The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [188]
Zev stared back at him without replying, and Schroeder glanced away again uncomfortably. “Tell you what I propose,” he said quickly. “If I don’t get back to Philadelphia by next week, you’ll be following my coffin, I guarantee it. Now I’ll help you, Mr. Abramski, if you’ll help me. I’m offering you the whole package—the land, the studios, the five cameras, the film stock, contacts with distributors—the whole business as a going concern. And don’t forget the sum of seventy-five thousand dollars still owed on the books that’ll be in your pockets before the end of the year.”
Zev raised his eyebrows skeptically. “How much do you want?”
“How much? I’ll tell you straight, money is the last thing on my mind right now. A problem like this gets right to the guts. When it’s life and death, what does money matter? For a quick sale, I’m ready to take twenty-five thousand and no questions asked. Cash on the barrel and a handshake, right here and now.”
Even his bulging blue eyes seemed to be sweating as he stared eagerly at Zev. “That seems a great deal of money,” Zev said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and tracing a line in the dust with the toe of his shoe.
A flicker of anxiety crossed Schroeder’s face. “Well, maybe for a good man like you … shall we say twenty?”
“Show me again the accounts,” Zev said suddenly.
Schroeder handed them to him nervously. “It’s all there on paper….”
Zev folded them carefully and put them in his pocket.
“Hey,” Schroeder said, grinning, “you ain’t bought the place yet! What about the twenty thousand?”
“I am offering you, firm, the sum of one hundred and seventy-five dollars for the ten acres you really own,” Zev said in his low guttural voice, “and that is fifty dollars more than you paid. I’ll give you seventy-five for the camera and the reels. The rest is crap. A total of two hundred and fifty dollars in all, and a fifty percent profit on your outlay. A fair deal, I think, Mr. Schroeder?”
“Pshaw, what d’you know, you little kike?” the man shouted angrily. “Two hundred and fifty bucks—it’s probably all you’ve got in your pocket!”
Zev’s eyes narrowed. His face was even paler than usual as he said quietly, “Two hundred more than is in your own pocket, Schroeder. Take it or leave it.” He paused and then, touching the phony accounts in his pocket, added, “If it’s no, then I will take these accounts to the Los Angeles Police Department and ask them to take the necessary steps to indict you for fraud. I am not the first one you have sold your studios to, Schroeder, but I am going to be the last.” He smiled grimly. “All in all, two hundred and fifty dollars is a very generous offer.”
Schroeder’s shifty eyes shot daggers at him, but he held out his hand and said, “Okay, then, so give me the two fifty.”
Zev took a piece of paper from another pocket. “This is a bill of sale drawn up by Milton Firestein, a lawyer with offices on Vine Street. I explained the circumstances to him and he said to get your signature right here.” He pointed to the spot and held out a pen. “He is a well-respected member of his profession and no doubt his word would prevail against yours in court, should you ever try to claim you have not sold to me.”
Schroeder glared at him and signed the paper, pocketing the bills Zev handed him without counting them. He stormed back to his flashy automobile, shouting over his shoulder, “Since you’re so goddam clever, you can make your own way back to Hollywood, smart-ass!”
Zev smiled as he watched him tear away in a cloud of dust and squealing tires, then he strolled back to his ramshackle barns and gazed around. He paced out their measurements and inspected the wood for rot. He picked up his camera and stroked it wonderingly: He hadn’t the faintest idea