What's in It for Me? by Jerome Weidman Page B

you’re right,” I said. “But don’t let the fact that you’re right for a change go to your head, Teddy. A flash in the pan like that is liable to happen to anybody. But let’s get back to what we were talking about. This batch of charges you’ll jack up in the regular way. You know why, don’t you?”
    He turned back to the rack of dresses.
    â€œWell, all right,” he said. “This batch, okay. But I’m not saying for the future I’ll—”
    â€œThe future, Teddy,” I said gently, “I always let take care of itself.”
    That wasn’t strictly true. I always prodded it a little and gave it a couple of hints.
    â€œWell—” he began.
    I put on my hat and walked to the door.
    â€œI have to rush now, Teddy. I’ve got some more orders to fill. But if there’s anything you want, anything I can do for you, why, just don’t be bashful and—”
    â€œAll right,” he said sullenly.
    It was one facial expression that added nothing to his appearance.
    â€œBy the way,” I said, “when I see Martha. I’ll give her your regards.”
    Her tastes ran more to jewelry.
    â€œAll right,” he said.
    Pretty soon he’d be getting his conversation down to signs and grunts.
    â€œSo long, Teddy.”
    â€œSo long.”
    I took a taxi up to the Montevideo.
    â€œMr. Bogen!” Charlie said as I came into the lobby.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYour mother called about an hour ago.”
    I gave him the old steely glance as he handed the slip to me.
    â€œI didn’t put the call through,” he said hastily.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “Keep up the good work.”
    I put the slip into my pocket and went up in the elevator. I had my key, but I didn’t use it. I rang the bell good and long, and who should open the door for me? Little Martha, the girl who knew her way around but had a strange preference for dress manufacturers over resident buyers.
    â€œHello, Harry,” she said.
    She was wearing a baby-faced look of contrition.
    â€œHello, Martha,” I said casually.
    I walked into the living room, dropped my hat and coat on a chair, and sat down on the couch deliberately, like I was fitting my ass into a groove. I pulled out a cigarette, but before I could reach for a match, she struck one and rushed over to hold the light for me.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    â€œHarry.”
    â€œYeah?”
    She came over and pecked at my cheek suddenly. Then she plumped down in my lap and put her arms around me. I unhooked them promptly.
    â€œMartha,” I said, “I just had this suit pressed. You’re going to take the crease out of these pants in no time. Sit over there.”
    I pointed to the chair facing the couch.
    â€œWhere did you go last night? after we—after I—”
    â€œI went to look up some friends I’d been neglecting for a long time,” I said. “People who like me because I’m such wonderful company that they don’t mind putting me up for the night. They don’t get tough with me or yell at me or walk out on me in taxicabs.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Harry,” she said. “I guess I was a little hasty,”
    â€œAmong other things,” I agreed, “you were very hasty.”
    â€œWell, I—”
    â€œYou were rude, too.” I said. “Very rude.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Harry,” she said in a low voice. “I wasn’t myself last night.”
    â€œNo, you weren’t,” I said. “But today you are, eh?”
    She smiled brightly.
    â€œYes. I feel much better today, and I’m sorry I acted the way I did last night. Now aren’t you going to forgive me?”
    â€œI should forgive you? What’s there to forgive? What am I, a judge or something? This is a free country. You said yourself last night nobody owned you.”
    â€œI said I’m sorry, Harry.”
    â€œI