Closing the car door, Hadley hurried back the way he had come, the maps clutched tightly. He mounted the stairs of the hotel two at a time, entered his room, and slammed the door after him. A moment later he had the maps spread out on the bed.
His heart labored painfully as he studied them. Maps of Colorado, Utah, Texas…states he had never seen, areas a prewar Olds had reached and crossed.
His excitement was too much for him. Trembling, he got to his feet and paced around in an eager, nervous circle. In the mirror over the dresser he examined his face. A line of bluish gray showed around his damaged jaw; he needed a shave. And his hair was soggy and uncombed. There was nothing he could do about the state of his clothing; his suit was torn and his shirt was ragged and stained. His lips were still swollen, his cheeks lined with cuts; but that couldn’t be helped. In any case, he could still clean himself up.
Getting his money together he hurried downstairs and out onto the sidewalk. At the drugstore on the corner he purchased a cheap safety razor and a ten-cent package of blades. What did that leave him? Nineteen cents… He bought a bar of perfumed soap and left the drugstore.
In the community bathroom down the hall from his room he took a long, luxurious bath. Cold rain hammered on the window and oozed around the sill as he lay half dozing in the immense iron tub, up to his chin in boiling hot water. The ceiling was high above him, strung with cobwebs, remote. The fixtures were archaic and ornate. Over the rack hung a yellowed towel, threadbare from continual use. He had heaped his clothing on the single chair.
When he had finished bathing, the bathroom was dim with steam. Letting the plug out, Hadley clambered from the tub and cautiously began drying his pain-sensitive body. The heavy, warm air smelled of the soap, a pungent woodsy scent that made him relaxed and sleepy. He shaved, standing naked, crouched over the bowl, the hair of his body damp with steam and perspiration. Then he carefully splashed his face with cold water, hurting his jaw as little as possible. He combed his hair and dressed. He straightened and smoothed his clothes as best he could, being careful of his injured rib. Wiping the mirror with the towel, he saw that all things considered, he did not look too bad.
As he passed the desk, the clerk glared suspiciously at him. Hadley grinned starkly back and continued on his way across the lobby and out into the rain. It had let up; only a faint mist drifted here and there across the dismal sidewalks and parked cars. With long strides he walked along the street, toward the railroad track and the rows of buildings beyond.
The first car lot was closed; a sagging chain had been strung from one post to the next, and the squat stucco office was locked up tight. In the mist, the rows of cars stood silent and dully gleaming, metallic animals lasting out the weekend. Hadley lingered to examine the vast shape of a red and cream Cadillac; then he crossed the street to the far side, to a second lot.
The chain was down at this lot; a man and woman were stepping gingerly among the rows of parked cars, touching them and murmuring heatedly. The man kicked tires, peered at mileage indicators, squatted down and ran his hands over fenders and bumpers. The woman, her arms folded, strode sullenly after him. A few feet away stood a redheaded man in his shirtsleeves, watching with detached cheerfulness. His face was tanned and peeling; he was the salesman.
Hadley stepped onto the lot and approached the first car he saw, a pale blue Mercury. The size of the car amazed him; he walked all the way around it, touching the smooth hood, wiping drops of water from the side-view mirror, peering in, awed, at the upholstery and the mass of dials and knobs and levers that made up the dashboard.
He tried to imagine how much it cost. Lettered in poster paint on the windshield were streaked words:
DREAM CAR SPECIAL!!
The door handle was unlocked. It seemed impossible to him that so many huge, gleaming cars could be crowded together in one lot. With their doors unlocked…and he could see the keys in the lock. The car was ready to go. It was miraculous.
Drifting down the line of cars he examined a Buick, a Ford, two more Buicks, an Oldsmobile, a green DeSoto, and finally a bulging tanklike Hudson. The Hudson was a flashing gunmetal; its sides dripped and gleamed as if it had risen from some river, a grinning sea monster of steel and chrome and glass. Timidly, he opened the door and gazed at the dashboard, at the steering wheel, the glittering dials and buttons. He had never seen so many buttons in his life.
