I kept looking over at Phil, the founder of the company and earlier in his career Humphrey Bogart’s agent, who was growing impatient. He’d rub his face, then sigh in a “silent schmuckian” manner. I assumed that for some unspoken reason, he hated me. I hadn’t been doing much of the talking, so I wasn’t sure what his problem was. Finally, with a huge political grunt, he put his hands on his knees and in a typical old Jewish guy getting up way made a scary noise to help him rise, leaned forward within inches of my face, and said: “You can listen to my boys’ bullshit all you want, but I have a
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