Schultz Read online

  “Hey honey, don’t worry a bit, I mean it, go right ahead. The caviar is delicious here. Have a third helping.”

  And upon returning to the environs of Belgrave Square he also discovered that the Dutch girl had a temper. Thumping and pounding as she now was the kitchen ceiling with a broom handle. Just as Schultz was pushing and pulling his new honey baby, as he temporarily called her, along the hallway and up the stairs towards the bedroom. As Big Ben chimed midnight.

  “Come on honey baby. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  And it took till the booming bell tolled a solitary one a.m. for Schultz on the way to his bedroom, to reach the first landing. Where he stood, panting, with one hand inside her blouse and his other up her skirt.

  “Honey baby, come on. You’re gorgeous. You really are. Don’t let’s waste a night like this.”

  A last desperate frenzied assault upon her virtue was made by Schultz when he tripped her backwards and they both fell. She suddenly flailing and writhing, and not only kneeing Schultz in the testicles but kicking a pilaster upon which a white marble bust of some Roman Emperor perched.

  “Holy shit watch out.”

  The bust teetering and falling and shattering to pieces on the landing. While Schultz unhanded this gorgeous creature who quickly leaped up. And instantly dove into domestic action. Sweeping up the white flaky plaster lumps into a dust tray as Schultz sat on the stairs.

  “Jesus I thought the fucking thing was real marble.”

  Christ you

  Can’t trust

  These British

  Cunts

  3

  For the moment at least, the odd dilapidation in this commodious town house hardly mattered as Schultz’s landlords were frolicking in distant Bermuda. And just as his Lordship’s sharp eye had estimated, it slowly turned out that nearly everything in the house was ersatz of some sort.

  “Nothing but sham and imitation Schultz, but of course, in their pretentious way, they do rather tart the premises up a bit.”

  But back that evening Schultz couldn’t have cared less about the furnishings. As clearly from the feels he got of this gorgeous creature’s upholstery, hers was the real McCoy. And entirely worthy of the further desperate and up to now hopeless pursuit of entry between those baby soft thighs.

  “No no you mustn’t.”

  “For christ’s sake come on honey.”

  “No no you mustn’t.”

  “For christ’s sake honey, what’s the matter.”

  “I’m not that sort of girl.”

  Between these nightly caviar gorging visits to London’s most elegant restaurants and her usual midnight departure by Schultz’s prepaid taxi home, the struggle continued. Each nightly skirmish providing Schultz with a minuscule advance over this enemy territory towards the bitterly defended objective. And as Schultz progressed inch by inch up between her stunningly slender silky smooth legs and was yet again finally halted within a finger length of victory, he was on the phone.

  “Hey Jesus christ almighty Al, what the fuck did you send me over this time. Eight relentless days and I can’t get to first base.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said. I told you already, the girl’s a real lady. What the hell do you need to do that kind of thing to her for so soon.”

  “Hey Al, you serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious. That girl if she only knew it, could have anybody important in London she wants. Respect her beauty for christ’s sake.”

  “Respect her beauty for christ’s sake. I should have my wallet respected. In one fucking week she’s already cost me three hundred and sixty two pounds.”

  “So you got it counted, charge it up to production expenses.”

  “This is no production, this is false imprisonment of my prick.”

  “Sigmund, don’t ring me anymore if that’s the kind of attitude. The girl’s a lady. Treat her right. She’s gorgeous. And if you can’t be patient for what she’s going to give you in the end then you don’t deserve it.”

  “Holy shit Al, what the fuck’s becoming of you.”

  “Nothing’s becoming of me. It’s what ought to be becoming of you into a gentleman. That’s what ought to be becoming.”

