2

Duddy was not idle while he waited for his father to introduce him to the Boy Wonder. The morning his fever had gone he began to size things up. He figured he would need at least fifteen thousand dollars down for the land he wanted (he’d have to sign mortgages for the balance) and no job advertised in the Star bring him in that kind of dough, not in twenty years. He had to make a killing. A real killing. But these things just don’t fall into a guy’s lap, he thought, and meanwhile it would be wise to bring in as much money as he could whatever way possible. You’ve got to start operating, he told himself. It’s getting late.

But where does a guy start, he thought. Where and how?

He read enviously about the real estate boom in Toronto and of men who had bought land as farms and sold it at twenty to thirty cents a square foot two months later. Other guys had gone prospecting for uranium in Labrador and come back with a mint. Television, he had heard, was the coming thing. Dealers had already made a fortune in the States. Duddy got an appointment with the representative of a big American firm and tried to get an agency, but the man, obviously amused, asked Duddy how much selling experience he had had, what his education was, did he own a car and how much capital was he willing to invest in stock. He told Duddy that he was too young and advised him to try for something smaller. “You can’t run before you learn how to walk,” he said. So Duddy grew a mustache and began to take the Reader’s Digest work hard on How To Increase Your Word Power. He also came to an arrangement with his father about the taxi. While Max slept Duddy drove.

Duddy drove at night and during the day he got a job selling liquid soap and toilet supplies to factories. For this work he had to have a car of his own and here Debrofsky helped out. He took Duddy to his son-in-law’s used car lot and got him a ‘46 Chevvie cheap and on excellent terms. While Debrofsky was bargaining Duddy visited the clothing factory next door and got a medium-sized order for soap and paper towels. He usually slept from four to six and at a quarter to seven he drove down to Wellington College, where he was taking a course in business administration. He joined the cine club at Wellington and that’s where he met Peter John Friar, the distinguished director of documentary films. Mr. Friar had come to Wellington to speak on “Italian Neo-Realism, What Next?” He had a lot to say against Hollywood (it was a soul-killing place, he said) and he seemed to be against something called the witchhunt, but Duddy wasn’t sure. Mr. Friar had a difficult British accent and he spoke softly. There was a question period after he was finished and Mr. Friar was asked point-blank did he think Huston had gone permanently commercial and what had become of Sir Arthur Elton? Afterwards Duddy pulled him aside. “I’m going into the film business here myself soon and there’s something I’d like to talk over with you,” he said.

Mr. Friar checked his smile. Irving Thalberg, he remembered, had been only twenty-two when he took over MGM, and besides, the most surprising people had money in Canada. “Why don’t we have a drink together,” he said.

They went to a bar around the corner and Mr. Friar immediately ordered a double gin and tonic.

“Your talk was a pleasure,” Duddy said. “It was very educational.”

“Jolly decent of you to say so.”

Duddy hesitated. The palms of his hands began to sweat. “I hope you like it here. Montreal,” he said, “is the world’s largest inland seaport.”

Mr. Friar lifted his glass and gave Duddy an encouraging smile. “Cheers.”

Peter John Friar was a small, pear-shaped man with a massive head and a fidgety red face. His graying hair was thin but disheveled and there were little deposits of dandruff on his coat collar. He seemed especially fond of stroking his graying vandyke beard, knitting his fierce eyebrows, and — squinting against the smoke of a cigarette burnt perilously close to his lips — nodding as he said, “Mm. Mm-hmm.” He wore a green tweed suit and a shirt with a stiff collar. Duddy figured him for forty-forty-five and something of a lush maybe. He had those kind of jerky hands and the heavily veined nose.

“Have another on me,” Mr. Friar said.

“No, thanks. But you go right ahead.”

Duddy wanted to ask Mr. Friar for advice, but lots of drinks were consumed before he got a chance to say anything. Mr. Friar, stammering a little, told him about the documentary he made for an oil company in Venezuela. It had been shown at the Edinburgh Festival and had won a prize in Turkey, but even though he had directed it his name was not actually on the picture for a dark reason he only hinted at. Mr. Friar had come to Canada from Mexico to work for the National Film Board, actually, but he was having trouble again because he was a left-winger. An outspoken one. Temporarily, he said, he was at liberty. “Grierson,” he said, “is madly determined for me to come to Ottawa, but…”

“Jeez,” Duddy said, “I feel a bit embarrassed now to bother such a B.T.O. with my plans.”