While he was bent over peering into the Hudson, the redheaded man strolled up and stood a few feet away.
Hadley backed awkwardly out of the Hudson. “Sure a fine car,” he said, embarrassed.
The man nodded in tolerant agreement. “It is.” He leaned against the fender of a Chrysler convertible, arms folded, shirt moist with mist, his face vacant and benign, unbothered by Hadley’s damaged appearance. The couple had gone off down the street to argue; Hadley was the only customer.
“How much?” Hadley asked in a strained voice.
The man rubbed his chin with his thumb, as if making a computation on the spot. Instead of answering he began to walk around the car. “He kept good care of the tires,” he said.
“Who’s that?” Hadley asked uncertainly.
“The fellow that owned it. Vice president down here at the Bank of America. He used it once in a while to go out in the country. The bank gave him a Chevrolet to use; gave him an expense account for it.” The man reached his reddish, hairy arm inside the cabin of the Hudson and pressed a button. The hood came up and the man raised it to the lock position. “Of course, when he got this Hudson he didn’t know they were providing him with a company car. He kept it around a year or so and then turned it over to us. Look at the oil filter, there.”
Hadley looked.
“You see that?” the man said, pointing down into the intricate maze of machinery. “And the fuel pump’s perfectly clean.” Disgusted, he said: “Imagine owning a car like this and parking it away in a garage. It’s criminal.”
Hadley followed him obediently around as he explained various portions of the car.
“Hydramatic, of course,” the man said, dismissing the clutch. “Safety-seal tubes, radio, heater, all that. A man like him had them put on and never noticed the difference.” He slammed the hull with the palm of his hand. “Underseal. You planning on using this in town?”
“No,” Hadley said hesitantly. “More for sort of highway travel.”
The man accepted this without comment. “You’ll get good pickup on this. It really takes off…like a scalded cat.” Without special intonation he continued: “Hop in and drive it around. Go ahead; the key’s in it.”
Hadley felt weak. He pushed open the door and seated himself behind the wheel, facing the flashing panel of controls. “No,” he said hoarsely. “Thanks, anyway. What—does a car like this go for these days?”
The man concentrated. He stared up at the sky; frowned; finally moved his lips. Hadley strained, but he failed to catch the sum. “How much?” he asked again.
“Oh, say four hundred down. Around forty-five a month.” The man did not volunteer the price of the car; he stood waiting.
Hadley fooled and plucked at the controls. “It’s sure a nice car,” he said finally. “Damn fine car.”
“It’ll get you where you want to go,” the man agreed mildly, and they both laughed at the audacity of his understatement.
Smiling wanly, Hadley climbed out of the car. “Okay,” he said. “That gives me an idea of what I want. I’ll have to think it over. I’ll come back.”
Without batting an eye the man said: “This car won’t be here when you get back.”
“No?” Hadley said, wondering why not.
“Oh, no,” the man said. “Not this car. I have a couple coming back for it sometime this afternoon.” He looked around as if expecting to see them coming. “This is a hot item.”
“I’ll have to take the chance,” Hadley said. How many times had he told customers the same thing? Every word, every inflection of the man’s little speech had bee
n straight out of the book; Hadley had gone through the routine six days a week for years. But he wanted the car. He wanted it terribly. He licked his swollen lips and moved reluctantly toward the edge of the lot.
“I’ll be back,” he promised fervently.
The man nodded; withholding his contempt, he waved and turned his back, moved over to the far side of the lot, and stood a long way from Hadley.
Hadley hurried down the sidewalk. Where would he take it first? Nevada, Oregon, maybe all the way to Canada. The world lay open; a car like that could go anywhere. There was no limit. But he couldn’t be sure of getting enough money for the Hudson; he slowed down, his excitement dwindling. Four hundred down… The whole price probably ran eighteen hundred dollars.
It all depended on how much money there would be.
He tried to remember how Fergesson worked it… At least some of Saturday’s receipts were taken home over the weekend, but at the very worst, there would be four or five hundred dollars in the store safe.