  Schultz booked a table under the cherub painted ceiling of the Ritz, and ordered a predinner vintage Roederer to be ready for sipping in the Palm Court. And in black tie and in the largest limousine the car hire firm had in its stable, he ferried himself to Notting Hill Gate. Ringing her doorbell among a dozen others on the doorstep of this tall victorian building and lugging a cellophane wrapped corsage and bouquet of red roses up three bleak dark, dog smelly landings to a dour victorian overstuffed sitting room. Where Pricilla radiantly awaited in a black clinging evening gown which made Schultz gulp in his tracks.

  “These are for you honey.”

  “O aren’t you so sweet. You are really.”

  “I thought we might just amble over on our wheels and pop back a drink at the Savoy. The curtain is at eight. We are having supper later at the Ritz.”

  “O I must give you a little peck on the cheek.

  The electrically operated windows, telephone and air conditioning instruments at her elbow did not, as Schultz thought they might, absolutely rivet her attention. But her eyes did open wide as she carefully stepped down the grimy wet steps and was conducted over the greasy evening pavement to the monstrous warmth of this perfumed interior flooding out the limousine’s chauffeured opened door.

  “Just take a pew anywhere you like honey.”

  Pricilla sat herself plonk center on the soft grey upholstery and regally proceeded to ignore London’s passing evening pedestrians. But she did momentarily pay attention to look down her nose at the bus queues waiting. Who in turn stared at the longest Rolls-Royce in London. And Schultz suddenly had a rapier thrust like feeling that he was some kind of specially stunted footman stationed in the confines of this whirring limousine purring down the Bayswater Road in all its black majesty, transporting this radiant queen untouchable behind the gleaming glass.

  At the Savoy she made an entrance. The doorman sweeping the way ahead through the doors. With Schultz nearly left behind on the pavement. At the theatre she was only mildly impressed as champagne was served in their private box with compliments of the stage manager who returned three times to ask was everything alright. And at the Ritz, following further champagne and the usual copious portions of Beluga plus crepe suzettes and the house’s best brandy, Schultz sat with his cigar.

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself a little honey, this evening.”

  “It’s been very nice Sigmund.”

  And back in Belgravia, the jet black Ambassador astonishingly gave Schultz the hi sign and a broad, night illuminating smile as both of them appeared simultaneously out of their limousines and up their steps with their respective beauteous creatures clinging to their respective arms. Schultz delighting in this sudden camaraderie.

  “Who’s he.”

  “He’s the Ambassador honey.”

  “And what’s that.”

  This latter remark was expostulated by Pricilla a few seconds later in the hallway at the foot of the stairs up which Schultz was just about to begin his nightly coaxing of this gorgeous creature.

  “I got a pet monkey down the cellar, that’s all.”

  “Sounds like a woman crying.”

  “It’s a female chimpanzee.”

  Her mouth did open wider to Schultz’s kisses. And her lower legs parted wider for his hands. But whenever, that thing, as she called it, was rigidly pressing towards home, she struggled in resistance. Till half her gown was ripped and wrapped around her ankles and neck. And when this long careful evening was followed now with an heroic continuous battle till three a.m., Schultz finally gave up. Ushering the rose petal skinned future wife into a guest bedroom. And throwing her a towel, and as a poignant afterthought, a bible to read.

  “Here honey, the good book, make yourself at home.”

  Schultz headed d
ownstairs in dressing gown and his custom made slippers. Taking into the basement with him bedding and locking the door behind him. The grateful au pair spouting a stream of Dutch, sobbed with relief and clung and hugged Schultz as he shifted her up on a pillow softened kitchen table and rogered her in continuo glissando till dawn. As his Lordship later remarked to Binky when relating the story.

  “I do not think that Schultz’s behaviour was of the most chivalrous.”

  Schultz’s future wife had been educated at various convent boarding schools in far off Canada and Argentina and she objected strenuously to Schultz’s frequent foul language. She also refused to again stay overnight in Schultz’s town house. For following Schultz’s having downstairs done the au pair on the kitchen table, he at first light of dawn, came back up to the future wife in the guest room, dislodged her from bed and whipping off his dressing gown, gave naked chase of her with his restimulated perpendicular pointing in all directions all over the chamber. Before he ended up agonizingly stubbing and breaking two of his middle toes.

