Shark Infested Custard Part 11

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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s to all the Dolphin games."

Tom laughed. "Who wouldn't? For a lifetime pa.s.s to the Dolphin games, I'd trade jobs with you myselli 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 b.u.t.te on Wednesday instead of hitting Iowa City. Thursday you're in Indianapolis, Friday you're in Detroit, and by Friday night c.o.c.ktail 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 a.s.ses, 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 getJulie 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 d.a.m.ned 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 gla.s.s, and fixed me another weak drink. I lit another cigarette from the b.u.t.t I was smoking. I knew better than to chain-smoke, but the d.a.m.ned 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 pa.s.sing 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 disthct 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 s.h.i.+t. 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned barrel."

"What happens to me if I decided to stay in Miami?"

"Speaking for the company, Hank, nothing could make me any happier! We won't be able to find a man half as good as you are to replace you, and as long as you're here this is one territory that Julie and I don't have to worry about. For the company, it would be a great thing. Fine. We could quit worrying about Miami--for about five years, anyway. But you're a person, Hank."

Tom jumped down, crossed to the bed, sat beside me, and put his right arm around my shoulders. He dropped his voice a full octave.

"Let me level with you, Hank I like you, you h.o.r.n.y f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You know that, don't you?"

I nodded.

"You like me, too, don't you, Hank? Haven't we had a few good times together?"

"You know what I think of you, Tom."

"Right. So let me tell you a story. You've met Johnny Maldon, I know. He was at the last Atlanta meeting, and you've probably talked to him at other conventions, or seen him anyway. HasJulie ever talked to you about Johnny?"

"No," I lied. "Julie doesn't talk about his other salesmen, unless they've come up with a good idea."

"Good.Johnny hasn't come up with a good idea in ten years, but eighteen years ago he was a d.a.m.ned good man. He was never as good as you, but at least he got out and hustled. Awhile ago, when I told you that you were Lee's highest paid salesman, I didn't tell you all of it. How much did you make when you were first hired?"

"Nine thousand, and a car."

"That's what Johnny still makes now, Hank! Nine thousand a year and a car. He hasn't had a raise in seven years, and he'll never have another. But Johnny is really our highest paid salesman, Hank, because he's really making nine thousand dollars an -hour---the -one- hour, if it's that much, he works for the company during an entire year."

Tom shook his head and signed.

"So let's say that you stay in Miami, Hank. For the next four or five years, fine. No problems. None for you, none for the company. But every year, inflation. If Johnny can't live on nine thousand a year in Alabama today, do you think you'll be able to survive in Miami on twenty-two thousand, five years from now? In Miami? You'll be bitter, and you'll be unhappy, and you won't blame yourself--no, you'll blame the company. And once you start blaming the company, you'll slack off. You'll work one day a week instead of three or four, and Miami sales will go down. Old Ned Lee won't be around in five years to save your a.s.s, either. Next year, if he keeps his promise, Ned will give up the presidency and confine himself to handling the gavel at monthly board meetings as Chairman of the Board. You'll be thirty-seven years old, and you'll be out on the street, Hank. It's human nature. And even if you continue to do a good job, and I have a hunch that you won't let any bitterness influence your actual working habits, it won't help you. You aren't that kind of man, Hank. But all the same, the other company executives will wonder about you. And why? Because it's unAmerican to refuse a promotion, that's why. They'll think--right or wrong-- that you haven't got any ambition. And if they think you haven't got any ambition, the next thing they'll think is that no matter how good your sales are in Miami--from Key West to Palm Beach--they should be even better, much better--no matter how hard you're actually working."

"Jesus, Tom," I said, "a lot of men keep one job for life..."

"Of course they do, Hank But they aren't exactly ambitious men, are they?"

"But if they're happy men, what the h.e.l.l?"

"Hank, if you're still only making twenty-two grand a year five years from now, I'll guarantee you that you'll be one unhappy sonofab.i.t.c.h in Miami. Believe me. How about one more drink, and then I've got to run you out of here. I've got to get a few hours sleep before my midnight plane."

"I'll pa.s.s on the drink, Tom."

