Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [94]
“And where’s the dough for this?” said Polly. “Has he got it?”
“That I don’t know. But if he has no money why are they peeling his toes downtown? Without an anesthetic? I can put you onto a good thing, Charlie. Buy some contracts in commodity futures. I’ve cleaned up.”
“On paper you have. If this fellow Stronson is straight,” Polly said.
“What are you talking about—Stronson? A multimillionaire. Didn’t you see his big house in Kenilworth? The marketing degree from the Harvard Business School on his wall? Besides, he’s been trading for the Mafia and you know how those fellows resent being took. They alone would keep him in line. But he’s completely kosher. He has a seat on the Mid America Commodity Exchange. The twenty Gs I gave him five months ago he doubled for me. I’ll bring you his company’s literature. Anyway, Charlie only has to lift his hand to make a pile. Don’t forget he had a Broadway hit and a big box-office movie, once. Why not again? Look at all this paper lying around. These scripts and shit could be worth plenty. There’s probably a gold mine right here, you want to bet? For instance, I know that you and your pal Von Humboldt Fleisher once wrote a movie scenario together.”
“Who told you that?”
“My researcher wife.”
I laughed at this, quite loudly. A movie scenario!
“You remember it?” said Cantabile.
“Yes, I remember. How did your wife hear of it? From Kathleen. . . ?”
“Mrs. Tigler in Nevada. Lucy is in Nevada now interviewing her. Has been for about a week, staying at this Mrs. Tigler’s dude ranch. She’s running it alone.”
“Why, where’s Tigler, did he take off?”
“For good, he took off. The guy is dead.”
“Dead, is he? She’s a widow. Poor Kathleen. She’s got no luck, poor woman. I’m sorry about Kathleen.”
“She’s sentimental about you, too. Lucy told her that I knew you, and she sent you regards. You got any message for her? Lucy and I talk on the telephone every day.”
“How did Tigler die?”
“Shot in a hunting accident.”
“That figures. He was a sporting man. Used to be a cowboy.”
“And a pain in the ass?” said Cantabile.
“Could be.”
“You knew him personally, then. Not much regret, hey? All you say is poor Kathleen. Now what about this movie that you and Fleisher wrote?”
“Oh yes, tell us,” said Polly. “What was all that about? Two minds like yours, collaborating—wow!”
“It was piffle. Nothing to it. At Princeton we diverted ourselves that way. Simply horseplay.”
“Haven’t you got a copy of it? You might be the last to know, commercially, what there was in it,” said Cantabile.
“Commercially? The Hollywood big-money days are over. No more of those fancy prices.”
“That side of it you can leave to me,” said Cantabile. “If we have a real property, I’ll know how to promote it—director, star, financing, the whole ball of wax. You have a track record, don’t forget, and Fleisher’s name hasn’t been completely forgotten yet. We’ll get Lucy’s thesis published, and that’ll revive it.”
“But what was the story?” said Polly, bent-nosed, fragrant, idling her legs.
“I have to shave. I need my lunch. I have to go to court. I’m expecting a friend from California.”
“Who’s that?” said Cantabile.
“His name is Pierre Thaxter, and we edit a journal together called The Ark. It’s really none of your business anyway. . . .”
But of course it was his business, because he was a demon, an agent of distraction. His job was to make noise and to deflect and misdirect and send me foundering into bogs.