  “Holy Jesus fucking christ.”

  “You’re profaning again.”

  The Dutch au pair, despite or because of daily increased proddings still refused to shift out of the locked basement. But this did not stop Schultz’s future wife from making the upstairs butler’s pantry fully operational to provide Schultz and herself with the odd tasty snack. When now late afternoons, departed early from her job with Big Al, and finding herself temporarily safe from Schultz who limped and sported an open ended sandal on his right bandaged foot, Pricilla donned rubber gloves and dusted and polished all the upstairs rooms.

  “Hey for christ’s sake the place is clean already.”

  “But this needs doing every day Sigmund.”

  And invariably during these cleaning sessions and while Schultz was at Sperm Productions, at least one young lady would show up knocking on the door and ask for Schultz.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Schultz is out but I’m Mrs. Schultz can I help you.”

  But when a black leather attired Germanic looking lady with a monstrous thatch of long straight blond hair to her shoulders stood on the doorstep, Schultz’s future wife’s face became deeply red when to her standard answer she got a gruff.

  “Vass bullshit. Mrs. Schultz. Who are you, the maid. I vant Herr Schultz.”

  “He’s not in.”

  “Don’t vurry I vill be back.”

  Indeed before he returned that day, three more girls had come and knocked in a most familiar manner for Schultz whose photograph along with Binky’s and his Lordship’s had just appeared in the evening newspaper, announcing their coming season of productions. And that night Schultz’s future wife stayed with him in his bedroom revealing all but where a flimsy bit of lingerie still snugly covered the vital objective. And a trembling Schultz in all his showbizz years had never seen a body quite like it.

  “Jesus christ, honey, who built you.”

  “Do you only have to be interested in my body.”

  “Honey I’m open to suggestions. What else have you got.”

  “That’s insulting that is.”

  Schultz stretched spreadeagled like an Aztec in sacrifice and staring up into the lace canopy of the phony fifteenth century bed, reminisced about his teenage sex life in Woonsocket while Pricilla pulled his prick twice, and painfully sat on his toe once. In the morning her large almond eyes narrowed and her voice became ominously lighthearted.

  “Who are those girls.”

  “What girls.”

  “The girls who keep coming knocking on your door. One of them under her macintosh was in halter and shorts on a red bicycle.”

  “O those. They’re just some stage struck kids wanting to get into show business. I get bothered by them all the time especially when my picture gets all over the newspapers.”

  “And who is this female monkey you keep in the locked basement.”

  “Look honey, come on, I got lots of troubles. Just forget what’s in the basement will you.”

  Schultz’s future wife now took the precaution of steaming open Schultz’s late afternoon mail and throwing away those letters and notes signed Abigail, Helga, Shirley or Teenie Eeenie Bootsie Wootsie. She also, on the day she stopped working for Big Al, finally found the key to the basement. And just as his Lordship had come calling and Schultz had already departed to stroll to the office across St. James’s Park, Schultz’s future wife was shoving the terrorized and sobbing au pair possessionless out the basement door.

  “Of course Binky I was aghast, I thought it was Schultz heaving this most charming young lady out. But instead of Schultz it was another even more attractive lady entirely, doing the shoving.”

  Ever solicitous of stricken damsels, his Lordship had, when his chauffeur deposited him at Sperm Productions, instructed that this little bit of honey blond all right, be ferried back to her original employers somewhere godforsakenly northeasterly of London where they resided between a crematorium and golf course. And two days later a policeman appeared requesting to see his Lordship to assist him in his further enquiries concerning an abduction. But respectfully retreating when he heard the noble Peer’s explanation that the poor creature had been found wandering in tears on the street.

  “Can you imagine Binky, my motor’s licence number taken for having delivered Schultz’s au pair back to where she belongs. Most unpleasant.”