“Dear me. Why?”

“Naw. You wouldn’t like it. They’re what you called… commercial.”

“Let’s have another. But this one’s on me, old chap.”

Duddy said there was plenty of money around these days. He told him about his idea to make films of weddings and bar-mitzvahs.

“A splendid notion.”

But that, Duddy said, would only be a beginning. He wanted to investigate the whole field of industrial films and one day he hoped to make real features. He had under contract, in fact, Canada’s leading comedian, and next week he was going to meet a potential big backer. “Listen,” Duddy said, “I’m no shnook. I can see you’re a very sensitive man. I know you couldn’t care less about making films of weddings and bar-mitzvahs but if you could help me with advice about equipment and costs I would certainly appreciate it. I’d be willing to show my appreciation too.”

Mr. Friar waved his hands in protest. “Have you any interested clients?” he asked.

“I have two orders in hand,” he said, “and a long list of weddings and bar-mitzvahs that are coming up soon. I spent some time in the hotel business and I know lots of people in Outremont. All I need is to get started,” Duddy said, leaning back in his chair with his hands resting on his knees.

“I just might be interested. You see,” Mr. Friar said, “it so happens that for years I have been absorbed in folklore and tribal customs in every shape and form. I’m not unfamiliar with Hebraic rituals, you know. Your people have suffered so much. The lore is rich.”

“Wha’?”

“The record of a wedding or bar-mitzvah needn’t be crassly commercial. We could concentrate on the symbolism inherent to the ceremony.”

“They’d have to be in color. That would be a big selling point.”

“I say,” Mr. Friar said, “there’s one thing I like to warn every producer about before I start on a project. I demand a completely free hand. I will tolerate no interference with my artistic integrity.”

“I don’t know a camera lens from a horse’s ass, so stop worrying. But look, Mr. Friar, I’ve got a feeling that the important thing about this kind of movie is not the symbolism like, but to get as many relatives and friends into it as humanly poss —”

“That,” Mr. Friar said, “is exactly what I mean,” and he leaped up and started out of the bar.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Duddy shouted, starting after him. The waiter stepped in front of Duddy. “You a minute, buster.”

The bill came to eight dollars. Duddy paid it and hurried outside.

“Have you ever got a temper. Jeez.”

“In my day, Kravitz, I’ve thrown more than one bloody producer off a set.”

“No kidding?”

“If I could only learn to be as obsequious as Hitchcock I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

Duddy could see that Mr. Friar’s eyes were red. He took his arm.

“I have no home,” Mr. Friar said. “I’m a vagabond.”

“Listen, I’m starved. Why don’t we go in here and grab a smoked meat? My treat.”

“I’m going back to my flat.”

“Where is it? I’ll walk you.”

“You are tenacious, Kravitz, aren’t you?”

“Aw.”

“I’d really like to be alone now. Sorry, old chap.”

“Aren’t you interested in my project any more?”

Mr. Friar hesitated. He swayed a little. “Tell you what, Kravitz. You come to my flat tomorrow at four. We can talk some more then.” He gave Duddy his address and shook hands with him. “Hasta mañana,” said.

“Sure thing.”

Mr. Friar lived in an apartment on Stanley Street and Duddy was there promptly at four the next afternoon. He had brought a bottle of Booth’s Dry Gin with him. There was no bell on the door and Duddy had to knock again and again.

“Avante.”

Mr. Friar was in the nude, his fallen belly thick with curly gray hair.

“Hiya!”

Every drawer in the living-room-cum-bedroom was open and dripping underwear or shirtsleeves. One wall was completely covered with bull-fighting posters.

“It’s not my flat, actually. It belongs to Gilchrist. He was my fag at Winchester. A proper bastard. Well, Kravitz, sit down.”

Mr. Friar freed a couple of glasses from the pile of pots and pans in the sink, wiped the lipstick off one with the corner of his sheet, and poured two drinks. He knocked all the magazines off the coffee table with a scythelike sweep of hairy leg and set down a tray of icecubes beside the bottle.

“Cheers,” Duddy said quickly.

“Prosit.”

