Free Tell Them I'll Be There by Gerard Mac Page B

coffee or milk to the very latest Dow Jones, you go get it. You keep my diary, tell me where I’m supposed to be, who I’m supposed to ring, who I’m supposed to meet.’
    Dan smiled. ‘When do I start?’
    Dan hadn’t asked about pay or for the loan he looked as though he needed and Baker liked that. ‘How about right now?’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you twenty-five a week for three months and we’ll see how it goes. After that we do things right. We set up a contract or, if you’re no good, you’re out.’
    It was more than he could have hoped for. The talk on the boat was that a man could expect to earn around fifteen, maybe twenty working weekends. Girls could earn about ten in the sweatshops, fifteen with overtime. He stood up, hand extended. ‘You won’t be sorry, Mr Baker. I promise.’
    Joe Baker nodded approvingly and shook his hand. To Barbara he said, ‘Take him to Polly’s. Kit him out.’ To Dan he said, ‘See you in the morning, son. Nine o’clock.’
    A colourful float was gliding slowly down Madison Avenue. Six shapely girls in striped swimsuits with beach balls and sunshades and a phoney fountain that kept sputtering out were advertising holidays in the ‘Sun State of the USA’.
    â€˜Come on,’ Barbara said. ‘We’ll not get a cab here.’
    â€˜Where is this Polly? She far away? Too far to walk?’
    â€˜This Polly is a he not a she and he’s on Eighth Avenue with the rest of the rag trade. And I ain’t walking nowhere. I’ve been on my feet all morning.’
    Polly Berger was a small fat Austrian gentleman, long time friend and business associate of Joe Baker. A lovely man, Barbara said as she led the way through the humming stop-start sound of sewing machines backed up by Viennese waltzes from a phonograph. She tapped lightly on the open door to Polly’s chaotic glass cage of an office. ‘Ah, my best girl,’ Polly cried. ‘Come in, come in.’
    He gave Barbara a hug and a kiss and peered at Dan through his thick-lensed glasses. ‘Always,’ he said, ‘she brings her boyfriends to Polly for Polly to fix ’em up, make ’em look good when they take her out. But she never lets Polly take her out.’
    â€˜You never ask,’ Barbara said mildly. ‘And anyway, I don’t think Mrs Polly would approve.’
    A woman of about fifty with a tape measure round her neck made notes as Polly with another tape took Dan’s measurements . ‘I think we can do this from stock,’ he said. ‘We can fix you up now, today, and by the end of the week we’ll have a real nice outfit for you.’
    He looked at the lady with a tape and she nodded confidently and led Dan away. ‘Should scrub up well this one,’ he said, when they’d gone. ‘Where did he get him?’
    â€˜Off the boat,’ Barbara said.
    â€˜Will he last?’
    Barbara shrugged. ‘I dunno. He might do. He’s no mug.’
    Polly smiled. ‘Poor old Joe. Will he ever find what he’s looking for?’ 
    â€˜I don’t think so. He asks too much.’
    Dan came back transformed. He was wearing dark trousers, a light coloured jacket, a white shirt and an Italian silk, patterned tie. Polly laughed. ‘You look like a bandleader.’
    â€˜He looks fine,’ Barbara said. ‘For now.’
    â€˜Couple of days or so we’ll have a great suit for you,’ Polly promised.
    â€˜This feels good, sir,’ Dan said gratefully. ‘And I think it looks good.’
    â€˜It will when we get you some decent shoes,’ Barbara said. ‘You can’t go around dressed like that in those boots.’
    â€˜And get a nice haircut, son,’ Polly said. ‘Y’know, I feel sorry for you guys with all that thick black hair. I mean me, I just wash my head in the morning. Don’t have to pay these Wop