A Choice of Enemies by Mordecai Richler Page A

Norman said.
    “We must have a bad connection. My name is Winkleman. Is that Norman Price speaking?”
    Norman laughed.
    “O.K . Let’s say there
is
a second flood. What about the first payment?” Winkleman asked.
    “The storyline was worth what you paid for it.”
    “Not if you won’t work on it.
Like you promised.”
    “Let Charlie rewrite it.”
    “Ixnay.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t be an ockshmay, Norm.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Charlie can’t rewrite it. He writes dialogue like it was for
New Masses
. Sober up, Norm, and write something that’ll spark me.”
    “I’m not drunk.”
    “Then get drunk
. One minute. Bella wants to talk to you.”
    Norman adored Bella. He didn’t want her to think that he was doing Sonny dirty. He told her about his trip to Spain. She told him about the children.
    “How’s your girl?” Bella asked coyly.
    “My girl?”
    “Sally. Isn’t that why you rushed home?”
    Norman stiffened. “Well, I –”
    “Who’r’ye trying to kid?”
    “Nobody,” Norman said weakly.
    “Bring her around Saturday night. We’re having a party.”
    “Sure. I’ll bring her. Tell Sonny I’ll be around tonight, though. I’m serious. I won’t be able to do that script. I’m going away again.”
    “Tell him yourself, darling.”
    Charlie, though, would have to be told first.
    Norman was invited to lunch by Charlie and Joey. He bought a bottle of wine and took the album of flamenco records with him. Norman always came with gifts. Gifts were a proof against eviction. And considering the nature of the news he had for them a gift was clearly in order.
    Charlie had been having a hard time while Norman had been away.
    Charlie ran, he ran, he ran, he ran from television to stage to movie maker. He picked up a penny’s worth of hope here, the bone of a promise there, a smile from somebody big and a cry from somebody small; an if and a maybe and a promise to call soon; he gulped down a coffee with Graves who called Huston John, waited outside Cameo Production’s offices so that he could run into Pearson casually, told the director of
A Gun for Julia
a joke that the director had told somebody else earlier in the day, had a quick crap, ate a sandwich standing up, and arrived too late at the restaurant where Boris Jeremy was supposed to eat; he huffed, he puffed, he combed his hair, he slept for half an hour in a newsreel cinema, phoned his agent, phoned home, turned around three times for luck, changed a line of his play while queuing for a bus, had a drink in somebody’s office, picked up some “additional dialogue” to write for
Pirates of the
Spanish Main
, read his horoscope in the
Star
, hurried home to see if there was any mail, ran upstairs to see if he could catch his wife in the act of being unfaithful to him, opened up a bottle of beer, and settled down to wait for the next mail delivery.
    Charlie’s favourite uncle had drifted from failure to failure. Charlie had written a play about his tragedy, but nobody wanted it.
    But yesterday, beginning with Winkleman’s phone call, everything had gone right for once. So Charlie was in an expansive mood when Norman arrived. “Quick,” he said to Norman, “come to the window.” Norman came to the window. “See it,” Charlie said.
    There was an unmistakably new car parked downstairs. A Morris Minor.
    “I bought it this morning,” Charlie said. “We gave you as a credit reference. Do you mind?”
    “Of course not. But I thought you were broke.”
    “Have a seat, old chap.”
    Joey immediately perched on the arm of Norman’s chair.
    “Yesterday morning,” Charlie began, “Rip Van Winkleman finally came through on my script. I got another two-fifty. I’m starting on a rewrite tomorrow.”
    A long ash dropped from Norman’s cigarette end. As he looked around searchingly Joey indicated the ashtray held tightly in her lap just about where her tight brown skirt creased into a V-shape.
    “Winkleman is a big noise, you know. As soon