But Duddy continued to stare. Mr. Friar sighed, retrieved an old New Yorker the floor, and covered his genitals with it.

Duddy began to talk quickly, before Mr. Friar could begin on his reminiscences once more. He told him that he had no equipment and not the vaguest notion of the production costs of a bar-mitzvah picture. Mr. Friar, speaking frankly, could be of invaluable service to him. Duddy explained that he was the one with the connections and it was he who would risk his capital on equipment. “But you’re the guy with the know-how,” he said, and he offered Mr. Friar one-third of all the profits. “We can help each other,” he said. “And if you don’t trust me the books will be open to you any time you like.”

“Your glass is empty.” Mr. Friar poured two stiff drinks.

“Prosit,” said quickly.

“Chin-chin.”

Mr. Friar told Duddy that he was not interested in money. All he wanted was enough to keep him and a guarantee of noninterference.

“You’ve got a deal,” Duddy said.

“One moment, please. There’s another stipulation. I won’t be bound by any contract. I’m a vagabond, Kravitz. I’ve got the mark of Cain on my forehead. I must be free to get up and go at any time.”

And then Mr. Friar became very businesslike. He told Duddy that to begin with they ought to buy their own camera but rent everything else they needed. He said that he knew lots of people at the Film Board in Ottawa and he was sure that they would let him edit and process the film there. That, he said, would be a substantial saving. He told Duddy he’d need five hundred dollars down towards equipment and he asked for an advance of one hundred dollars against personal expenses.

“Agreed.”

“Let me refresh your drink.”

Duddy told Mr. Friar that he had his eye on an office in the Empire Building. First thing tomorrow morning he would put down a deposit on it. He would have DUDLEY KANE ENTERPRISES printed on the glazed glass door and, since the Empire Building was in the Monarch exchange area anyway, he would pay a little, if necessary, to get a phone number that spelt MOVIES and then he could advertise “Dial MOVIES” in all the newspapers.

“Brilliant.”

Another thing, Duddy added, was that he wanted Mr. Friar to give him a write-up on his past work and stuff. He hoped to get a story in the Star maybe a paragraph in Mel West’s What’s What.

After a few more drinks Duddy could see that Mr. Friar’s eyes were red again and he began to worry.

“I should have followed my brother into the FO,” Mr. Friar said. “Winchester and King’s did me no good in Hollywood. I couldn’t speak Yiddish.”

“Jeez.”

Mr. Friar wiped his eyes and poured himself another drink, straight gin this time. “It’s no good, Kravitz. I can’t do this to you. You’re young. I have no right to ruin what promises to be a brilliant career even before it’s begun.”

Duddy looked puzzled.

“I’m afraid I’ve been concealing something from you, old chap. I’m a communist.”

“So?”

“I believe in the brotherhood of man.”

“Me too,” Duddy said forcefully. “Do unto your neighbor… Aw, you know.”

“I am a card-holder,” Mr. Friar said in a booming voice. He stood up and the New Yorker to the floor. “I tell you that here but no committee could drag it out of me with wild horses. Do you realize what that means?” Mr. Friar touched Duddy’s knee. He lowered his voice. “I fled the United States one step ahead of the FBI. I’m on the blacklist.”

“No kidding!”

“I must I’ve never attempted to conceal my beliefs.”

“So?”

“Don’t you see, Kravitz? I will not direct again without a credit. But if you hire me it’s likely that you’ll never be able to work in Hollywood. Don’t hesitate. I’ll understand perfectly if you want to call the deal off.”

“We’re partners, Mr. Friar. Shake.”

Duddy saw Mr. Friar daily after that, but the next time he came he only brought a half bottle of gin. On Monday he moved into his office. He took out a subscription to Variety quickly adapting himself to the idiom of the trade, learned to think of himself as an “indie.” Duddy waited until the paragraph he wanted had appeared in Mel West’s column before he went to see Mr. Cohen about his son’s bar-mitzvah. He had kept putting the visit off because if Mr. Cohen was not interested he was in trouble. Mr. Friar was anxious to get started. “You told me you had two orders,” he said.

“Sure. Sure thing.”

