Was tonight merely a finalizing of something that he had long intended to do? It seemed so; it had the feeling about it of the expected. It might even be that his strong attraction for Carol had been a reaction to Moira, an attempt to attach himself to another woman and thus be detached from her.
Carol…
He fidgeted uncomfortably, then put her out of his mind. He'd have to do something about her, he decided. Some day soon, somehow, he'd have to smooth things over with her.
As for Moira…
He frowned, on the point of falling asleep, then relaxed with a shake of his head. No, no danger there. She'd gotten sore and blown her top, but she was probably regretting it already. At any rate, there was nothing she could do and she was too smart to try. Her own position was too tenuous. She was wide open for a smacking-down herself.
He fell into a deep sleep. Having slept so little the night before, he rested well. And it was after nine when he awakened.
He sprang out of bed, feeling good and full of energy, starting to plan the day's schedule as he reached for a robe. Then slowly, drearily, he sat back down. For here he was again as he had been last week. Here he was again, still, confronted by emptiness. Barred from his selling job, barred from any activity. Faced with a day, an endless series of days, with nothing to do.
Dully, he cursed Kaggs.
He cursed himself.
Again, hopefully hopeless, as he bathed and shaved, as he dressed and went out to breakfast, he sought some way out of the impasse. And his mind came up with the same two answers-answers which were wholly unacceptable.
One: He could take the sales manager's job-take it without further stalling around-and give up the grifting. Or, two: He could jump town and go to another city; begin all over again as he had begun when he first came to Los Angeles.
Breakfast over, he got into his car and began to drive, aimlessly, without destination; the most tiresome way of driving. When this became unbearable, as it very shortly did, he pulled in to the curb and parked.
Peevishly, his mind returned to the impossible problem.
Kaggs, he thought bitterly. That damned Perk (for Percival) Kaggs!
The futile thinking interrupted itself. His frown faded, and a slow smile played around his lips.
Kaggs was a man of snap judgment, a man who made up his mind in a hurry. So probably he would unmake it just as fast. He would take no nonsense from anyone. Given sufficient reason, and without apology, he would snatch back from the sales manager's job as promptly as he had proffered.
Roy called him from a nearby drugstore. He was still forbidden to work for a while (the doctor's orders), he said, but perhaps Kaggs would like to have lunch with him? Kaggs said that he seldom took time for lunch; he usually settled for a sandwich in his office.
'Maybe you should start going out,' Roy told him.
'Oh? You mean on account of my ulcers? Well-'
'I mean on account of your disposition. It might help you to get along better with people.'
He grinned coldly, listening to the startled silence that poured over the wire. Then, Kaggs said equably, 'Well, maybe it would at that. Twelve o'clock suit you?'
'No, it doesn't. I'd rather eat at one.'
Kaggs said, fine, that was better for him, too. 'One o'clock then. The little place across the street.'
Roy hung up the phone. He considered the advisability of showing up late for the appointment, and decided against it. That would be simply rudeness, crudeness. It would do nothing but arouse Kaggs' suspicions.
Already, perhaps, he had pursued the line of brusqueness too far.
He arrived at the restaurant a little before one. They ate at a small table in the rear of the place, and somehow the meeting went pretty much as the first one had. Somehow, and much to Roy's annoyance, the feeling of empathy grew between them. Toward the end of the meal, Kaggs did a surprising thing- surprising, that is, for him. Reaching across the table, he gave Roy a shy slap on the shoulder.
'Feeling lousy, aren't you, boy? Like you could bite nails.'
'What?' Roy looked at him startled. 'What makes you think that?'
'You'd just have to; I know I would. A man can idle around so long, and then it begins to drive him nuts. Why don't you come back to the office with me for a while? Sort of look the setup over.'
'Well, I-you're busy, and-'
'So I'll put you to work, too.' Kaggs stood up, smiling. 'I'm kidding, of course. You can just look around; take a gander at the salesmen's file, if you like. Do what you want to, and pull out when you want to.'
'Well…' Roy shrugged. 'Why not?'
The question was rhetorical; he could think of no valid reason to decline. Similarly, finding himself in Kaggs' office at Sarber & Webb, he was forced to accept the file which Kaggs shoved in front of him. To show at least a semblance of interest in its various cards.
Resentfully, he saw himself a victim of Kaggs' highhandedness. Kaggs had taken charge of him again, as he had on that first day. But that wasn't really true. More accurately, he was his own victim, his own slave. He had made personality a profession, created a career out of selling himself. And he could not stray far, or for long, from his self-made self.
He riffled through the cards, unseeing.
He began to see them, to read the meaning in them. They became people and money and life itself. And thoughtfully, one at a time, he took them out of the file and spread them out on the desk.
He picked up a pencil, reached for a lined pad of scratch paper…
As he worked, Kaggs gave him an occasional covert glance, and a smug smile tightened his thin lips. A couple of hours passed, and Kaggs arose and strolled over to his desk.
'How are you doing?'
'Sit down,' Roy said, and as the other man obeyed, 'I think this record system is all wrong, Perk. I don't want to tread on anyone's toes, whoever set it up, but-'
'Tread away. Nothing's sacred around here.'
'Well, it's misleading, a waste of time. Take this man here. His gross sales for the week are six hundred and fifty dollars. His commission, over in this column, totals eighty-one dollars. What's his percentage of the week's sales?'
'I'd have to figure it up. Roughly, eight per cent.'
'Not necessarily. Depending on what he sold, he might have some twenty-five per cent stuff in there. The point is, just what the hell was it that he sold? How much of it was practically loss-leader stuff, items that we have to sell in order to compete?'
Kaggs looked at him sharply; hesitated. 'Well, of course, there's his sales slips; that's what his commissions were figured from.'
'But where are the sales slips?'
'Accounting gets a copy, inventory gets a copy, and of course the customer gets one at the time of purchase.'
'Why does inventory need a copy? The stuff is checked off at the time it leaves the shop, isn't it? Or at least it could be. You've got some duplicate effort if it isn't. Where you need a copy is here in the salesman's file.'
'But-'