"Okay. Don't make your decision now. Think about it--the decision's yours all the way, and I sure as h.e.l.l don't want to influence you any. Either way you decide is fine with me. I may be your boss, but I'm a better friend than I am a boss, and I think you know that. So either way, I'll back you. Lee Labs is twice as big as it was ten years ago, but we still believe in the personal not the personnel approach to employee relations.h.i.+ps. And if the company ever forgets that employees are people, I'm getting out myself and they can stick my seventy thousand dollars a year up their a.s.s!"

He got to his feet, and so did I. I put the gla.s.s down on the desk.

"I'll be at the Coronado Beach in San Juan for the next week, or maybe ten days. Gonzales is the only Catholic in the company, and he wants to hire a black man for the Leeward islands. What do you think about that, Hank?"

"I didn't know that Gonzales was our only Catholic."

"Ned Lee hates Catholics. I thought you knew that. But we had to have a linguist in the Caribbean, and Gonzales speaks Spanish, French, and even Haitian patois. Besides, Gonzales is a native Puerto Rican with a B.S. from Tufts."

"I like Gonzales," I said, "I also think it's a good idea to hire a few black detail men--especially if you keep them in the Caribbean."

"I agree with you, Hank In fact, if you take the midwest district, we're going to ask you to recruit a black detail man for Detroit. The guy we've got in Detroit now is afraid to drive a car into some of the sections in his territory."

I started for the door, and Tom grabbed my left elbow with a thumb and forefinger pincers grip.

"So you've got a week, Hank. Call me collect in Puerto Rico at the Coronado Beach when you've decided what you want to do."

"I can tell you right now, Tom..."

"I don't want to know now! I want you to think about it, and call me later."

"Right."

When I got downstairs I had a double-shot of brandy in the Dobbs House lounge, and then I left the terminal. Tom had manipulated me with a heavy hand. If he hadn't been so tired, and he had looked exhausted, he would have handled the matter much more subtly instead of beating me over the head. Nevertheless, almost half of everything he said was true. I would still get raises in Miami. If I didn't there were other pharmaceutical companies that would hire me at a much higher salary in another year or so. So if Lee didn't pay me what I was ent.i.tled to, I would get it elsewhere. But in seven or eight years--not five--I really would be frozen and unable to quit--like Johnny Maldon in Tuscaloosa. In ten years time, however, I hoped to own some rental property, maybe a small apartment house. All I had to do was save my money, but it is hard to save any money in Miami. I would have to work out a regular saving plan of some kind. And soon.

Thanks to Daylight Savings Time, the sun was still s.h.i.+ning at eight p.m. I crossed the heavy traffic to the parking garage, and rode the elevator to the top floor. I unlocked my car, glanced at the back seat, and heard, before I accepted the physical evidence, the ticking of an alarm clock There were four red-and-white wires wrapped around three sticks of dynamite, and these wires were attached to the alarm clock.

Without slamming the door, I turned and started running down the exit ramp, and I didn't stop running until I reached the ground floor.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

On the ground floor, panting, I leaned with both hands against a concrete post and vomited a thin stream of sour bile. My stomach convulsed a few more times, but by breathing heavily through my mouth, I managed to regain control of my body and check my desire for further flight. My s.h.i.+rt was soaked through, and my seersucker suit jacket was damp beneath the arms. I removed my jacket, and wiped my streaming eyes and face with my s.h.i.+rt sleeve.

I had left my car key, on the ring with all of my other keys, in the car door. Cars raced noisily into the parking garage seeking, but not finding, a s.p.a.ce on the first floor before they took the ramp on up to the second or the third or fourth. Because I could ride the elevator, I never wasted my time looking for a s.p.a.ce on the bottom floor when I came to the airport. I drove to the top floor immediately, where there were almost always empty s.p.a.ces. I tried to remember what the makes of the other cars up there were, but I couldn't. I also wondered if Mr. Wright was on the top floor, lurking madly about to exult over the explosion. I also wondered what the time was on the alarm clock attached to the dynamite in my back seat.

I looked at my watch. It was eight-twenty-two. If Wright had a sense of order, he would set the explosion for eight-thirty or nine p.m.--if he had a sense of order. Aman crazy enough to put dynamite in another man's car was unlikely to have a sense of anything. My mind wasn't functioning too well either, or I wouldn't have taken a chance. But I took the chance, hoping, as I rode the elevator to the top floor that I would encounter Mr. Wright. If I did, I would disarm him, feed him his pistol, and then throw the sonofab.i.t.c.h over the rail from the fourth floor and watch him splatter when he hit the asphalt below.

