“As Byron is always saying,” insisted Lazaroff, “you gotta cooperate. Aren’t you going to cooperate?”
Simon added his feet to the collection on the desk, and lighted a cigarette.
“Tell me more about the great Byron,” he said.
Lazaroff ruffled his untidy gray locks.
“What, his life story? He changes it every time he tells it. Actually he’s a retired racketeer. Well, not retired, but he’s changed his racket. Now his strong-arm men don’t walk in and say ‘How about buyin’ some protection, bud?’ They say, ‘How about lendin’ us your yacht for a coupla days for some location shots?’ — in the same tone of voice.”
“Byron Ufferlitz is his real name, too,” supplied Kendricks. “It’s on his police record.”
“It’s on our checks every Saturday,” said Lazaroff, “and the bank honors it. That’s all we have to worry about.”
“How do you get on with him?”
“I get on fine with anyone who gives me a check every Saturday. In this town, you have to, if you want to eat. He isn’t any more ignorant than a lot of other producers we’ve worked for who didn’t have police records. We rib him plenty, and he doesn’t get too sore. Just now and again he gets a look in his eye as if he’s just ready to say ‘Okay, wise guy, howja like to get taken for a ride?’ Then we lay off him for a bit. But we don’t have to steal anything more illegal than ideas, so what the hell? At that, I’d rather work with him than Jack Groom.”
“The trouble is,” said Kendricks, “we don’t have the choice. We have to work with both of ’em.”