David stared at his friend.
"Come on, Needlenose. This is tuchlas."
"And what if Cord says he don't want the stock?" Irving asked in a quieter voice. "What do I do with it then?
Use it for toilet paper?" He chewed on his cigar. "You're supposed to be my friend. I go wrong on a deal like this, I'm nobody's friend. The late Yitzchak Schwartz, they’ll call me."
"It isn't as bad as that."
"Don't tell me how bad it is," Irving said angrily. "From jobs like mine you don't get fired."
David looked at him for a moment. "I'm sorry, Irving. I have no right to ask you to take a chance like this." He turned and started for the door.
His friend's voice stopped him.
"Hey, wait a minute! Where d'you think you're going?" David stared at him. "Did I say I definitely wouldn't do it for you?" Irving said.
Aunt May's ample bosom quivered indignantly.
"Like a father your Uncle Bernie was to you," she said in her shrill, rasping voice. "Were you like a son to him?
Did you appreciate what he done for you? No.
Not once did you say to your Uncle Bernie, while he was alive, even a thank you." She took a handkerchief from the front of her dress and began to dab at her eyes, the twelve-carat diamond on her pinkie ring flashing iridescently like a spotlight. "It's by the grace of God your poor tante isn't spending the rest of her days in the poorhouse."
David leaned back in the stiff chair uncomfortably.
He felt the chill of the night in the big, barren room of the large house.
He shivered slightly.
But he didn't know whether it was the cold or the way this house always affected him.
"Do you want me to start a fire for you, Tante?"
"You're cold, Duvidele?" his Aunt May asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I thought you might be chilly."
"Chilly?" she repeated. "Your poor old tante is used to being chilly.
It's only by watching my pennies I can afford to live in this house."
He looked at his watch.
"It's getting late, Tante. And I have to get going.
Are you going to give me the proxies?"
The old woman looked at him.
"Why should I?" she asked.
"I should give proxies to help that momser, that no-good, who stole his company from your uncle?"
"Nobody stole the company. Uncle Bernie would have lost it anyway.
He was lucky to find a man like Cord to let him off so easy."
"Lucky he was?"
Her voice was shrill again. "Out of all the shares he had, only twenty-five thousand I got left.
What happened to the rest of them?
Tell me. What happened, hah?"
"Uncle Bernie got three and a half million dollars for them."
"So what?" she demanded. "They were worth three times that."
"They were worth bupkas," he said, losing his temper. "Uncle Bernie was stealing the company blind and you know it.
The stock wasn't worth the paper it was printed on."
"Now you're calling your uncle a thief." She rose to her feet majestically. "Out!" she screamed, pointing at the door. "Out from my house!"
He stared at her for a moment, then started for the door.
Suddenly he stopped, remembering.
Once his uncle had chased him out of his office, using almost the same words.
But he'd got what he wanted.
And his aunt was greedier than Bernie had ever been.
He turned around.
"True, it's only twenty-five thousand shares," he said. "Only a lousy one per cent of the stock.
But now it's worth something.
At least, you got somebody in the family looking out for your interests.
But give your proxies to Sheffield and see what happens.