Atoms and Evil: Robert Bloch's Tales of Terror

  Phil nodded and trailed him out of the office and across the showroom.

  “Which reminds me,” Harrigan murmured, over his shoulder. “When I hired you Saturday you said you didn’t have much experience with females.”

  “I was just thinking of the mechanical end,” Phil explained. “But like I told you, I’ve always been crazy about ’em, ever since I was a kid. Used to spend all my time monkeying around with my Dad’s—”

  Harrigan nodded absently. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that part of it,” he said. “Take a look back here—we’ve got six skilled medics always on the job. We service all types of females ourselves.” He led the youngster into the noisy recesses of the big room behind the showroom, where frowning medics and harried grease-monkeys busied themselves with an imposing array of auto-erotics. Some of the models were only partially assembled, and some were undergoing extensive overhauling.

  Harrigan gestured at a group clustered around a rack and raised his voice over the clangor which attended their efforts.

  “Working on an old 69 model,” he shouted. “Complete hysterectomy.”

  “You’re really thorough, aren’t you?” Phil commented.

  “Have to be. You know our policy. Every female that goes out of here carries a six months’ written guarantee.”

  Harrigan walked back into the showroom and the young man followed.

  Brice, the senior salesman, was working on a customer—a dignified old geezer, all haunch, paunch and jowl. They were inspecting one of the new 75s; a stunning, streamlined brunette with a forward look. “Let me open her up for you,” Brice was saying. “Here, just take a peek at her chassis. She’s really built for performance. Auto-erotic transmission, just push a button to select your speed, all the attachments including a voice-tape and a built-in heater. This baby is loaded! And take a look at that rear end! She’s got the biggest bustle on the market today.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” the old geezer muttered. “Could I get the same thing in a blonde?”

  “Anything you like. Platinum, redhead, all the two-tone combinations—”

  “Maybe I’d better bring my wife in and let her decide,” the customer said. “She’s kind of got her heart set on a convertible.”

  “Convertible, eh?” The salesman winked and nudged him. “We can put an attachment in this baby in no time.”

  Harrigan pulled Phil to one side and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just wanted you to get a load of the way we sell ’em in here,” he explained. “But you’re a long way from working the floor with new models. I’m gonna start you outside. It takes a special know-how to deal with blue chip customers.”

  He grabbed Phil’s arm and ushered him out the rear exit. “Notice how Brice was handling that guy?” he asked. “Giving him the old pride-of-ownership routine. Never even mentioned the price. With those customers, money doesn’t mean a thing. They just buy to show off. You can tell by looking at him that he won’t be using his model more’n once a week, if that often. Probably the kind who just sits in the bedroom and turns over the motor.”

  Harrigan blinked in the bright sunlight and popped another ulcerizor into his mouth.

  “You won’t be working in there, like I said, but it’s important you get to know something about the kind of customers we deal with. That’s the biggest thing in salesmanship—you’ve got to be able to spot your customer the minute he walks in.

  “Now take that character we just saw. He’s the conspicuous-consumption type. All he’s interested in is having the biggest, newest, flashiest, most expensive female in town. What the hell does he care about how much it costs; probably has a deal worked out where all his females are company-owned. He trades in and gets a new model every year, fast as they come out. And don’t think the manufacturers aren’t wise to him—that’s why they keep putting on more and more fancy paint jobs and bigger and wider bustles. You and I know a big bustle is just a damned nuisance; it doesn’t add anything to the performance of a model or the pleasure you get out of her, and neither do those big bumpers up front. But that’s what these kinds of customers want.”

  “Are they all like that?” Phil inquired.

  “Well, most of them. One in a while we get somebody off the street who’s just interested in a strip-job, but we don’t make any dough off a naked model. We’re out to load ’em good in the new showroom, so we discourage those characters. Let ’em go down the street to the Leering Irishman.”

  “What about sports models?”

  “Floosies? Never touch ’em. We sell one-owner deals only. None of these souped-up specials.” Harrigan chewed his lip. “But that’s a big business, too. The sports model customer is an odd bird. He’s got his own way of showing off. He keeps talking about speed and thrills. With him, it’s all a matter of a fast start and a lot of noise. Actually, he usually gets less pleasure out of what he buys than the old codgers. But he talks a good game.”

