appeared on her face. She looked me up and down, and her implication became clear.
I wanted to ask her why any person of even limited intelligence would choose to believe an article in a faceless magazine whose writers had looked at a product for a few days, over professionals who spent years working hands on, learning all the strengths and weaknesses of every model. I wanted to show her, through back issues, how Consumer Reports routinely top-rated a model one year, then turned around and gave the identical model a low rating the next.
I wanted to, but I didn’t. This truly misanthropic breed of salesmenbaiters, who spend entire sunny weekends on retail floors with their magazines and pads, imagining themselves as crusaders in some made-up battle that is significant only to them, truly lie beyond conversion to humanity. And there is nothing more indignant than a salesman who is called a liar on those rare occasions when he is struggling heroically to tell the truth.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We simply don’t have that model. It’s been discontinued.”
“I hardly have time,” she said, “to bandy about on this matter with a clerk.” Then she walked quickly from the store.
Louie finished up with his customer and swaggered my way. He looked down at his shoes and scraped a fleck of dead skin off the bridge of his nose.
“That was pretty smooth, Nick. You didn’t call her any names before you blew her out the door, did you, just so I know?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Yeah, well. You been off the floor too long. Half the people come in here be actin’ all superior-you can’t let that bust on your groove. It’s part of the job, man, it’s what they payin’ us for.”
I looked at his sagging, tired face, and then at McGinnes and Malone, who were talking to each other in the Sound Explosion. The twelve-hour shifts, the standing on one’s feet all day long on concrete floors and the varicose veins that resulted from that, the constant degradation from customers and management alike, the absence of praise or compliment, the cycle of work and drink and drugs and back again-it was taking its toll on all of them. The money became insignificant; ultimately the only reward was to get the deal, a small victory for its own sake that led inevitably to some suburban funeral parlor, where small groups of old men in stubbornly plaided polyesters stood in circles and said things like, “I remember the time Johnny stepped a customer off a giveaway RCA to a no-name piece of dreck that had a fifty dollar bill on it.”
“I’m going to take a break, Louie.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
Therain was not abating. I crossed the Avenue and jogged south two blocks to an Amoco station, as the wet tires of slow-moving vehicles h {ng ATINissed past. I bought road maps of Virginia and the Carolinas in the office of the station and fitted them in the dry inside pocket of my jacket.
By the time I had run back up the block and entered the Golden Temple, I was heavy with rainwater. The matriarch of the family-owned restaurant seated me at a warm deuce in the rearmost corner. She set down a cup of tea and left the pot.
Her husband came out of the kitchen shortly thereafter, rubbing his hands with a rag. He was wearing a white uniform and had a white paper hat on his head. Straight gray hair shot out from underneath the hat in several directions. He clapped me on the shoulder. I said hello as he pulled the menu from my hands.
“You don’t need,” he said, and walked back to the kitchen after tossing the menu behind the register.
He returned five minutes later with steamed dumplings and some combination noodles that were mixed with thin slices of pork, shrimp, spring onions, and ginger. I ate while I studied the road maps I had spread out on the table.
Mama-san handed me the check when I was finished. I left fourteen on nine and walked to the entranceway, where I dropped a quarter into a payphone and dialed. Pence picked up on the second ring.
“This is Nick Stefanos.”
“Mr. Stefanos,” he said, bringing some phlegm up from his throat. “What’s the word on your progress?”
I told him nearly everything I had learned in the last few days, soft-pedaling the character of Broda’s companions and omitting entirely the theft and drug angles.
“Frankly,” I said, “I think your grandson is just on a long joyride. He’ll be back as soon as the money runs out.”
“And you plan on leaving it at that?”
“Not entirely. But I believe he’s safe right now.” The old man picked up the doubt in my voice.
He sighed, said in a sarcastic manner, “You do what you can,” and hung up.
I replaced the receiver and stood looking through the window at the rain, which was slicing at the road diagonally now, powered by a fierce wind. I pushed open the heavy door of The Golden Temple, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and let the stinging water hit my face.
FOURTEEN
The floor was dense with customers when I returned. Louie, who was hopelessly tied up with an elderly man, raised his arm over the man’s head and pointed to a couple of live ones in the TV department.
I made my way towards them, ignoring a guy in a down jacket who was carrying a clipboard and demanding, for anyone who would listen, to see some “literature.” McGinnes approached me in the aisle, doing his clipped goosestep and obviously in a hurry to get by. I grabbed hi ~literatus arm and stopped him.
“That guy over there needs some literature,” I said, jerking my head in the direction of the professional stroker in the down jacket.
“I sell electronics,” McGinnes said, loud enough for the customer to hear. ”If he wants literature, tell him to go to the library.” Then he rapped me on the dick with his fist and walked away.
The pain had subsided by the time I greeted my first customers. Louie had been on the mark by signaling me, as they bought within five minutes.
The rush was unusually long and steady, even for a Saturday, and continued unbroken for the next three hours. McGinnes and Malone did battle all afternoon. From the wide smile on Malone’s face and from his energy level (at one point I saw him leap over a console to greet a customer), it was clear that he thought he was trouncing McGinnes.
But McGinnes was quietly writing some business that day. I knew he was booking from the way he rushed customers to the front counter as he closed and from the look of thought and determination on his face as he prioritized the floor. Louie basically handled the be-backs and took TOs from Lloyd. Between the two of them they probably popped five grand.
As for me, I found my rhythm. During one pitch I felt the adrenalin rush at that point where I realized I had succeeded in stepping a customer into a four-piece, high-profit, high-commission deal, though ultimately Malone’s sales number would go on the ticket. And the day peaked for me when I attracted the audience of three separate couples during my pitch to one of them on a twenty-seven-inch stereo monitor set. Two of the three couples stepped up and bought. From across the room McGinnes smiled, crossed his arms, cocked his hip, and gave me a broad wink.
By four-thirty the crowd had dwindled to a few customers. My voice was nearly shot. Louie and Lloyd were waiting on the last people, while McGinnes, Malone, and I stood in the shadows of the Sound Explosion and popped three malt liquors. Lee came to us with several strands of adding machine tape in her fist. I handed her my can and she had a swig.
“So what’s the total, darling?” Malone asked.
“We did twenty-five,” she said. “Louie’s going to be happy.”
“Damn good Saturday,” McGinnes said.
“What I do?” Malone said.
“Okay,” Lee said. “Here it is. Louie and Lloyd wrote almost six between them. Nick wrote six, and gave you guys three each out of that.”
“What I do?” Malone said again.
