness in the world, “and I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Look,” I asked, “can’t you give me an idea what this Goetz is like? Maybe I’m wasting my time waiting. Does he make it a habit of breaking his appointments?”
The receptionist looked around a little anxiously at a rotund individual wearing a light blue-and-white-striped sports jacket over midnight-blue slacks. He was bustling around from client to client, patting backs and dropping hints to his salesmen, all of whom were attired identically to the portly itinerant. He appeared not to notice us, so the woman turned a livelier face back to me than she’d shown prior to turning away.
“Sid Goetz,” she informed me, “is a vicious little man. If you ask me, you should stay away from him.”
“How do you know he’s so bad?”
“Secretaries hear things.”
“Goetz has a secretary?”
“Used to,” she said. “It’s been a long time since he’s been able to hire one. Word gets round.”
“What kind of word?”
“You know ... the sort a girl can’t trust for a minute!”
I eyed her dubiously. Dressed in an unfashionably long, high-cut black dress without ornament or filigree, she looked a little like a temperance lecturer; I placed her in her early fifties. Still, if she wanted to consider herself a “girl” who wouldn’t be safe around Goetz, it was her privilege; I’ve read enough Ibsen to know it doesn’t profit to mess around with life illusions.
“Well,” I persisted, “what did you used to hear about Goetz? Does he have many enemies?”
“Are you kidding? That man is the worst thief in the business! He steals designs, I understand ... everybody hates him!”
“For instance?”
“Well, there was a rumor that he and his wife are not too pally, if you know what I mean. And I’ve met that salesman of his, and believe me, he has no use for him, either. ...”
“Salesman?”
“Harry, I forget his name. Nice young man. Used to be an actor, so I hear.”
I shook my head. “It sounds like Goetz is the last person I’d want to do business with. How about—”
But I was interrupted at that point by the arrival of the roundish individual in the striped coat. Looming up suddenly, he darted a black look at his receptionist, then tried to grab me by the arm and propel me swiftly out of the room. I resisted, and he desisted.
“Come on,” he snapped, pointing to the door. “Beat it! Out!”
“I just wanted some information. Can you—”
“I’ll just bet you want some information!” he snapped at me. “Who’re you working for?” Before I could reply, he swung on the woman, and told her off vehemently. “Don’t you know any better than to talk with somebody with an exhibitor’s badge on? My God, Amelia, you’ve been around here long enough, you ought to know that! Blue badge, you see it? If that is what he’s wearing, then he doesn’t belong!”
“He just wanted some information on Sid Goetz, Mr. Bell.”
“Goetz! That does it!” Bell barked, pushing at me again. “If that’s who you’re with—that bastard Goetz!—I’ll ...” He didn’t finish his thought, because he was too busy trying to hustle me out.
I didn’t budge. When he tired of the strong-arm tactics, I explained that I was only thinking about working for the infamous toyman, but was already having second thoughts.
“You’d better,” Bell puffed. “Worst crook you’ll ever meet. Son-of-a-bitch knocked us off a couple of years ago, and the case is still dragging through the courts. ...”
“I understand he has a lot of enemies.”
“How many members are there in the TMA? Better you should ask if he’s got any friends, that’d be easier to count. Go to a TMA meeting sometime, see whether anybody sits next to him. I’ve seen knock-off artists before.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said, trying to ignore me with all the pleasantness in the world, “and I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Look,” I asked, “can’t you give me an idea what this Goetz is like? Maybe I’m wasting my time waiting. Does he make it a habit of breaking his appointments?”
The receptionist looked around a little anxiously at a rotund individual wearing a light blue-and-white-striped sports jacket over midnight-blue slacks. He was bustling around from client to client, patting backs and dropping hints to his salesmen, all of whom were attired identically to the portly itinerant. He appeared not to notice us, so the woman turned a livelier face back to me than she’d shown prior to turning away.
“Sid Goetz,” she informed me, “is a vicious little man. If you ask me, you should stay away from him.”
“How do you know he’s so bad?”
“Secretaries hear things.”
“Goetz has a secretary?”
“Used to,” she said. “It’s been a long time since he’s been able to hire one. Word gets round.”
“What kind of word?”
“You know ... the sort a girl can’t trust for a minute!”
I eyed her dubiously. Dressed in an unfashionably long, high-cut black dress without ornament or filigree, she looked a little like a temperance lecturer; I placed her in her early fifties. Still, if she wanted to consider herself a “girl” who wouldn’t be safe around Goetz, it was her privilege; I’ve read enough Ibsen to know it doesn’t profit to mess around with life illusions.
“Well,” I persisted, “what did you used to hear about Goetz? Does he have many enemies?”
“Are you kidding? That man is the worst thief in the business! He steals designs, I understand ... everybody hates him!”
“For instance?”
“Well, there was a rumor that he and his wife are not too pally, if you know what I mean. And I’ve met that salesman of his, and believe me, he has no use for him, either. ...”
“Salesman?”
“Harry, I forget his name. Nice young man. Used to be an actor, so I hear.”
I shook my head. “It sounds like Goetz is the last person I’d want to do business with. How about—”
But I was interrupted at that point by the arrival of the roundish individual in the striped coat. Looming up suddenly, he darted a black look at his receptionist, then tried to grab me by the arm and propel me swiftly out of the room. I resisted, and he desisted.
“Come on,” he snapped, pointing to the door. “Beat it! Out!”
“I just wanted some information. Can you—”
“I’ll just bet you want some information!” he snapped at me. “Who’re you working for?” Before I could reply, he swung on the woman, and told her off vehemently. “Don’t you know any better than to talk with somebody with an exhibitor’s badge on? My God, Amelia, you’ve been around here long enough, you ought to know that! Blue badge, you see it? If that is what he’s wearing, then he doesn’t belong!”
“He just wanted some information on Sid Goetz, Mr. Bell.”
“Goetz! That does it!” Bell barked, pushing at me again. “If that’s who you’re with—that bastard Goetz!—I’ll ...” He didn’t finish his thought, because he was too busy trying to hustle me out.
I didn’t budge. When he tired of the strong-arm tactics, I explained that I was only thinking about working for the infamous toyman, but was already having second thoughts.
“You’d better,” Bell puffed. “Worst crook you’ll ever meet. Son-of-a-bitch knocked us off a couple of years ago, and the case is still dragging through the courts. ...”
“I understand he has a lot of enemies.”
“How many members are there in the TMA? Better you should ask if he’s got any friends, that’d be easier to count. Go to a TMA meeting sometime, see whether anybody sits next to him. I’ve seen knock-off artists before.
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