I approached my car. The door was still hanging open. I retrieved my keys, glanced into the back seat, and noticed that the red paper on one of the sticks of dynamite was loose and flapping. I looked a little closer. The exposed end of the dynamite stick resembled a piece of sawed wood. I folded the driver's seat down over the wheel, and gingerly fingered the tissue paper, unfolding it back a little more. It was merely red tissue paper wrapped loosely around a short length of broomstick. So were the other two "sticks." The wires attached to the alarm clock didn't do anything either. There was no battery, and there were no dynamite caps in the three sticks of wood. The bomb was a fake. I threw the wrapped wooden sticks and the alarm clock on the concrete floor and got into the car.

I opened the glove compartment and discovered that my.38 pistol was missing.

There was no way, that I could figure, for Mr. Wright to know--in advance--that I was coming to the airport, unless, of course, he had a tap on my phone. But even so--and a tap was unlikely--he still couldn't know that I was going to park in this particular garage on the top floor. There are literally hundreds of places to park at the Miami airport, and the constant vehicle traffic is unbelievable. Somehow, though, Wright had followed me, watched me, and planted the fake explosive device after stealing my pistol. How, I wondered, did he happen to have a key that fitted my Galaxie? And why plant a phony bomb? Why not a real one?

The man was insane, that was all. He had to be. What he was doing, as nearly as I could determine logically, was playing around with, telling me, in one curious move after another, that he would kill me any time he wanted to, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. The evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d was enjoying himself, and laughing at my antics.

Somehow, he was able to follow me about the city like a d.a.m.ned ghost, and he was able to get into my car every time I left it. He was probably close by now, watching me, even though I couldn't see him. I s.h.i.+vered. On the off chance (or on-chance) that he might have planted a real bomb under the hood this time instead of a Whiz-Bang, I checked under the hood, looked beneath the car, and rummaged around in the trunk. None of my samples was missing, nor had he ripped open any of the sealed cardboard boxes full of drugs in the trunk.

I sat in the front seat, closed the door, turned on the engine and air-conditioning and smoked a cigarette. I was bone-tired. With two bad scares that day, and what with the additional pressure from Tom Davies, my body was running out of adrenaline.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

By the time I finished the cigarette, I had a plan. A stupid plan, maybe, but I was going to try it anyway. But first I had to eat something-- the h.e.l.l with my diet--I needed all the strength I could muster.

I pulled into the Pigskin Bar-B-Que on LeJeune, and ordered two pork barbecue sandwiches and a double chocolate milkshake. It was the first milkshake I had had in two years, and I had forgotten how good they were. I felt much better after eating, and although I wasn't too optimistic about succeeding with my hastily conceived plan, the fact that I was going to do something to counter Mr. Wright instead of just waiting to see what would happen next gave me a feeling of well-being.

Now, instead of worrying about his uncanny ability to track me through the crowded city, like some wily, city-wise Natty b.u.mppo, I began to worry about the possibility of losing him.

It was dark when I left the Drive-In. I took the Airport Expressway to Miami Beach, hugging the outside lane all the way without driving any faster than forty miles per hour. I didn't want to lose the b.a.s.t.a.r.d; I wanted to find him by making it as easy as I could for him to trail me.

In Miami Beach I cruised slowly down Arthur G.o.dfrey Road, turned in to the side street behind the Double X Adult Theater and parked in the tiny parking lot. The old guy who gave me the parking stub asked me if I was going to the Double X Theater, and when I told him I was he reminded me to have the girl at the box office stamp and validate my stub before I came back for my car.

"Otherwise, buddy" he said grumpily, "it'll cost you a buck an hour to park here. This ain't no regular lot, you know, it's for movie patrons."

"I understand," I said. "I've been here before."

There were two films playing. I had seen both of them with Larry when they played at the Kendall mini-theater a few weeks back. The features were -A Hard Man's Good to Find- and -Coming Attractions-, and they were both one-hour length films. That gave me about two hours to see if my plan would work. I took the tire iron out of the trunk, and wrapped it in the oily pink towel I also kept in the trunk I gave the Cuban woman in the box office four dollars for admission. She looked sharply at the folded pink towel, and sniffed disdainfully, but that didn't bother me. She probably had a low opinion of all the patrons of the Double X anyway.

