The Prince of West End Avenue by Alan Isler Read Free Book Online Page A

and his suits are always impeccably cut to his plump frame. Silk ties and pocket handkerchiefs are with him a matter of course. Because of his passion for the drama, the walls of the restaurant are decorated with old theater posters, and his various dishes bear the names of famous actors. Thus, for example, the Tony Curtis is a mound of chopped herring on a bed of red onion slices, topped with a tasteful arrangement of black olives; the Lee J. Cobb, a patriotic trio of blintzes, cherry, blueberry, and cheese, the whole sprinkled with powdered sugar. My own favorite is the Paul Newman: gefullte Fisch, breaded and deep fried, garnished with the house's special horseradish sauce (a secret recipe, well guarded).
    As is my custom when I have a rendezvous or appointment, I arrived ten minutes early. Goldstein, dressed in a neat, dark-blue pin-stripe suit, pearl-gray waistcoat, and maroon polka-dot tie, was leaning against a central pillar, on which he was scratching his back. He greeted me warmly: "Korner."
    "Goldstein." I sat at my usual table.
    Goldstein made rapid finger signals to Joe, the oldest of his four elderly waiters, which, translated, told him to bring over with all possible speed a cup of coffee, black. I have yet to hear Goldstein actually address his waiters vocally. He has an elaborate system of signals rather like those of a bookie or tout at an English racecourse. Goldstein sauntered over. "So?" he said.
    "The Red Dwarf is joining me, and possibly some others."
    Joe put down a cup of coffee before me. Goldstein made some signals. Joe picked up the cup and wiped the saucer with a cloth he carried over his shoulder for such purposes.
    Goldstein went back to the pillar to scratch his back. At precisely ten-thirty Hamburger came in. Of course, I did not yet know whether Hamburger was a party to the Red Dwarf's

    shenanigans, but he put me immediately at ease. "The Red Dwarf not here yet?"
    From his pillar Goldstein signaled to Joe, who brought Hamburger a cup of coffee upon which floated a dollop of whipped cream.
    "How are the bunions, Joe?" Hamburger evinced real interest.
    "Don't ask." Joe shuffled off.
    "What's this Central Committee nonsense?"
    "Not such nonsense," said Hamburger darkly. "Wait till the Red Dwarf gets here."
    At the window, peering through cupped hands into the restaurant, was the Red Dwarf himself. Seeing us, he gave a clenched-fist salute and hurried in. He was wearing a cracked leather cap and a denim windbreaker. Goldstein made some signals, and by the time the Red Dwarf was seated, Joe was shambling over with a glass of steaming tea, a slice of lemon, and three lumps of sugar. The Red Dwarf took the tea from Joe's trembling hand and waved him off impatiently.
    "Well, what has he told you?" he asked me.
    "Nothing," said Hamburger. "I was waiting for you."
    "All right, fine," said the Red Dwarf. "Let's get straight to the point. Some of us here"—he indicated Hamburger and himself—"some of us are losing our patience. The imperialists are stomping on our backs. We intend to topple the fascist hyenas from their thrones, in particular that people's traitor Lipschitz, the Zionist expansionist, and his lick-spittle running-dog Dawidowicz, and transform the Emma Lazarus Old Vic into an organization run on sound democratic socialist principles and answerable to the people."
    "To begin with, you mix your metaphors," I said.
    The Red Dwarf bared his teeth; a gold one glinted dully.
    "Don't be superficial, Korner," said Hamburger. "We are

    dealing with serious matters here. No one denied Sinsheimer his authority, never mind he alternated between diarrhea and constipation. After all, he knew something about Shakespeare, about acting, about directing. But what does Lipschitz know? He knows that Dawidowicz doesn't want to give any satisfaction to her daughter-in-law, he knows that the orthodox might be offended by certain lines in the play, he knows that he wants to get under Dawidowicz's skirts. That's