If Mr. Cohen didn’t bite Duddy would be in bad trouble. The office cost him a hundred dollars a month and, added to that, there was the price of standard office equipment. He had to give up driving the taxi when Max was off. One night he had just avoided getting Farber for a fare. He could not approach people as a budding businessman by day and take their tips by night. Duddy carried on selling liquid soap and other factory supplies, but that didn’t bring in a hell of a lot. He continued to pursue his father about the Boy Wonder, and soothing Mr. Friar consumed lots of his time. He kept in close touch with Yvette, too. A week after he had returned to Montreal she sent him a large envelope by registered mail. It was a map of Lac St. Pierre with all the bordering fields subdivided into farms and listing the landowners. Duddy was relieved to find that they were all French-Canadians. Farmers, probably. The largest landowner was a man named Cote and Brault, the man Yvette had spoken of, owned a good-sized pasture round the bend of the lake. Duddy hid the map under his mattress. Later he transferred it to his office, where he kept it locked in a desk drawer. A week after it had arrived the map was already greasy from too much handling. Sometimes Duddy would wake at two in the morning, drive down to his office, and study the map until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Yvette had sent a letter with the map. A notary she trusted had estimated that the land had a market value of four to five hundred dollars an arpent and if Duddy wanted all of it and could pay the price he needed twenty thousand dollars cash. He would have to assume mortgages for the balance — probably another thirty thousand dollars. He could pay these mortgages off over the next five to ten years, at five per cent interest, if he were lucky. But the notary also said that the land was good for nothing better than a pasture. If somebody was foolhardy enough to want to invest in a development of summer cottages there then he’d better count on buttering up more than one member of the town council to get them to bring in electricity and sewers. The half-owner of one large farm was in an insane asylum. Her brother couldn’t sell until she died. Two other farms were owned by a fierce nationalist who would sell to nobody but another French-Canadian. Yvette also wrote that the notary said it would cost thousands of dollars to build on the land. In a postscript she added that Duddy, in any event, was still a minor and that made for other difficulties. It’s true that he could legally own land. But a minor couldn’t enter into most contracts without being assisted by his tutor, unless the purchase and sale of land was his business. So it would be best to have somebody act for him. His father, perhaps.

Two days later another large envelope came. Maybe Yvette felt she had been too discouraging. Anyway, this one contained sixteen photographs of the lake that Yvette had taken herself. Duddy drove up to Ste. Agathe that Friday night and took Yvette to a bar where they would not be seen. “I think I’m going to be fired,” she said. “Linda’s taken a dislike to me. She finds fault with everything I do.”

Duddy tried to change the subject, but Yvette persisted. “She asked me a lot of questions about us one afternoon. I pretended not to understand what she was talking about and that made her angry.”

“About us?”

“She likes you. You needn’t look so pleased.”

“Who gives a damn?” Duddy told Yvette about Mr. Friar. He said that he wanted her to quit the hotel, anyway, and learn to type and take shorthand because any day now he was going to need her in Montreal. He had to have somebody he could trust in the office. He had thought that would please Yvette and he could not understand why it only made her angrier.

“What makes you think I want to go to Montreal to work for you?”

“Why not?” he said. “Jeez,” and he made a mental note to bring her a gift next time he drove out.

“You’re too sure of yourself,” Yvette said.

“Aw.”

A day before Duddy was supposed to see Mr. Cohen about the bar-mitzvah picture Yvette phoned. She called early in the morning and he was startled when she told him she was actually waiting for him in a drugstore around the corner. Duddy hurried down there.

“Brault wants to sell right away.”

“Wha’?”

She told him that Brault’s wife had died and he was going to move to Nova Scotia to live with his son. He wanted to sell out for cash and just as quickly as possible. Yvette had gone out with the notary and offered him four hundred and fifty dollars an arpent; half cash. That came to thirty-two hundred dollars down. He had accepted, and Yvette had put down a deposit of two hundred and fifty dollars. “If you can give me a check for the rest,” she said, “I can be back in Ste. Agathe before the banks close.”

Duddy began to bite his nails.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased. Look,” she said, “there were two other people interested. I had to act quickly. Maybe we could have got it for less, but —”

“No. The price is O.K.”

“The land will have to go on my name. You’re still a minor. Is that what’s bothering you?”

“How long have we got to pay the balance?”

“Three weeks. Haven’t you got the money, Duddy? You told me you had nearly three thousand dollars in the bank. You mustn’t lie to me.”

