“She’s no fool, your mother,” said Dimitri when he heard the front door close. “If she finds out you’re more interested in Rockefeller and Ford than you are in Hamilton and Jefferson, you could be in real trouble.”
“Then she’d better not find out.”
* * *
As he walked along Ocean Parkway, Alex once aga
in went over what he would say to Mr. Wolfe, while at the same time trying to anticipate his questions. He was wearing his new suit, and could only hope he looked like someone who could afford eighty dollars a week. He was so preoccupied that he walked straight past number 3049 and had to turn back. When he reached Wolfe’s office door, he took a deep breath and marched in, to find a prim, middle-aged woman seated behind a counter. She couldn’t hide her surprise when she saw the young man.
“I want to see Mr. Wolfe,” Alex said before she could speak.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he’ll want to see me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alex Karpenko.”
“I’ll see if he’s in.” She rose from her desk and went into the next room.
“Of course he’s in,” mumbled Alex, “otherwise you would have said he wasn’t.” He paced around the room like a caged tiger while he waited for the ringmaster to return.
Eventually the door opened, and the receptionist reappeared. “He can spare you ten minutes, Mr. Karpenko,” she said. The first person ever to address him as Mr. Karpenko—was that a good sign? “But no longer,” she added firmly, standing aside to allow him to enter.
Alex straightened his tie and marched into Mr. Wolfe’s office, hoping he looked older than his years. The landlord looked up from behind his cluttered desk. He was wearing an olive green three-piece suit and an open-neck brown shirt. A few thin strands of hair had been combed across his head in an attempt to disguise his baldness, and a surplus of chins suggested he rarely left the office, other than to eat. “What can I do for you, kid?” he said, a half-smoked cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth.
“I want to take over Bernie Kaufman’s stall when his license expires.”
“And where would you get that kind of money?” asked Wolfe. “My stalls don’t come cheap.”
“My partner will supply the money, that is if we can agree on a price.”
“I’ve already set the price,” said Wolfe. “So the only question is, can you afford it?”
“How long would the license run for?” said Alex, trying to gain back the initiative.
“Five years. And the contract would have to be signed by someone who isn’t a minor.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars a month, cash in advance,” said Alex, “and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Three hundred and twenty a month, kid.” The bobbing cigar never left Wolfe’s mouth. “And only then when I see the cash.”
Alex knew he couldn’t afford it, and should have walked away, but like a reckless gambler he still believed that somehow he’d come up with the money, so he nodded. Wolfe took the cigar out of his mouth, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a contract, which he handed to Alex. “Read it carefully before you sign it, kid, because no smart-assed lawyer has managed to break it yet, and you’ll find the penalty clauses are all in my favor.”
The cigar returned to Wolfe’s mouth. He inhaled deeply, blew out a cloud of smoke, and said, “Make sure you get here real early tomorrow morning, cash in hand, kid. I wouldn’t want you to be late for school.”
If this had been a gangster movie, James Cagney would have filled Wolfe with lead and then taken over his empire. But in the real world, Alex slunk out of the office and slowly made his way back home, wondering where he’d get the second month’s rent if the stall didn’t make a big enough profit.
Although Dimitri had already handed over three hundred and twenty dollars to cover the first month’s rent, Alex still needed his mother’s blessing, and he knew exactly what she would demand in return. He was all too aware that he hadn’t been working hard enough at school recently, and had been winging it for the past few months, although he’d still managed to stay among the top half dozen in his class. But while most afternoons were spent with Bernie learning the trade, and every weekend was taken up with trying to earn enough extra cash with Ivan to survive, he wasn’t surprised when, a couple of weeks later, the principal asked to see him on Saturday morning concerning a private matter.
Alex was standing outside the principal’s office at one minute to ten, having already been to the market at four that morning, and done an hour’s work on the stall before Bernie took over at eight. He knocked on the door and waited to be asked to come in.
“Are you still hoping to make it to NYU, Karpenko?” the principal asked before he’d even sat down.
Alex wanted to say, No, I plan to build an empire that will rival Sears, so I won’t have time to go to university, but he simply replied, “Yes, sir.” Alex had promised his mother he’d work harder at school, and make sure he achieved the grades he needed to get into university.
“Then you’re going to have to devote far more time to your school work,” said the principal, “because your recent efforts have been less than impressive, and I don’t need to remind you that your entrance exam is less than six months away, and the examiner won’t be interested in the price of a pound of apples.”