Weinberg spoke when he saw that Haskell did not intend to. “Mrs. van Vogel, I think we should retain a special shyster.”
“I don’t employ shysters, even-I don’t understand the way they THink, I am a simple housewife, Sidney.”
Mr. Weinberg flinched at her self-designation while noting that he must not let her find out that the salary of his own staff shyster was charged to her payroll. As convention required, he maintained the front of a simple, barefoot solicitor, but he had found out long ago that Martha van Vogel’s problems required an occasional dose of the more exotic branch of the law. “The man I have in mind is a creative artist,” he insisted. “It is no more necessary to understand him than it is to understand the composer in order to appreciate a symphony. I do recommend that you talk with him, at least.”
“Oh, very well! Get him up here.”
“Here? My dear lady!” Haskell was shocked at the suggestion; Weinberg looked amazed. “It would not only cause any action you bring to be thrown out of court if it were known that you had consulted this man, but it would prejudice any Briggs enterprise for years.”
Mrs. van Vogel shrugged. “You men. I never will understand the way you think.
Why shouldn’t one consult a shyster as openly as one consults an astrologer?”
James Roderick McCoy was not a large man, but he seemed large. He managed to dominate even so large a room as Mrs. van Vogel’s salon. His business card read;
J.R. McCOY “THE REAL MCCOY”
Licensed Shyster-Fixing, Special Contacts, Angles. All Work Guaranteed.
TELEPHONE SKYLINE 9-8M4554 Ask for MAC The number given was the pool room of the notorious Three Planets Club. He wasted no time on offices and kept his files in his head-the only safe place for them.
He was sitting on the floor, attempting to teach Jerry to shoot craps, while Mrs. van Vogel explained her problem. “What do you think, Mr. McCoy? Could we approach it through the SPCA? My public relations staff could give it a build up.”
McCoy got to his feet. “Jerry’s eyes aren’t so bad; he caught me trying to palm box cars off on him as a natural. No,” he continued, “the SPCA angle is no good.
It’s what ‘Workers’ will expect. They’ll be ready to prove that the anthropoids actually enjoy being killed off.”
Jerry rattled the dice hopefully. “That’s all. Jerry. Scram.”
“Okay, Boss.” The ape man got to his feet and went to the big stereo which filled a comer of the room. Napoleon ambled after him and switched it on. Jerry punched a selector button and got a blues singer. Napoleon immediately punched another, then another and another until he got a loud but popular band. He stood there, beating out the rhythm with his trunk.
Jerry looked pained and switched it back to his blues singer. Napoleon stubbornly reached out with his prehensile nose and switched it off.
Jerry used a swear word.
“Boys!” called out Mrs. van Vogel. “Quit squabbling. Jerry, let Nappie play what he wants to. You can play the stereo when Nappie has to take his nap.
“Okay, Missy Boss.”
McCoy was interested. “Jerry likes music?”
“Like it? He loves it. He’s been learning to sing.”
“Huh? This I gotta hear.”
“Certainly. Nappie-turn off the stereo.” The elephant complied but managed to look put upon. “Now Jerry-Jingle Bells.’ ” She led him in it:
“Jingie bells, jingle bells, jingle all the day — “, and he followed,
“Jinger hez, jinger bez, jinger awrah day;
Oh, wot fun tiz to ride in one-hoss open sray.”
He was flat, he was terrible. He looked ridiculous, patting out the time with one splay foot. But it was singing.
“Say, that’s fast!” McCoy commented. “Too bad Nappie can’t talk-we’d have a duet.”
Jerry looked puzzled. “Nappie talk good,” he stated. He bent over the elephant and spoke to him. Napoleon grunted and moaned back at him. “See, Boss?” Jerry said triumphantly.
“What did he say?”
“He say, ‘Can Nappie pray stereo now?’ ”
“Very well. Jerry,” Mrs. van Vogel interceded. The ape man spoke to his chum in whispers. Napoleon squealed and did not turn on the stereo.