He told her what the camera and other equipment had cost and that he had rented an office. He had six hundred dollars left in the bank, maybe less. He would need money for film too.

“Sell the car,” she said.

Duddy laughed. “The car isn’t even paid for. Look, don’t worry. We’ve got three weeks and I’ll raise the rest of the money even if I have to kill somebody for it.”

But Duddy was obviously worried himself. He drove her back to Ste. Agathe and all the way there he hardly spoke.

“Stay the night with me,” she said.

“I can’t. I have to see that bastard Cohen at nine tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t have to make excuses.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

Duddy couldn’t sleep. He smoked one cigarette after another. Lennie hadn’t come again, he had told Max he was spending the night at a friend’s house. Duddy knew better, but he didn’t care. All he could think of was that if he was Lennie and needed three thousand dollars he’d only have to say pretty please Uncle Benjy. Son of a bitch, Duddy thought. If he was Lennie he’d probably even be able to get the money from the old man. But for him there was not a hope. Max would say he was too young and too dumb to buy land. He wasn’t even proud that Duddy had an office. “Go ahead,” he had said. “Throw your money away. It’ll teach you a good lesson.” His grandfather might have that much money. He’d lend it to him too. But Duddy had promised him a farm and he wasn’t going to go crawling to Simcha for the money to buy it with no matter what.

Duddy didn’t fall asleep until shortly after seven and he was late for his appointment with Mr. Cohen.

“Sure. That’s right, Duddy. My Bernie’s going to be bar-mitzvah in three weeks’ time. I’m sorry I couldn’t ask you to the dinner, but… well, you know. At second cousins we put a stop to it. Listen, come to the ceremony anyway and have a schnapps.”

Duddy showed him the write-up in the Star the paragraph from Mel West’s column. He told him that when Farber’s daughter got married he was making a movie of it. He went on and on hopefully about Mr. Friar, and how lucky he was to have such a talented director. “All my productions will be in color. A lasting record like,” he said. “For your grandchildren and their grandchildren after them.”

“It’s O.K. for Farber. His girl’s marrying into the Gordons. They can afford it.”

“You say that without even asking me a price. I’ll bet you think it would cost you something like three thousand dollars for the movie.”

“What? Are you crazy? Do you know how much it’s costing me just for the catering?”

“You see. But it wouldn’t cost that much. I can make you a top-notch movie for two thousand dollars.”

“The boy’s mad.”

“But on one condition only. You mustn’t say a word to Farber about the price we made. It’s a special.”

“Look, when I want to see a movie I can go to the Loew’s for ninety cents. My Bernie’s a fine kid, but he’s no Gary Cooper. I’m sorry, Duddy.”

“All right. No hard feelings. I just felt that since Bernie is such a good friend of the Seigal boy and I’m doing that bar-mitzvah in December —”

“That cheapskate Seigal is paying you two thousand dollars for a movie?”

“He should live so long I’d make him such a price. Well, I’d better go. I’ve got another appointment at eleven.”

“All right, smart guy. Sit down. Come on. Sit down. You’re trembling like a leaf anyway. There, that’s better. I oughta slap your face.”

“Wha’?”

“I happen to know that you’re not making a movie for Seigal. O.K.?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Duddy demanded in his boldest voice.

“Sit down. Stop jumping around. Boy, some kid you are. Now, for a starter, how do I even know that a kid who’s still wet… wet?… soaking the ears can make a movie?”

“Mr. Friar is a very experienced director.”

“Sure. He’s Louis B. Mayer himself. Duddy, Duddy, what’s he doing here making bar-mitzvah pictures with… with a boy?”

Duddy flushed.

“Have you got lots of money invested?”

“Enough.”

“Oi.”

“It’s going to work. It’s a great idea.”

Mr. Cohen sent out for coffee. “O.K., Duddy, we’ll see. I want you to tell me straight how much it would cost you to make a color movie of the bar-mitzvah.”

Duddy asked for a pencil and paper. “About nine hundred to a thousand,” he said at last.

“Lies. You lie through your ears, Duddy. O.K., your costs are six hundred dollars let’s say.”

“But —”

“Shettup! I’d like to see you get a start and I’ll make you a deal. You go ahead and make me a film of Bernie’s bar-mitzvah. If I like it I’ll give you a thousand dollars for it. If not you can go and burn it.” Duddy took a deep breath.