  “Highly unpleasant, your Amazing Grace.”

  “Yes I agree, highly unpleasant.”

  “Ah but I think your Grace we must await an opportunity to straighten old Schultzy boy out, don’t you.”

  Holding daily auditions for casting and hoping that penny by penny and pound by pound, he would gather his show’s finances and production together, Schultz minus his dependable au pair, was finding his now semicrippled attempts to enter his future wife well nigh unbearable. Even though she became more practised at pulling and was at last now contemplating allowing that disgusting variation Schultz suggested, of entering her by the mouth.

  “Let’s go, let’s go with it. This is a permissive society honey.”

  “It may be. But I’m not.”

  “Honey, look, don’t worry, I’m convinced you’re not. But could you look at it from my point of view for a second. I’m normal. I need outlet.”

  With the clock of Big Ben booming a desperate Saturday dawn following the umpteenth night of pulling but saying no to blowing or throwing, Schultz, despite his busted toes, jumped up seven feet high off the bed. Banging his head on the crosspiece of the four poster, but remaining conscious enough to shout.

  “Jesus christ I’m not going to go through this anymore, get the fuck out. I mean if you take off a stocking or you let me suck a tit, it’s like I ought to get down on my knees in thanksgiving like you were the Queen of fucking Sheba. You’re driving me nuts. I have to get laid. Come on. Out. Get the fuck out. I’ve had enough.”

  Schultz standing by his bedroom door stark naked and fulsomely erected as he usually was, while the future wife sat up in bed like the Queen of Sheba attired in her frilly nightdress and fulsomely prim as she usually was.

  “Do you really want to enter me that bad Sigmund.”

  “What the fuck do you mean do I want to enter you that bad. I need to screw. And I need to screw four times a goddam day. For christ’s sake what the fuck do you think I’ve got you up here for.”

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t use that language to me please.”

  “Well I’m horny and fucking well exasperated. It’s bad for me to suffer this way.”

  “Couldn’t you wait till we’re married.”

  “Married. Jesus christ married.”

  “Yes married. That would only take a few minutes to arrange. And please don’t continue to be profane.”

  “What are you kidding.”

  “No I am not kidding.”

  “You’re serious. I mean do you know what marriage means.”

  “Yes I know what marriage means.”
>
  “It’s a fucking lifetime contract for fucks sake, honey.”

  “Well why shouldn’t it be. It’s that way for everybody.”

  “It’s not going to be that way for me. It makes me nervous. So when I get back I want you gone.”

  This conversation produced sulking in Schultz’s future wife. And while she remained in bed, Schultz hysterically showered, shaved and dressed. To head out for solace and breakfast in that beige stone retreat of the Dorchester Hotel just a hop skip and a jump across Hyde Park. And with both feet in shoes again he attempted to leap down the stairs three at a time. Tripping at the bottom and howling in agony as he sprained an ankle and further maimed his half mended toes.

  “Jesus fuck you fucking ducks.”

  The future wife in her purple flimsy bed apparel, was sitting upright against the pillows in bed, a fashion magazine open across her lap. She frowned with suitable alarm and sympathy as Schultz limped back into the room looking for his sandals. He bent to rummage among his footwear, and when his back was turned he caught sight of the future wife angled in the closet mirror. Her creamy exquisite face was grinning ear to ear.

  And way

  Down

  In Schultz’s

  Soul

  It hooted

  Holy shit

  4

  As were all Schultz’s afflictions, the ankle and toes were treated in Harley Street. By a theatrically fashionable doctor who took an easily amused view of the previous bed chamber injury. And came out from behind his massive antique desk.

  “Ah now. And what do we have this time Mr. Schultz.”

  “Doc you have a repeat of crippled feet.”

  “Well you’re still upright. And although painful, it’s not a major sprain. And one hardly breaks a toe, but you have certainly again rather bruised your phalanges a bit.”