by Orrie Hitt
Fund-raising is like any other kind of selling; once you’ve sold yourself, the rest comes easy.
“It’s okay,” I’d told her. “You have to take a beating once in a while.”
We’d talked some more about it, the same old bunk about what a great thing this was that the League was supporting, and she’d been real close and her perfume had been in my nostrils. Somehow my arm had gone around her down in the darkness. She’d sort of lifted her head, wanting me to, and then I’d kissed her. When my hand had come around to her back, she’d sighed and let her breasts swell out soft and free.
“I don’t do this with every fellow,” she’d whispered.
Maybe she hadn’t done it with every fellow, or even every other one, but she hadn’t been lonesome all these years either. She knew how to make the front seat of a car have as much room as a three-quarter bed.
The next time had been the night the books were delivered in Waverly, about an hour after I’d given the first copy to His Honor the Mayor. This time we had parked further down the street, away from the house.
That night had been the last with Sally, though I’d seen her almost every day since. She would come down to the hotel around noon, where I had two girls selling books by phone, and now and then we’d have lunch together. She would ask me about the sales and I’d tell her they weren’t too bad but they weren’t what I’d call good, either. I didn’t bother explaining that I had six other girls working in other spots of the city and that, counting everything, sales were going faster than we could deliver the books. On the other hand, the League would get an accounting only of the books sold from the hotel so any further explanation of the situation seemed unnecessary.
I parked the Buick near the office entrance of Grafton Manufacturing Company and got out.
The girl at the reception desk looked up and smiled when I entered.
“You can go right on in,” she said. “Mr. Grafton is expecting you.” Her smile lingered. “By the way, I liked your history book.”
“Thanks.”
Harvey Grafton stood up as I came in. He was a gray-haired man in his late fifties, about five-ten, which put him on about a level with the dimple in the middle of my chin.
“Sorry about all this,” he said, smiling. “I wish it could have worked out better for you.”
I shrugged and sat down in the chair next to his desk.
“Live and learn,” I said. “You can’t beat the wheel every time.”
He nodded and hauled a check book across his desk.
“Now, how shall I make this out, Mr. Fulton?”
I’d told him all about it the day before but for three grand I’d stand on top of his desk and recite it for a week if he wanted me to.
“Just write this on the side,” I said. “‘In full payment for six thousand copies of the book known as the History of the City of Waverly, plus all rights and privileges of said book.’ Then put on the check, if you wish, ‘six thousand copies at fifty cents a copy.’”
A couple of minutes later I had my three grand.
“Like I said,” I repeated, pocketing the check. “Live and learn.”
You keep right on selling a sucker. You never let up, not even after you’ve gotten the money. When you start your campaign you do it subtly, and always through a relative or friend. You never directly hit the sucker first. With the sucker you’re always light and gay about things. If he has a daughter like Sally you put the prong in that way. You let her in on the phone bills, the help and once in a while you give a check that bounces. Eventually the sucker gets the story and because you’ve stayed away from him with your troubles he takes on a new respect for you. Pretty soon he gives you an offer for help. You tell him, thanks, you’ll think it over. You think it over and decide how far up the lollypop he’ll go. Once in a while you get a guy like Grafton, a guy who swallows it stick and all.
“Well, it’s for a good cause,” Grafton said, as I got up to go. “As you suggested, Mr. Fulton, this just means I’m acting as banker for the League. As they sell the books they’ll pay me for them. By the time the books are all gone the League will have a nice profit and I’ll have my money back.”
“That with the fifteen hundred I turned over to them ought to do a nice job,” I agreed. I smiled. “It’s a start, anyway.”
He held out his hand.
“It’s been nice knowing you, Mr. Fulton.”
“The pleasure’s been mine.”
Six grand worth of pleasure, I thought. Six grand and he could have those six thousand damned books. When the League went out to sell the books from door to door they’d think the books we had sold had had litile books. Naturally, they wouldn’t be aware of the fact that we had sold twenty-seven hundred more books than we’d reported and if they felt like checking it they’d all be dead before they finished the job.
“Your truck picked up the books this morning,” I told Grafton. “The count was correct.”
He walked with me to the door.
“Where are you going from here, Mr. Fulton?”
“I don’t know.”
He winked at me.
“But no more books?”
I grinned.
“No more books. I almost took a bath on this one.”
“Let me hear from you,” he said. He gave me his card. “And stop out and say goodbye to Sally and Mrs. Grafton.”
I left the office and drove back downtown. I took the check into the bank, depositing it to my account, and told the guy at the window I might be sending for it by draft.
“We’re always at your service,” he said.
I started away from the window and then went back. I’d almost forgotten the number-one rule. You always cry.
“I wish all that dough was mine,” I told him. “Or I wish I was a printer. The printers make all the money.”
He smiled and I walked away. I’d made my point. If Grafton ever wondered why I had so much money in the bank he’d get the story without any trouble at all. Hell, it’s not Fulton’s money, he’d be told; it’s the printer’s money. Why, the poor slob acted like he didn’t have a dime to his name, or two nickels to make change for it.
To hell with them, I thought. To hell with the dizzy bastards. They wanted those books, so they got their books. So who had time to cry over that?
I went down the street and into a liquor store, got a couple of fifths and returned to the car.
I drove over toward the South Side, wondering if Al would get to town for the party in Madeline’s apartment or if I’d have to mail his check to his home in Scranton.
And I wondered something else, too.
I wondered if I should tell them that this was the last pitch, that I was sick of it, or if I shouldn’t tell them anything, not even see them and just keep on driving.
I turned off Center Street, cut over to Waymart and headed for the South Side. I couldn’t do a thing like that, not to Al and Madeline. Well, maybe to Al but not to Madeline. After all, this was the end of another deal and Madeline always gave me a present when we finished a deal. Sometimes she cried and sometimes she didn’t.
Once, a long time ago, we had both cried.
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