Free Tiffany Street by Jerome Weidman Page A

his high school principal, to whose office Harold had been summoned for disciplinary action, or by the fathers of the girls on whom he called. After shifting uneasily from one foot to another for a long time, Harold Teen always broke the silence by saying, in a balloon over his head: “Ahem!”
    I could not manage the balloon, but I had no trouble exploding a good, loud “Ahem!”
    Without raising his head the old man said, “In a moment. In a moment.”
    He said it to one of the two ledgers on which he was working. Then he moved his head, made an entry in the second ledger, and looked up. Naturally, he was wearing thick glasses made of small fat halfmoons that were held to his head by thin gold strands. What else would a man working in the office of the Cheeryble brothers be wearing?
    “What is it?” he said.
    Staring at me over the halfmoon glasses he looked so severe that I was taken aback by the softness of his voice. He sounded kind.
    “I’d like to see Mr. Roon, please,” I said.
    “About what?”
    “I have a letter for him,” I said. I held up the envelope. “From Mr. Bern.”
    “Maurice Saltzman & Company?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I’ll take it,” the old man said.
    He came across the room toward me. His gait was as surprising as his voice. He walked with long, crisp strides, as though he was trying to overtake someone without giving the appearance of hurrying.
    “Are you Mr. Roon?” I said.
    “No, but I’ll take the letter to him.” He held out his hand.
    I put the envelope behind my back. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My instructions were to give this to Mr. Roon personally.”
    “Don’t be silly, boy, I’ll take it in to him.”
    “No,” I said. “I can’t.”
    “What’s the matter with you, boy?”
    What was the matter with me was that my feeling of virtue and my feeling of cleverness about the way I had handled getting to Mr. Roon’s office were going out the window in the face of a new threat.
    “Mr. Bern told me if I did not deliver this letter to Mr. Roon in person he would fire me.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” the old man said. “I’ve known Ira Bern for years. Before Mr. Saltzman took him in as a partner. He used to come over here in person every month to do our audit. Ira Bern would never do such a thing.”
    There was a sound behind us. The old man and I both turned. The old lady was holding open the door at the far side of the room.
    “Okay, kid,” she said, and she jerked her thumb across her shoulder. “I told Mr. Roon you’re here. Go on in.”
    Her voice was even more astonishing than the voice of the old man. She sounded like an enraged traffic cop with a bad bronchial ailment. I hurried across the room. Behind me the old man said petulantly, “Now, why did you want to do that?”
    “Because I’m trying to get my work done,” the old woman said. “How the hell can I do that with you braying away like a jackass?”
    I walked through the door. She closed it behind me. A young man was standing behind a desk at the far side of the room, and when I say young I mean young. He could have graduated with me from Thomas Jefferson High School, until he opened his mouth.
    “You have a letter for me?” he said.
    Out of his mouth had come an English accent. Nobody with an English accent had graduated with me from Thomas Jefferson High School. If I didn’t know every kid in the class any better than I knew Hot Cakes Rabinowitz, I had at one time or another during my four years at Thomas Jefferson heard every one of their voices. None of them had ever sounded like this kid behind the desk.
    “Are you Mr. Roon?” I said.
    I’m sure I sounded uneasy. I think I probably also sounded as though I didn’t believe him.
    He grinned. “I am,” he said. “Truly I am.” He held out his hand. I hesitated. He said, “Were you asked to get a receipt for the thing?”
    “No,” I said. “Mr. Bern just said I was to deliver it to Mr. Roon in person.”
    “Well,” he said,