At a corner he got out his wallet and peered into it. The store key, brass and minute, lay with the keys to Marsha’s car. He got it out and walked holding it clenched in his fist. The closer he got to the store, the better he felt. By the time he turned onto Cedar Street he was almost running. His breath whistled in his nose; his heart pounded.
The streets were deserted. He paused a moment to glance around; there was no one watching him. And anyhow, it didn’t matter. They were used to seeing him go into the store. Briefly he glanced up at the familiar old-fashioned front, at the display windows and darkened neon sign.
MODERN TV SALES AND SERVICE
The combination of the safe was clear in his mind; he had known it for years, since the first time he had watched over Fergesson’s shoulder as he was putting the money away.
Through the plate glass of the window the interior of the store was a dim expanse of cloudy shapes. Inertly, the television sets stretched out all the way to the back. The night-light flickered a ghostly blue. Stuart Hadley bent down and skillfully inserted the key in the lock.
The key did not turn. It did not go all the way into the lock. He stood for a long moment, dazed and uncomprehending. Then finally, unbelievingly, he understood…and his stupefaction turned to incredulous outrage.
Fergesson had changed the lock. A rim of clean new wood, freshly exposed, was visible around the lock panel. The lock itself was shiny, metallic, newly installed. Fergesson must have done it Saturday night after the poker game, before going home.
He couldn’t get inside. He was locked out. In a spasm of frustrated wrath he turned and hurled the key violently away from him, into the gutter. It bounced and then lay with the trash and weeds carried along by the dark trickle of water moving toward the sewer.
Stricken, Hadley moved away from the door. He was turning his back, starting mindlessly down the street, when a flicker of motion caught his eye. He whirled, jumped to the window, and jammed his hand against it. Sitting in the upstairs office was Jim Fergesson, heaps of sales tags spread out in front of him. He watched Hadley stonily, his face hard and impassive. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. Presently he got to his feet and stood by the desk with an armload of bills and papers, still watching Hadley.
Outraged, in a haze of baffled, mounting fury, Hadley began pounding on the glass. “Let me in!” he shouted. He ran into the well and pounded on the door. “Come on—open up! Let me in!”
But Fergesson did not stir.
A little after noon that Sunday, Jim Fergesson had come down alone to Modern TV Sales and Service. As he unlocked the front door and entered, the awful silence hit him full force; he had almost turned around and gone back out.
He hated the way his shoes echoed. He hated the night-light. Bending down, he plugged in the luxurious Walco needle display, and then he straightened up painfully. He was getting old. He turned on a small table-model radio and in a moment had the ball game going shrilly.
From the cardboard box under his arm he got out the new Yale lock. He found a hammer and screwdriver under the counter; in a moment he was at work on the door. It took only fifteen minutes to get the old lock off and the new lock on. He tried each key of the set, both from outside and from inside. Satisfied, he locked the door after him, threw the old lock in the trash basket under the counter, and then made his way slowly upstairs.
The office was littered, filthy. Dust lay over everything; there were heaps of cups and glasses, dirty dishes, wadded-up waxed paper; the wastepaper basket had spilled over and was surrounded by trash. The desk was covered with pencil shavings, ashtrays full of cigarette butts; there were trade journals and bills, memos stacked up under the telephone, cards and papers and books and scrawled telephone numbers.
He swept everything to one side and got out the accounts-receivable drawers.
Outside, cold rain poured down; inside the store the air was dank and faintly chill. It never really got light or dry in the store: it was an old building with only a single skylight and the display windows and door at the front to let in the sun. Fergesson’s throat ached for a cup of hot black coffee.
