He laughed, and shook his head. “Not exactly. It would also depend on the bore size, the load, and the barrel length, but these things are not important with small arms. For short range protection, muzzle velocity doesn’t mean so much. A nice short-barrelled thirty-eight, is a good buy for protection. If you’re a very good shot you might prefer a forty-five. But if you are not a marksman, I suggest a thirty-eight, and the ammo’s a lot cheaper.”
He showed me several .38s and I selected a Police Special with a three-inch barrel. It was a delight to hold it in my hand.
The price was $280.00, which was more than I had expected to pay for a used pistol, but I handed him my MasterCard.
He filled out the bill of sale and registration papers and asked me to sign them. I slipped the pistol into my hip pocket, and he laughed.
“Hold on, Mr. Norton. I have to have the gun registered. You’ll be able to get it in seventy-two hours—three days from now.”
“Three days? I need it for protection now.”
“That’s the time it takes. We do the paperwork for you, you see, but I can’t let you take a weapon out that hasn’t been registered downtown with Metro. It’s the law.”
“Okay. Can you rent me a pistol for three days, until mine is registered?”
“That’s—just a minute, Mr. Norton. You’d better talk to Mr. Dugan.” He went down the counter, and came back with an older, red-haired man who looked as if he had rinsed his face with tomato soup.
“We aren’t in business to rent pistols, Mr. Norton,” Mr. Dugan said.
“I understand that, but I carry pharmaceutical supplies in my car, and they need protection until I get the pistol registered.”
“Who did you vote for in the last election?” “That’s a personal matter, Mr. Dugan,” I said. “Yes, it is, if you want to keep it personal. Do you mind showing me your voter’s registration card?” “Of course not.”
The moment he saw my registration card his stiff attitude changed. He smiled, shook my hand, winked, and returned the card. “For a fellow Republican,” he said, “we’re willing to bend a little, but we have to be careful, you know. Some of these knee-jerk liberals and independents that come in here—well, I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Norton.” He turned to the Cuban salesman. “Take care of him, José.”
I left the Target Gun Shop with a newly-blued, short-barrelled .38; two boxes of ammunition (100 rounds); a soft, plasticene holster, with a chrome clip to hold the holster and gun inside my trousers; a Hoppe’s gun cleaning kit; and a free bumper sticker, reading: “WHEN GUNS ARE OUTLAWED, ONLY OUTLAWS WILL HAVE GUNS.”
17
When I got back to my apartment I cleaned and oiled the .38 and got used to handling it. I aimed at various things in the living room and squeezed off some dry-run shots, trying to become familiar with the trigger pull. But I was a little afraid of the pistol. The concept of buying a pistol is one thing; to actually buy and own one and have it in your hand is something else—a step across a dividing line that changes you into a different kind of man. A pistol is often referred to as “the difference,” because a man five feet tall with a pistol has made up the difference between himself and an opponent six feet tall. But what I was feeling, as I fooled around with the pistol in my living room, was a psychological difference. I felt a combination of elation and dreadful excitement, together with an eagerness to use the damned pistol—to use it on Mr. Wright.
But I was not a good shot. My Army experience with weapons, as a member of the Adjutant General’s Corps, was primarily familiarization firing. During an R.O.T.C. summer camp I had had to qualify with a rifle on the range, but we had only fired five rounds apiece with a .45 on the pistol range, just to give us an idea of what it was like to shoot one.
I boiled four frankfurters and ate them with a bowl of cottage cheese. Every few minutes, I would to the window, and peak out to check my car. Until this business with Wright was resolved, I would be unable to work. I couldn’t park in strange parking lots, nor beside doctors’ offices—not if Wright had access to my car. Nor was my car safe on Santana, even though I could look out the window once in awhile to check on it. I couldn’t watch it all night—not when I slept.
I had to do something now.
It was two p.m., and much too early to go to the airport, but I would be safer there if I could lose or elude Wright beforehand. I was too restless and jittery to stay in the apartment.
I loaded the pistol, slipped it into the holster, and left the building. I had debated putting the bumper sticker on my car, but decided against it. If Wright saw the bumper strip, he might jump to the correct conclusion that I had armed myself, and it seemed to me that I would have a slightly better advantage if he didn’t know that I had a weapon.
