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Authors: Edward Lewis Wallant
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secret resources, usurer, pawnbroker, witch, and what have you. By then it is instinct. Is it not simple? My whole formula for successâ'How to Succeed in Business,' by Sol Nazerman." He smiled his frozen smile.
"Good lesson, Sol," Jesus said. "It's things like that make it all worth while." All right, you are a weird bunch of people, mix a man up whether you holy or the worst devils. I figure out yet what's behind that shit-eatin' grin. "I thank you for the lesson, boss, oh yes. So much better listenin' to you than goin' out for the quick dollar. I can't hardly wait for tomorrow's classes." He whirled around like a dancer, at least capable of that reminder, that taunt of his grace and youth. "You all heart, Solly, all heart," he said over his shoulder as he sauntered out with his leopard walk in the cold fight of Sol's smile.
"Go,
Jesus,
go in peace," the Pawnbroker murmured, his hand resting on the phone, which he expected to ring at any moment.
And that pose, which might have suggested only arrested motion in anyone else, in him had a different connotation. One hand extended to the phone, the other on the counter, he was like one of those stilted figures in old engravings of torture, hardly horrible because of its stylized remoteness from life; just a bloodless, black-and-white rendition, reminiscent of pain.
The policeman Leventhal found him like that.
"
Vas macht du,
Solly? Where's all the business? Slow today, I bet. Seemed like the whole damn city was out of town."
He ignored Sol's silence, began roving around the store, touching things lightly with the tip of his club. "Boy, the stuff you got here." He shook his head in exaggerated awe. "These shines buy stuff at the drop of a hat. They got the newest cars, the latest models of television. Easy come, easy go. They buy on installment and end up here with it; you get it all. It's a good business. Hey Solly," he said, looking up with an idea on his gross face, "my wife been looking for an electric mixer. You got one here?"
Sol nodded and bent down to a low shelf where several appliances stood in the dust. "I got here a Hamilton Beach, last year's model."
"Hey, that would be great. How about billing me for it?" Leventhal said, pulling it possessively over to him.
"This is a cash business," Sol answered.
"Ah, I'll pay you when I get my check. How much is it?"
"To you, nine dollars. Come in when you have the money; I'll reserve it," Sol said impassively as he pulled the mixer back and returned it to the low shelf.
Leventhal's face went hard but he bent his mouth in a minimal smile to cover the shock of his anger. "Okay, Solly, you do that." He slapped his palm menacingly with his club and began looking around the store with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he noticed the lawn mower. "Who the hell would have a brand-new power mower around here? I think I'll just mark down the serial number, if you don't mind."
Sol shrugged; he felt a sardonic amusement. Here he was in the classic role of the interrogated again, and Leventhal was playing the part of the oppressor. It was getting confusing; soon you wouldn't know the Jews from their oppressors, the black from the white.
"It's not on the list; otherwise, I can't know," Sol said, his palms out in caricature.
"Okay, Solly, okay for now. Just keep your nose clean."
Sol raised his eyebrows at the familiar warning.
"And keep in mind what I said about staying open so late. There's been a couple of stick-ups in the neighborhood. I wouldn't want my landsman to get hurt now, would I?"
Sol nodded. "I will keep it in mind," he said, and watched the uniformed figure stroll out of the store.
And then the phone rang.
"It's me, Uncle," said the recorded voice.
"That Savarese didn't come in today," Sol said.
"No? Well that's all right, I'll take care of that," the lifeless voice of Albert Murillio said. "He will be in tomorrow. Nothing else new?"
"Nothing important. That cop, Leventhal, is nosing around for a handout. He would
"Good lesson, Sol," Jesus said. "It's things like that make it all worth while." All right, you are a weird bunch of people, mix a man up whether you holy or the worst devils. I figure out yet what's behind that shit-eatin' grin. "I thank you for the lesson, boss, oh yes. So much better listenin' to you than goin' out for the quick dollar. I can't hardly wait for tomorrow's classes." He whirled around like a dancer, at least capable of that reminder, that taunt of his grace and youth. "You all heart, Solly, all heart," he said over his shoulder as he sauntered out with his leopard walk in the cold fight of Sol's smile.
"Go,
Jesus,
go in peace," the Pawnbroker murmured, his hand resting on the phone, which he expected to ring at any moment.
And that pose, which might have suggested only arrested motion in anyone else, in him had a different connotation. One hand extended to the phone, the other on the counter, he was like one of those stilted figures in old engravings of torture, hardly horrible because of its stylized remoteness from life; just a bloodless, black-and-white rendition, reminiscent of pain.
The policeman Leventhal found him like that.
"
Vas macht du,
Solly? Where's all the business? Slow today, I bet. Seemed like the whole damn city was out of town."
He ignored Sol's silence, began roving around the store, touching things lightly with the tip of his club. "Boy, the stuff you got here." He shook his head in exaggerated awe. "These shines buy stuff at the drop of a hat. They got the newest cars, the latest models of television. Easy come, easy go. They buy on installment and end up here with it; you get it all. It's a good business. Hey Solly," he said, looking up with an idea on his gross face, "my wife been looking for an electric mixer. You got one here?"
Sol nodded and bent down to a low shelf where several appliances stood in the dust. "I got here a Hamilton Beach, last year's model."
"Hey, that would be great. How about billing me for it?" Leventhal said, pulling it possessively over to him.
"This is a cash business," Sol answered.
"Ah, I'll pay you when I get my check. How much is it?"
"To you, nine dollars. Come in when you have the money; I'll reserve it," Sol said impassively as he pulled the mixer back and returned it to the low shelf.
Leventhal's face went hard but he bent his mouth in a minimal smile to cover the shock of his anger. "Okay, Solly, you do that." He slapped his palm menacingly with his club and began looking around the store with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he noticed the lawn mower. "Who the hell would have a brand-new power mower around here? I think I'll just mark down the serial number, if you don't mind."
Sol shrugged; he felt a sardonic amusement. Here he was in the classic role of the interrogated again, and Leventhal was playing the part of the oppressor. It was getting confusing; soon you wouldn't know the Jews from their oppressors, the black from the white.
"It's not on the list; otherwise, I can't know," Sol said, his palms out in caricature.
"Okay, Solly, okay for now. Just keep your nose clean."
Sol raised his eyebrows at the familiar warning.
"And keep in mind what I said about staying open so late. There's been a couple of stick-ups in the neighborhood. I wouldn't want my landsman to get hurt now, would I?"
Sol nodded. "I will keep it in mind," he said, and watched the uniformed figure stroll out of the store.
And then the phone rang.
"It's me, Uncle," said the recorded voice.
"That Savarese didn't come in today," Sol said.
"No? Well that's all right, I'll take care of that," the lifeless voice of Albert Murillio said. "He will be in tomorrow. Nothing else new?"
"Nothing important. That cop, Leventhal, is nosing around for a handout. He would
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