In the corner, under the typewriter table, was Hadley’s bottle of celery extract and his bottle of fizz water. Both were dusty and cobwebbed; they had been there since Hadley first showed up with them. There were other things of Hadley’s around the store; final traces couldn’t be erased. His sales book was in a desk drawer somewhere. Heaps of tags that he had made out lay on the desk. In the closet were a pair of rubbers and a tie he had left. Downstairs in the medicine cabinet in the crapper was a bottle of Arrid, some nose drops, some Anacin, and a tube of toothpaste that he used to brush his teeth after lunch. And all the endless little projects of Hadley’s: little repairs, little heaps of wires and bolts he was working on, continually, eternally. Tinkering, inspecting, improving.
Reminders were everywhere. Hadley had worked for him for years. In that time a man’s imprint is left all over a small retail store. Fergesson grabbed up the two dusty bottles and tried to squash them down into the wastepaper basket, but the basket was too full. Finally he grabbed it up, stuck the bottles under his arm, and carried everything down into the basement to the huge trash cartons.
The basement was cold and frightening. The service department lay in complete gloom; a single overhead yellow light winked feebly as Fergesson emptied the trash, washed his hands, and started back upstairs. Darkness and decay and silence. The primordial chaos was creeping back into his creation. Filth and rubbish were everywhere; the service bench was surrounded by old radio batteries, wiring, piles of discarded tubes. The storeroom was heaped with empty crates, excelsior, boards, bent nails, bottles of polish, old instruction sheets, hammers, screwdrivers. Nobody had time to clean up. Nobody had time to keep the store really running right, as it should have been.
Fergesson carried the broom and dustpan upstairs and began to sweep the main display room. The television sets were covered with dust; high school kids had traced their names and obscene words here and there. Traced across a huge RCA combination were two bloated female breasts. The primordial dust had been stirred by abortive creation, not his own. He savagely wiped the outlines off; they had never lived or stirred. Finding a greasy rag he began vigorously polishing the sets.
Somewhere in his desk upstairs, lost in the litter of papers and notes and tags, was the name of a TV salesman the RCA people had sent around from time to time. A tall thin dull-faced man who looked as if he had a perpetual cold. Sloppy and slow of speech, mechanical smile and bobbing Adam’s apple. Just what RCA could be expected to send. A snail, a tortoise, creeping around with a silly grin. A mediocre man with no possibilities. A few tricks, infinite patience, impervious to insult: the perfect modern salesman. The replacement to take the job of Stuart Hadley.
There was Joe Tampini. But Tampini didn’t have it. He wasn’t a born salesman. He was too shy, too retiring with people. Tampini had no push. He couldn’t wade in and get people. He didn’t have the ability to
spin grandiose tales, manipulate the customer in body and mind; Tampini wove no magic spells around his prey. He’d never be more than a tag book and a pencil: he’d let the customer make up his own mind.
Stuart Hadley, somewhere down deep inside him, had something. There had been a possibility there. If Fergesson had got him early enough…if he had been able to train him his own way, really bring him up right, all the way from the bottom… But four or five years wasn’t enough. A whole lifetime was needed.
Fergesson thought how it would have been if he could have got Hadley at, say, fifteen. When he was in high school, a kid in jeans and white shirt. Or younger—say, ten. When he was in grade school, still just a boy. Supervised his whole training as he grew up. Set him on the right path. Made sure he didn’t pick up the goofy notions kids today picked up.
Hadley was twenty-five years old. Born in 1927. If only he could have got hold of him before Franklin Delano Roosevelt…before the New Deal. All during those crazy years of starry-eyed liberalism, all those years the pinks were running the country. And they still ran it. Sidney Hillman, that Russian Jew. Morgenthau, another Jew. And the worst of all—Harry Hopkins.
Memory of Harry Hopkins swam up before Fergesson and the big Philco TV set he was polishing. The stooped, angular body. The crooked smile. The sunken cheeks, fever-ridden eyes. The painful gait of the “half man.” Something like the TV salesman RCA had sent over. They were coming in that way more and more. Tall, vacant-eyed men, smiling foolishly, good-naturedly, turned out by the Roosevelt mold. The shrewd, mean, small men were gone. The earlier race, the men who had come before and built up the country. The cigar-smoking men. The little hard practical men who had fathered these empty-eyed dreamers.