I found a seat, and watched a couple of naked blondes ma.s.sage each other to rock music on the screen for about ten minutes, while I smoked a cigarette and got used to the darkness. There were about thirty people scattered about in the audience. Most of them were men, but there were two white-haired old ladies sitting together, and a couple of younger women--with their dates or husbands--who giggled a lot.

I left my seat and went to the lobby. I didn't see Wright in the audience, but I sensed, nevertheless, that he was somewhere about, or knew that I was in the theater. A man stood at the combination candy-and-p.o.r.no gla.s.s counter. In addition to candy and popcorn, there was a wide selection of p.o.r.no devices and still photos in the gla.s.s case. I waited until the man bought a box of popcorn, a Mounds bar, and a French tickler and went into the auditorium before I bought a package of gum from the girl behind the counter. I chewed two sticks in the empty lobby for a minute or so, and entered the men's room when I was sure that the counter girl was watching me.

The window in the crummy little toilet was about four feet above the wash basin. It was three feet wide, triple-paned, and about eighteen inches high. I climbed up on the wash basin, unlatched the window and let it fall back inside against the wall. Then I unhooked the screen, and pushed it outside. The screen fell, clattering, onto the asphalt pavement of the parking lot. I could look out, but the old attendant was at the other end of the lot and he hadn't, apparently, heard the screen fall. The drop from the window to the ground outside was about ten feet, which was a safe enough fall if a man slid his body out belly down from the window, and then dropped with his fingers from the ledge.

I took a sheet of the brown blot-don't-rub paper from the container by the sink, and printed "OUT OF ORDER" on it with my ballpoint pen. I had to go over the block letters several times to make it readable on the brown paper. I stuck the improvised sign on the outside of the door to the toilet with chewing gum, and then locked myself inside the cubicle. There was at least a foot and a half of s.p.a.ce below the closed door, and beneath the side panel separating the toilet from the urinal. I stood precariously on the seat and crouched down to hide my upper body. There was a tiny screw-hole in the metal side panel, and I could see through it with one eye. I could watch a man standing at the urinal, and I would also be able to get a quick glimpse of anyone who came in through the door.

It was hot in the john. The smelly latrine, unlike the rest of the smelly theater, was not airconditioned, and the slight exertion of climbing onto the wash basin and opening the window had opened my pores. Straight ahead, there was just enough s.p.a.ce at the door hinge for me to see the mottled mirror above the wash basin, but not the basin itself. Crouching there, hot, uncomfortable, sweating, with my legs becoming increasingly cramped by the strained position I was in, I felt like a d.a.m.ned fool.

I clutched the wrapped tire iron in my right hand, and resigned myself to a long wait. I would wait out the full two hours, regardless of the discomfort. Sooner or later, Wright would discover that I was missing from the audience, and he would find out that I had come into the john. Perhaps he knew already. When he came in to check, and noticed that the window was open, I would jump him. Such was my simple plan, but the longer I crouched there the dumber it seemed to be.

A young Latin male of twenty or twenty-one came in, and combed his s.h.a.ggy locks in the mirror. He ambled over to the urinal and unzipped his fly. He m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed rapidly into the urinal as I watched him in about twenty seconds--zip, zip, zip. This was something I hadn't expected to witness, nor did I want to see it. My face flushed with embarra.s.sment. I could feel the heat in my cheeks. He went back to the wash basin, combed his hair again and, without was.h.i.+ng his hands, left the john.

I felt a fresh surge of anger toward Mr. Wright. Because of him I had become a voyeur. The fact that it was inadvertent didn't make me feel any better about the sordid spot that I was in. But what the h.e.l.l did I expect? That's what most of the patrons came to the Double X Theater for and, in the next two hours, I would probably see another dozen men come in and jack off. This dismal prospect so unnerved me that I almost decided to give up my post and try something else, but then the door opened again.

The man who entered had a slight build, and long blond curly hair down to his shoulders. He wore rose-colored Bermuda shorts, tennis shoes with black support socks, and a heavy black denim CPO s.h.i.+rt with the long tails outside the shorts. His skinny white legs were hairless. He crossed quickly to the sink and climbed up on the wash basin. By raising my head slightly, I could see the back of his head above the door as he peered out the opened window. The long locks fluttered slightly as a gust of humid air came in through the window, and I suspected-- and acted on it immediately-- that this man might be, could be, Mr. Wright wearing a blond wig.