I had lost Wright, I was certain, when I circled about through the Coral Gables residential sections before going to the gun shop. But the chances were good that he was following me again. To pick up again all he had to do was to return to my apartment house and wait for me. So although I didn’t see him, I made some elaborate maneuvers to lose him in case he was somewhere around.
No one knows Miami any better than I do. I’ve explored most of Dade County by car. I drove downtown on I-95, left the freeway at Biscayne, and then took the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. I drove up Collins, then came back to Miami via the Venetian Causeway, and picked up I-95 South. Then, by a dangerous maneuver and quite unexpectedly, I cut from the far right lane over to the left lane on a tire-screeching four-lane diagonal cross and made the downtown First Street exit ramp. Anyone following me would have had to know I was going to make this suicidal lane switch to stay with me.
I parked at the Miamarina, had a cup of coffee, and then took the Airport Expressway at a leisurely forty miles per hour to the International Airport. I drove up the departure ramp, turned into the terminal parking building across from the Eastern gate, and parked on the top floor. I locked the .38 in the glove compartment (it is not good to be caught with a loaded pistol in an airport). I locked the Galaxie and rode the elevator down to the departing passenger entrance.
It was four-fifteen p.m. I spent the next hour and a half slowly sipping two tall John Collinses at the Airport Lounge, well pleased with myself at the clever way I had lost Mr. Wright, while I waited to see Tom Davies, the Vice-President for Sales.
18
The two drinks, together with the illusion of security I felt at having given Wright the slip, had steadied me, and it was simple to gauge Tom Davies’ role when I joined him in his hotel room. Madras is back, and Tom was wearing a new madras suit-predominantly yellow, green, and black—with sixteen-inch cuffed bell-bottoms, a salmon-colored shirt, and a black-and-gold tie. When he met me at the door and didn’t take off his jacket when he invited me to fix myself a drink (Jack Daniels Black, water), I perceived that Tom was playing vice-president.
The last time I had been with Tom, about ten minutes before I had passed out, he had been drunk, giggling helplessly, and the two Amazon showgirls we had picked up in Atlanta had been rubbing his naked body with Johnson’s Baby Oil. But during this current meeting in the silent soundproof room in the Airport Hotel, mentioning that particular incident would have been undiplomatic. Taking my cue from Tom, I did not remove my jacket. The drink I mixed was very light indeed—a “social” drink, taken genially by the hard-working star salesman in the field.
Tom was wearing his sincere smile, and his manners were muted. Dale Carnegie. I had taken the Dale Carnegie course, and so had Tom; in fact every man in the company had been forced to take it, and the company, of course, had paid the tab. The problem with two men who have both taken and absorbed the Carnegie techniques is to conceal the fact that they are using them on each other. In this respect, Tom was much better at it than I was because, as a Vice-President, with a $70,000 annual salary, plus stock options, he had to be. But I was perceptive enough to realize, or recognize, his superiority in this regard, and all I had to do to maintain my deferential emplo
yee role without appearing to be deferential (the company would not tolerate Uriah Heeps) was to talk and act with Tom as if I, too, were making seventy thousand a year. What I had to be very careful about was to never show that I was superior to Tom in knowledge in any area of discussion, and, at the same time, never to reveal abysmal ignorance on any topic discussed. It was quite simple to maintain my role with Tom because he made it easy for me, and I admired his skill.
Besides, you can’t shit an old shitter.
Tom had been a detail man in the field, and the district manager for Southern California before he had been promoted to Vice-President for Sales. He was only thirty-five, goal-oriented, and his chances of succeeding old Ned Lee as president of the company some day were better than those of the other vice-presidents I had met in New Jersey.
Tom sat on the edge of the double bed, placed his pale drink on the bedside table, and waved me to the chair by the desk. The chair was more than twelve feet away from the bed, and he was establishing—in case I had failed to notice it already—the distance between us as befitted our roles. He would begin with an apology, and I waited for it silently, wearing my concerned expression.
“I know that six o’clock is an awkward time, Hank, and I’m sorry if you had to break off an engagement of some kind to meet me.”
I shook my head. “Not when it’s company business, Tom,” I said. “Besides, how often do I get a chance to see you?”
