put pregnant women away.”
“Oh, Jay, I’m scared. It’s a terrible chance to take.”
“Of course it is, but we’ve got to take it. It’s a cinch, and Finkelstein’s not losing on the deal. The other important thing is that we establish credit, so that when we open up our own shop, people will know us already. And we’ve got to settle our bills earlier than the limit so that we get a reputation for being good business people and then everyone’ll have confidence in us. You’ve got to get the jobbers and manufacturers to think you’re respectable, then everything’s possible.”
When they got up from the table, Jay picked up Rhoda’s bag.
“What’re you doing?”
“I want to hold onto the money so that I can flash it when we make our order.”
“We can’t use it.” Her voice was panicky.
“I just want to inspire confidence.”
New York was in the midst of a prolonged Indian summer that had set back most of the dress people a month in selling their merchandise. Only Modes had gone against the trend and was doing business in fall dresses. They had made the same mistake as all the other retail stores, but because of Jay’s dynamism, they were selling dresses that women could not wear for at least two months.
“Should we place the order with Benny?” Rhoda asked.
“No, absolutely not. He’d be suspicious if suddenly you wanted credit. We’ve got to find our own guy and then educate him.”
Rhoda considered Jay’s suggestion.
“Hey, wait a minute. About two months ago, I met a new jobber, a small one, that was looking for customers.”
“What’s his name?”
“Marty . . . ?”
“Think, will you!”
“He’s on Thirty-Ninth Street just off Seventh Avenue. Cass, that’s it.”
After considerable difficulty, and with the assistance of three people who worked in the district, they found Marty Cass’s showroom, which was the top loft in what had formerly been the headquarters of a camphor supplier. They took the service elevator to the eighth floor, and Rhoda watched with interest as Jay tested various expressions of bonhomie on a face that seemed designed by nature for nothing less than total motility: puckers, grimaces, scowls, derisive extensions, condescension, certainty - in short the mise-en-scène of his every emotion, which in a curious way revealed that he was almost incapable of any strong emotion. In the showroom, Jay decided on a flagrantly bored expression with the hint of a smile. Marty Cass was a man in his middle twenties, with a long cigar protruding at a rakish angle from his mouth, a Leo Carillo mustache - which Jay admired, and made a mental note to copy - soft gray eyes, and wavy black hair done up in a style similar to the whipped cream pompadours used by soda jerks to decorate a banana split. He wore a powder blue suit and a hand-painted tie of a horse - also painted blue - and Jay immediately realized that the man, a few years his senior, was destined for success.
“Hello . . . hello . . . hello, children. I’m Marty Cass. Now what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Cass, you may not remember, but we met once a few months ago at Benny Herbert’s showroom.”
“Remember, of course, I remember. You’re Saks Fifth Avenue’s dress buyer.” He handed Jay a cigar.
“What is it, a blackjack?” Jay asked. “They can book you on a Sullivan charge for smoking one of these.”
“Glad to see you’ve got a sense of humor.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have one!”
“I’m not from Saks Fifth Avenue,” Rhoda protested.
“I know, my child, just openers. You’ve probably been sent by my father-in-law to see if I’m doing any stealing.”
Jay lit the cigar.
“It’s a miracle if you don’t get a lip hernia from these.”
“Just stub it out. I’ll rewrap it and sell it as a second,” Marty said. “Seriously though, I do remember meeting you. The question is, was I standing at the time? I mean in an upright position? I didn’t promise to pay
“Oh, Jay, I’m scared. It’s a terrible chance to take.”
“Of course it is, but we’ve got to take it. It’s a cinch, and Finkelstein’s not losing on the deal. The other important thing is that we establish credit, so that when we open up our own shop, people will know us already. And we’ve got to settle our bills earlier than the limit so that we get a reputation for being good business people and then everyone’ll have confidence in us. You’ve got to get the jobbers and manufacturers to think you’re respectable, then everything’s possible.”
When they got up from the table, Jay picked up Rhoda’s bag.
“What’re you doing?”
“I want to hold onto the money so that I can flash it when we make our order.”
“We can’t use it.” Her voice was panicky.
“I just want to inspire confidence.”
New York was in the midst of a prolonged Indian summer that had set back most of the dress people a month in selling their merchandise. Only Modes had gone against the trend and was doing business in fall dresses. They had made the same mistake as all the other retail stores, but because of Jay’s dynamism, they were selling dresses that women could not wear for at least two months.
“Should we place the order with Benny?” Rhoda asked.
“No, absolutely not. He’d be suspicious if suddenly you wanted credit. We’ve got to find our own guy and then educate him.”
Rhoda considered Jay’s suggestion.
“Hey, wait a minute. About two months ago, I met a new jobber, a small one, that was looking for customers.”
“What’s his name?”
“Marty . . . ?”
“Think, will you!”
“He’s on Thirty-Ninth Street just off Seventh Avenue. Cass, that’s it.”
After considerable difficulty, and with the assistance of three people who worked in the district, they found Marty Cass’s showroom, which was the top loft in what had formerly been the headquarters of a camphor supplier. They took the service elevator to the eighth floor, and Rhoda watched with interest as Jay tested various expressions of bonhomie on a face that seemed designed by nature for nothing less than total motility: puckers, grimaces, scowls, derisive extensions, condescension, certainty - in short the mise-en-scène of his every emotion, which in a curious way revealed that he was almost incapable of any strong emotion. In the showroom, Jay decided on a flagrantly bored expression with the hint of a smile. Marty Cass was a man in his middle twenties, with a long cigar protruding at a rakish angle from his mouth, a Leo Carillo mustache - which Jay admired, and made a mental note to copy - soft gray eyes, and wavy black hair done up in a style similar to the whipped cream pompadours used by soda jerks to decorate a banana split. He wore a powder blue suit and a hand-painted tie of a horse - also painted blue - and Jay immediately realized that the man, a few years his senior, was destined for success.
“Hello . . . hello . . . hello, children. I’m Marty Cass. Now what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Cass, you may not remember, but we met once a few months ago at Benny Herbert’s showroom.”
“Remember, of course, I remember. You’re Saks Fifth Avenue’s dress buyer.” He handed Jay a cigar.
“What is it, a blackjack?” Jay asked. “They can book you on a Sullivan charge for smoking one of these.”
“Glad to see you’ve got a sense of humor.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have one!”
“I’m not from Saks Fifth Avenue,” Rhoda protested.
“I know, my child, just openers. You’ve probably been sent by my father-in-law to see if I’m doing any stealing.”
Jay lit the cigar.
“It’s a miracle if you don’t get a lip hernia from these.”
“Just stub it out. I’ll rewrap it and sell it as a second,” Marty said. “Seriously though, I do remember meeting you. The question is, was I standing at the time? I mean in an upright position? I didn’t promise to pay
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