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Authors: Scott Phillips
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said.
“Where do you get the stockings? My wife’d kill for a pair.”
“It ain’t easy. There’s a black market here in Kansas City, too, and brother I tell you I pay through the nose for the goddamn things. But for some reason you can’t sell the weird stuff without ’em.”
“There’s a gal I’m here to see, and she’s a little sore at me right now. Pair of nylons would really fix things up with her.”
“Huh. I can send you down to see a man about that. Can’t guarantee he’ll deliver, but you can try.”
We arranged for him to get a set of glossies from folders one and two to Lester on approval, and I left the studio with the address of the man with the hosiery. I’d turned down with some regret Tessler’s offer to watch the filming of a stag in the afternoon, but I didn’t know how long I’d be in town. Maybe I’d come back tomorrow and have a gander at the process.
I TOOK THE bus downtown. There was a very pretty redhead seated across the aisle from me, and she gave me such a warm and inviting smile that I nearly moved over to try and pick her up. But I reminded myself that I was here to see Vickie, not to accost strange women on public transportation. She crossed her bare legs and I chuckled inwardly at the thought that the stockings I was about to procure for Vickie were probably all it would take to separate the redhead’s pretty knees.
I rang the buzzer at the warehouse according to the code indicated: one, three, two. Presently an obese Negro wearing a banker’s pinstripes and a grey fedora to match opened the door.
“Merle Tessler sent me,” I said.
“That so. What makes you think I know who that is?”
“He said to tell you the soup is in the cans, whatever that means.”
He laughed, a genuine and hearty guffaw. “Come on in, tell me what it is I can set you up with. I’m Dewey.”
The warehouse was immense and only half full, but it contained rare treasures. There were stacks of tires, and to my left sat a half-dozen brand new adding machines. Above those was a shelf full of Smith Coronas, pre-war models that looked as though they’d never even been beribboned. There were stacks and stacks of shoeboxes on one wall reaching almost to the ceiling, with ladders mounted on rollers and rails to maneuver from one top shelf to another.
“Holy moley,” I said. “Take a look at that.”
“Yeah, we got a lot of merchandise. If Tessler says you okay we can do business. What you after, exactly?”
“Said you could sell me some nylons for my girl.”
“Nylons, sure. Would she like silk better?”
“I guess she would.”
“How many pair?”
I thought two pair for Vickie would about get me in the door, and another couple pair for Sally might get me out of the doghouse when I got back to Wichita. Dewey got me what I needed and I paid his exorbitant fee gladly in cash. “Thanks,” I said.
“That’s all right. You come on back any time. Merle says you okay, that’s good enough for me. You work with him on those fuck movies?”
“No, but I used to sell his dirty pictures when I was in the army.”
“Yeah? You a supply sarge?”
“That’s right. Work for Collins Aircraft down in Wichita now. Or at least I did until last night.”
“Do a lot of business with quartermasters. Got a lot of shit to get overseas.”
“I know someone just getting started up.” I wrote down Lester’s information and handed it to Dewey. “He’s a good man, just got to Japan from the European theater.”
Looking around at all that illegitimate booty I started to get a warm, nostalgic feeling. Here was a man whose business was finding out what people wanted but couldn’t get, finding out how to get some of it, and peddling it to the delighted customer at an exorbitant markup. There was creativity in this, and adventure, even a sense of fun. If staying in Wichita as husband and father was my inevitable fate, how much sweeter would it be if I were running this type of operation?
“Where do you get the stockings? My wife’d kill for a pair.”
“It ain’t easy. There’s a black market here in Kansas City, too, and brother I tell you I pay through the nose for the goddamn things. But for some reason you can’t sell the weird stuff without ’em.”
“There’s a gal I’m here to see, and she’s a little sore at me right now. Pair of nylons would really fix things up with her.”
“Huh. I can send you down to see a man about that. Can’t guarantee he’ll deliver, but you can try.”
We arranged for him to get a set of glossies from folders one and two to Lester on approval, and I left the studio with the address of the man with the hosiery. I’d turned down with some regret Tessler’s offer to watch the filming of a stag in the afternoon, but I didn’t know how long I’d be in town. Maybe I’d come back tomorrow and have a gander at the process.
I TOOK THE bus downtown. There was a very pretty redhead seated across the aisle from me, and she gave me such a warm and inviting smile that I nearly moved over to try and pick her up. But I reminded myself that I was here to see Vickie, not to accost strange women on public transportation. She crossed her bare legs and I chuckled inwardly at the thought that the stockings I was about to procure for Vickie were probably all it would take to separate the redhead’s pretty knees.
I rang the buzzer at the warehouse according to the code indicated: one, three, two. Presently an obese Negro wearing a banker’s pinstripes and a grey fedora to match opened the door.
“Merle Tessler sent me,” I said.
“That so. What makes you think I know who that is?”
“He said to tell you the soup is in the cans, whatever that means.”
He laughed, a genuine and hearty guffaw. “Come on in, tell me what it is I can set you up with. I’m Dewey.”
The warehouse was immense and only half full, but it contained rare treasures. There were stacks of tires, and to my left sat a half-dozen brand new adding machines. Above those was a shelf full of Smith Coronas, pre-war models that looked as though they’d never even been beribboned. There were stacks and stacks of shoeboxes on one wall reaching almost to the ceiling, with ladders mounted on rollers and rails to maneuver from one top shelf to another.
“Holy moley,” I said. “Take a look at that.”
“Yeah, we got a lot of merchandise. If Tessler says you okay we can do business. What you after, exactly?”
“Said you could sell me some nylons for my girl.”
“Nylons, sure. Would she like silk better?”
“I guess she would.”
“How many pair?”
I thought two pair for Vickie would about get me in the door, and another couple pair for Sally might get me out of the doghouse when I got back to Wichita. Dewey got me what I needed and I paid his exorbitant fee gladly in cash. “Thanks,” I said.
“That’s all right. You come on back any time. Merle says you okay, that’s good enough for me. You work with him on those fuck movies?”
“No, but I used to sell his dirty pictures when I was in the army.”
“Yeah? You a supply sarge?”
“That’s right. Work for Collins Aircraft down in Wichita now. Or at least I did until last night.”
“Do a lot of business with quartermasters. Got a lot of shit to get overseas.”
“I know someone just getting started up.” I wrote down Lester’s information and handed it to Dewey. “He’s a good man, just got to Japan from the European theater.”
Looking around at all that illegitimate booty I started to get a warm, nostalgic feeling. Here was a man whose business was finding out what people wanted but couldn’t get, finding out how to get some of it, and peddling it to the delighted customer at an exorbitant markup. There was creativity in this, and adventure, even a sense of fun. If staying in Wichita as husband and father was my inevitable fate, how much sweeter would it be if I were running this type of operation?
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