I had handled that one neatly, by implying that I had broken an engagement of some kind, and by hinting that I liked him as a person, and not because he was merely a generous boss.
“How well do you know Julie Westphal, Hank?”
“Very well. He’s a friend of mine, and I don’t say that just because he’s the man who hired me. I like him as my district manager and I think he likes me. Julie was damned helpful to me in the beginning, and I learned a great deal from him.”
“He likes you, too, Hank,” Tom said, nodding his head approvingly. “In fact, he wanted to come down here from Atlanta with me. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
Tom laughed. “To help me knock some sense into your head, that’s why!”
I smiled. “I’m always receptive to more sense. Any man can use more than he has—so what have I done now?”
“What have you done? I’ll tell you what you’ve done! You’ve become the best goddamned detail man Lee Labs has got in the field, that’s what you’ve done! And I’m going to tell you something else you don’t know. You’re the highest paid salesman in the company—or did you suspect it already?”
“No,” I said. Then I grinned. “But I was a little puzzled when I only got a five hundred dollar raise this year instead of the usual thousand. What’s the matter, Tom? D’you guys think you’re paying me too much?”
“Frankly, Hank, you weren’t supposed to get any raise at all. The only reason you got the five hundred was because I insisted on it. You’ve had it, Hank. There’ll be no more raises. Oh, you’ll get your cost of living boosts, of course, and your fair share of the annual bonuses. But your base salary is frozen. As a detail man, you’re now in a dead end job.”
“I can get by,” I said, shrugging. “In fact, I like my job and living in Miami so well, I’d stay with the company even if you paid me a lot less. In this job, helping doctors, which means, in turn, helping sick people, I fulfill myself every single day. It would be pretty hard for me to find a selling job of any other kind as psychologically satisfying.”
Tom nodded. “I wish more of our salesmen felt as you do, Hank.” He sighed, and shook his head. “However, a dead end job is a dead end job, and you’re only thirty-two years old. You were offered the district manager’s position in Syracuse, and you turned it down…”
“I explained that…”
“Let me finish, Hank. Sure you turned it down, and I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to live in Syracuse myself. It takes a peculiar and hardy breed of man to brave those Syracuse winters, holding onto ropes as they walk windy streets full of snow, and I was against the idea of asking a man from Florida to take it in the first place. And I told them so emphatically in the executive session. No one held that against you, Hank.
“But then you turned down Cleveland.”
“I know, Tom, but Cleveland—Jesus.”
“I agree, Hank. ‘Cleveland—Jesus!’” He laughed. “The only way we got Fenwick to take Cleveland was to give him a lifetime pass to all the Browns’ football games.”
“I didn’t know that, Tom. In lieu of the salary raise you aren’t going to give me, I’ll gladly take a lifetime pass to all the Dolphin games.”
Tom laughed. “Who wouldn’t? For a lifetime pass to the Dolphin games, I’d trade jobs with you myself! But seriously, Hank, those offers—Syracuse and Cleveland—were not made lightly. Any and all promotions are considered in depth. Lee Labs is a quality company, and when we promote a man from the field, we’re looking ahead to at least one or two promotions beyond that one. Now, have you ever heard the old saying, ‘Three’s the charm?’”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s it. When the third promotion is turned down, although it rarely happens, we never make another offer. That’s it, and I want you to understand this, Hank. So listen carefully, and let me give you the pitch.” He paused dramatically, stared into my eyes, nodded three times, and said, “Chicago.”
“Chicago? I think I told you once before, Tom—in fact I’m sure I did—that I planned on staying in Miami for the rest of my life. I’m putting down roots here, I love the climate, I…”
“Hold on, Hank. Do you think I’m a fool? Listen to me.” He rose, walked toward me, and stopped three feet away. Now I had to look up at him to make eye contact.