“Before you answer remember I should have thrown you out of the office for lying to me. Think too of the prestige you’d get. The first production for Cohen. I could bring you in a lot of trade. But it’s a gamble, Duddy. I’m a harsh critic. There are many academy award winners I didn’t like and if I don’t care for the picture…”

“I can make you a black-and-white for twelve hundred dollars.”

“Get out of here.”

“Look, Mr. Cohen, this is a real production. I have to pay for the editing and the script and —”

“All right. Twelve hundred. But color, Duddy. And only if I like it. Come here. We’ll shake on it. What a liar you are. Wow!” Mr. Cohen pinched his cheek. “If you’re going to see Seigal now about his boy’s bar-mitzvah you have my permission to say you’re making one for me. Tell him I’m paying you two thousand. He can phone me if he wants. But listen, Duddy, he’s not like me. Don’t trust him. Get five hundred down and the rest in writing. Such a liar. Wow!”

Duddy drove for fifteen minutes before he figured out that he had no advance and nothing in writing from Mr. Cohen. The film would cost him at least five hundred dollars — more, when you considered the work and time it would take — and there was no guarantee of a return on his investment. That lousy bastard, Duddy thought, and he makes it sound like he was doing me a favor. He went to see Seigal at home and his wife talked him into letting Duddy make the picture. Seigal paid an advance of two hundred and fifty dollars and signed an agreement to pay fifteen hundred in all if he liked the film and another six hundred even if he didn’t want it. It was a mistake to see Cohen at the office, Duddy thought afterwards. You’ve got to get them at home with the wife and boy there.

He phoned Yvette and told her he was sending her a check for three hundred dollars in the morning. He said he was making the movie for Mr. Cohen, but he didn’t tell her that if Mr. Cohen didn’t like it there was no deal. He was so happy about Seigal, too, that he didn’t realize until he got home that the Seigal bar-mitzvah was six weeks off and even if he got paid right away it would be too late. He still had to raise twenty-five hundred dollars to pay Brault and twenty days was all the time he had. In the next three days Duddy visited eight potential clients. They were interested. Nobody showed him the door exactly, but first they wanted to see one of his productions.

“You can’t blame them,” Duddy told Mr. Friar. “We’ll have to rent a screening room or something for the Cohen picture. I want to send out lots of tickets.”

“When’s the bar-mitzvah?” Mr. Friar asked.

“Two weeks from Saturday,” Duddy said, rubbing his face with his hands.

“I’d like to start looking at some of the locations tomorrow.”

“Wha’?”

“Can you take me to the synagogue?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I say, old chap, you do look down in the mouth. Haven’t you been eating?”

“Sure. Sure I have.” Jeez, he thought, even if Cohen likes the picture that money will be too late too.

“We’ve got to hit them with something unusual right in the first frame. Have you ever seen Franju’s Sang des Bêtes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was a documentary, old chap. A great one. We could do worse than to use it for our model.”

“It’s got to be good, Mr. Friar. Better than good, or I’m dead.”

Mr. Friar could see that Duddy was depressed. He gave him his most genial smile. “Come on, old chap, I’m going to take you out for a drink. But this time it’s definitely on me.” In the bar Mr. Friar tried to amuse him with scandalous stories about celebrities, but Duddy didn’t even smile once.

“I want you to think about that picture, Mr. Friar. I want you to think about it night and day. It’s got to be great.”

Mr. Friar assured him that he kept a notebook by his bed and marked down all his creative ideas, even if he had to get up at three A.M. to do it. “I’m thinking of the part when the boy is up there reading his chapter from the Torah. I see a slow dissolve into the boy’s racial memory. We could begin with the pain of the baby’s circumcision and —”

Duddy jerked awake. “Hey, you can’t show a kid’s pecker in this picture. There are going to be women and children there.”

“Remember,” Mr. Friar said severely. “No artistic interference.”

“Right now I can see myself waiting on tables again.”

“Let’s have another,” Mr. Friar said.

They had one more and then Duddy called for the waiter and paid the bill. Outside, Mr. Friar was not as loquacious as usual. He seemed self-absorbed.

“Thanks a lot for the drinks, Mr. Friar.”

“Don’t mention it. À demain.”