'He poisons himself with marijuana cigarettes.' (She pronounced it 'mary-jew-anna.') 'Too bad. I feel sorry for him. His father was very mean to him.'
I drained the remainder of all that natural goodness in my glass and rose to my feet.
'Thank you again, Olga,' I said, 'for your time and trouble. The food here is delicious. You may have made a convert of me.'
What a liar I was getting to be.
When I got back to TORT I was confronted by Hamish Hooter, that tooth-sucking villain. 'See here,' Hooter said indignantly, glaring at me from sticky eyes, 'what's this about a secretary?'
'I need one,' I said. 'I spoke of it to Mr Tabatchnick.'
' I am the office manager,' he said hotly. 'Why didn't you speak to me? '
'Because you would have turned me down again,' I said in what I thought was a reasonable tone. 'All I want is a temporary assistant. Someone to help out with typing and filing until I complete a number of important and complex investigations.'
I had always thought the description 'He gnashed his teeth' was a literary exaggeration. But Hamish Hooter did gnash his teeth. It was a fascinating and awful thing to witness,
'We'll see about that,' he grated, and whirled away from me.
As soon as I reached my desk I phoned Yetta Apatoff and made a lunch date for Friday, then got back to business.
Headquarters for Kipmar Textiles were located in a building on Seventh Avenue and 35th Street. When I phoned, a dulcet voice answered, 'Thank you for calling Kipmar Textiles,' and I wondered what the reaction would be if I screamed that I was suing Kipmar for six zillion dollars. After being shunted to two more extensions, I finally got through to a lady who stated she was Miss Gregg, secretary to Mr Herschel Kipper.
I forbore commenting on the aptness of her name and occupation, but merely identified myself and my employer and asked if it might be possible for me to see Mr Herschel Kipper and/or Mr Bernard Kipper at some hour that afternoon, at their convenience. She asked me the purpose of my request, and I replied that it concerned an inventory of their late father's estate that had to be made for tax purposes.
She put me on hold — for almost five minutes. But I was not bored; they had one of those attachments that switches a held caller to a local radio station, so I heard the tag end of the news, a weather report, and the beginning of a country singer's rendition of 'I Want to Destroy You, Baby,' before Miss Gregg came on the line again. She informed me that the Kipper brothers could see me 'for a very brief period' at 3.00 p.m. I was to come directly to the executive offices on the 34th floor and ask for her. I thanked her for her kindness. She thanked me, again, for calling Kipmar Textiles. It was a very civilized encounter.
I walked over from the TORT building, starting out at 2.30, heading due west on 38th. I strolled down Fifth Avenue to 35th, where I made a right into the garment district and continued over to Seventh. The garment centre in Manhattan is quintessentially New York. From early in the morning till late at night it is thronged, jammed, packed. The rhythm is frantic. Handtrucks and pedestrians share the sidewalks. Handtrucks, pedestrians, taxis, buses, private cars, and semi-trailers share the streets. There is a cacophony that numbs the mind: shouts, curses, the bleat of horns, squeal of brakes, sirens, bells, whistles, the blast of punk rock from the open doors of music shops, the demanding cries of street vendors and beggars.
I suppose there were streets in ancient Rome similar to these, and maybe in Medieval European towns on market day. It is a hurly-burly, a wild tumult that simply sweeps you up and carries you along, so you find yourself trotting, dashing through traffic against the lights, shouldering your way through the press, rushing, rushing. Senseless and invigorating.
Kipmar's executive offices were decorated in neutral tones of oyster white and dove grey, the better to accent the spindles of gaily coloured yarns and bolts of fabrics displayed in lighted wall niches. There were spools of cotton, synthetics, wools, silks, rayon, and folds of woven solids, plaids, stripes, checks, herringbones, satins, metallics, and one incredible bolt of a gossamer fine as a spider's web and studded with tiny rhinestones. This fabric was labelled with a chaste card that read: STAR WONDER.
Special Order. See Mr Snodgrass.
At the end of the lobby a young lady was seated behind a desk that bore a small sign: RECEPTIONIST. She was on the phone, giggling, as I approached, and I heard her say, 'Oh, Herbie, you're just awful! ' She covered the mouthpiece as I halted in front of her desk.
'Yes, sir?' she said brightly. 'How may I help you?'
'Joshua Bigg,' I said, 'to see Mr Kipper. I was told to ask for Miss Gregg.'
'Which Mr Kipper, sir?'
'Both Mr Kippers.'
'Just a moment, sir,' she said. Then, sotto voce, 'Don't go away, Herbie.' She pushed some buttons and said primly, 'Mr Joshua Biggs to see Mr Kipper. Both Mr Kippers.'
She listened a moment, then turned to me with a divine smile. 'Please take a seat, sir. Miss Gregg will be with you in a moment.'
I sat in one of the low leather sling chairs. True to her word, Miss Gregg came to claim me in a moment. She was tall, scrawny, and efficient. I knew she was efficient because the bows of her eyeglasses were attached to a black ribbon that went around her neck.
'Mr Bigg?' she said with a glassy smile. 'Follow me, please.'
She preceded me through a labyrinth of corridors to a door that bore a small brass plate: H. KIPPER, PRES.
'Thank you,' I said to her.
'Thank you, sir,' she said, ushered me in, then closed the door gently behind me.
It was a corner office. Two walls were picture windows affording a marvellous view of upper Manhattan. The floor was carpeted deeply, almost indecently. The desk was a slab of black marble on a chrome base — more table than desk. Two men stood behind the desk.
I had an initial impression that I was seeing double or seeing identical twins. They were in fact merely brothers, but Herschel and Bernard Kipper looked alike, dressed alike, shared the same speech patterns, mannerisms, and gestures; during the interview that followed I was continually confused, and finally looked between them when I asked my questions and let him answer who would.
Both were men of medium height, and portly. Both had long strands of thinning hair combed sideways over pink scalp. Their long cigars were identical.
Both were clad in high garment district fashion in steel-grey, raw silk suits. Only their ties were not identical.
When they spoke their voices were harsh, phlegmy, with a smokers' rasp, their speech rapid, assertive. They asked me to be seated, although they remained standing, firmly planted, smoking their cigars and staring at me with hard, wary eyes.
Once again I explained that I was engaged in a preliminary inventory of their father's estate, and had come to ascertain if he had left any personal belongings in the offices.
'I understand he maintained a private office here,' I added softly. 'Even after his retirement.'
' Well. . sure,' one of them said. 'Pop had an office here.'
'But no personal belongings,' the other said. 'I mean, Pop's desk and chairs and all, the furnishings, they belong to the company.'
'No personal possessions?' I persisted. 'Jewellery? A set of cufflinks he might have kept in his desk? Photographs?
Silver frames?'
'Sure,' one of them said. 'Pop had photographs.'
'We took them,' the other one said. 'They were of our mother, and Pop's mother and father.'
'And all us kids,' the other said. 'And his grandchildren.
In plain frames. No silver or anything like that. And one photograph of her. She can have it.'
'The bitch!' the other Kipper son said wrathfully.
I had pondered how I might introduce the subjects of Tippi and the will without seeming to pry. I needn't have fretted.