“When I said Chicago, I didn’t mean that you’d be the Chicago salesman, for Christ’s sake! We’ve already got two detail men in Chicago. I’m offering you the midwestern district! If you told me you liked Chicago, or wanted to live there, I’d think you had rocks in your head. But you’ll only be in Chicago on weekends as the district manager. Your headquarters’ll be there-no office—you’ll work out of your apartment and get your mail there, but during the week you’ll be on the road. Let me lay it out, and if you want to turn it down after I tell you about it, that’s your decision. Okay? On Sunday night, you leave O’Hare International and fly to the Twin Cities. A day in St. Paul, and a day in Minneapolis. Tuesday night you fly to St. Louis, and spend the day there. Wednesday, you’re in Iowa City, and maybe, every other week, you can make the hop to Butte on Wednesday instead of hitting Iowa City. Thursday you’re in Indianapolis, Friday you’re in Detroit, and by Friday night cocktail hour you’re back in Chicago. If you want to, once in awhile, you can skip Detroit and spend the day checking out your detail men in Chicago. That’ll give you a one-day breather once in awhile. The thing is, Hank, the midwest is our weakest district in sales. We’ve picked good young men with a lot of potential in those cities, but they aren’t salesmen—not yet they aren’t—but we’re counting on you to move their asses, to make hotshots out of ’em.”
“I just don’t want to leave Miami, Tom. I think I’m doing a good job for the company here…”
“Good? You’re doing a fantastic job down here! When was the last time Julie Westphal came down from Atlanta to critique your sales pitches?”
“I don’t want to get Julie into trouble, Tom, but he hasn’t been down here in more than two months.”
Tom grinned. He sat on the desk, which made him still higher than me. Looking at the wall, he placed his left hand on my right shoulder.
“I know the score, Hank. And I’ve read Julie’s reports. He doesn’t come down here to check on you because I told him to leave you alone, and because, as he admitted, he was wasting his time checking on you. What can he tell you that you don’t know already? We know how high the sales are down here, and if you weren’t out there hustling they’d drop. Julie’s a damned good man, but he’s limited, too, and
his position as Southeast district manager is his terminal job. That information’s in confidence, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So instead of coming down here, Julie spends some extra time in Auburn and Birmingham where he can help two young salesmen who really need his help. But in your case, Hank, we’ve got some other plans. With quality production, our expansion is slow, but we are expanding. I told you on the phone that I hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours, and now I’ll tell you why. I spent that time with some lawyers in a hotel room in Boston, and we have just bought Franklin Toothbrushes. You’ve seen them in drugstores, and it was an additional line we needed. You’ll have a sample case of toothbrushes within a week.” He grinned, and when Tom grinned, his lips disappeared altogether and his mouth became a shallow U. “You’ll never have to buy another toothbrush, Hank.”
Tom took my glass, and fixed me another weak drink. I lit another cigarette from the butt I was smoking. I knew better than to chain-smoke, but the damned pressure was getting to me.
When he handed me my fresh drink, I rose, walked to the window, and pulled up the Venetian blinds. There was no window; the raised blinds revealed a white concrete wall—how else could they soundproof a room with a plane passing overhead every thirty seconds? I dropped the blinds.
“I’m very flattered, Tom,” I said. “But to leave Miami, to leave Florida…” I shook my head.
“Okay, Hank, I’ll talk about money. Sit down on the bed. You’ll be more comfortable there.”
He sat on the desk again, and now, as I sat on the bed, the twelve feet of distance was back and he was still looking down on me from his desk seat vantage point. “As a single man, I know you have enough to live on, Hank, and you should be saving a few dollars. I did, when I was in the field, and we’re pretty generous with our expense accounts. In some cases, too generous, but I won’t go into that with you because you’ve never been an offender. But the midwest district means a five thousand dollar salary jump, and you’ll be on the road five days a week. That means expense account money five days out of seven. Think about it. Don’t say anything. Just think about it. Within five more years, and if you’ve done the job in the midwest we think you’ll do, and we do, or we wouldn’t have picked you for it, you’ll be moving up. Lee Labs has some ambitious plans, and one of these days we’re going to establish a Vice-President for Training. That’s still a part of my load now, training, but with expansion, I’m going to have to let go of a few responsibilities. Not now, and not three years from now, but I’d say that within five years, or maybe four, that position will be an absolute necessity. I’m not promising it to you—I never promise a man shit. But I have a hunch that within five years—maybe four—you’re going to demand it, and if we don’t give you a vice-presidency or something comparable another company will. Yes, Hank, I’m afraid you’re going to have us over the goddamned barrel.”
The Shark-Infested Custard Page 13