  Harrigan prodded the younger man in the chest. “There’s a couple of other types you should learn to recognize, too,” he said. “The real show-offs. Guys so rich they can’t stand owning anything but a foreign model. Real fancy stuff—voice-tapes with accents, yet, and all kinds of special French attachments.” He sighed. “But the richest ones of all are worse yet. You know what they go in for? Old models, that’s what. Whole fleets of ’em! They’re queer for anything with a universal shift—not to use, just to look at. They’ll pay a fortune for some antique, give her a face-lift, new paint, rub her up for hours on end. I dunno, some psych told me it was sort of a motor-complex.”

  He shrugged and dismissed the subject as they strolled over towards the big lot with its glaring banners waving in the wind.

  OKAY USED FEMALES

  Guaranteed Clean—One-Owner

  YOU MUST BE SATISFIED OR IT’S NO DEAL

  “Here’s where you’ll be starting,” Harrigan said. “Think you can handle it?"

  Young Phil glanced nervously around the lot. Almost sixty models were lined up on display, in neat rows, each chained to a post. Some were old, some were almost brand new, but all were bright and shiny: eye-lights sparkling, teeth gleaming, bodies newly painted.

  Harrigan ran his hand appreciatively along the flank of a brownette 74. “Take this baby, for example,” he said. “A real creampuff. When we get in a number like this, we call it an executive model. That’s the thing to tell the customers—she’s just like a new one, except that you don’t have to break her in. Here.” He reached over and stuck his key into the ignition. “Why don’t you see for yourself how she handles.”

  The model began to purr and vibrate.

  “No, I couldn’t, not out here—”

  “Well, take her into one of the testing booths, then. We always give the customer a trial spin.”

  Harrigan squinted at Phil. “Hey, you look kind of pale. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that—”

  “Now wait a minute. I thought you told me you had some mechanical experience.”

  “I did. That is, sort of. I mean, you know how kids are—”

  “Don’t hand me that. I’ll bet you never had a model in your life. Probably your old man wouldn’t let you play with anything but an Erector set.”

  “But he owned—”

  “I know what he owned.” Harrigan looked grim. “He bought a junker, didn’t he? Souped it up, restyled her, like one of those hot-rodder jobs. Come clean, kid—you’ve never operated a real model at all.”

  Phil was blushing. “Guess you’re right, Mr. Harrigan,” he admitted. “My Dad was kind of old-fashioned, you know. When Mom died, he didn’t even want to get us a utility model to do the cooking and housework.”

  “You got a nerve coming around here and bracing me for a job.”

  “Well, I just figured—”

  “I know what you figured. You thought you could make a fast buck here.” Harrigan gripped his arm roughly. “Well, you can. Believe me, kid, you can! Only not unless y
ou change your attitude. What the hell, you’d think we were running some kind of illegal racket or something. Wake up, kid—this is the twenty-first century! The auto-erotic industry is the biggest business in the country.

  “Let me tell you something else, son. You’re just lucky to be alive today and have such an opportunity. You’ve read your history-tapes. How’d you like to have been born a hundred years ago, when the bombs were knocking out the country? Or maybe even a few years before that, when there were a hundred and eighty million people around, three times as many as now? Think of it—a hundred and eighty million slobs, jamming all the cities, crowding the streets and highways with their lousy, stinking automobiles?

  “The Good Old Days, huh? What a laugh that was! Why, the first model hadn’t been invented yet. A young fellow like you wouldn’t be able to afford more than one flesh-and-blood female, and you’d work like a dog all your life just trying to support her. No extras, no new models, no trade-in, nothing! I’m not knocking flesh females, now, don’t get me wrong—I’ve had a wife myself for fifteen years and we get along together swell. But think of what kind of a life it would be if that’s all I had. Or all you had. Knocking yourself out just to keep body and soul together in some crummy sales job.”

  Harrigan paused, then spoke solemnly. “Just think about this for a minute, kid. You know what you’d probably be doing if you were alive back in the twentieth century? You’d be selling automobiles, that’s what. How’d you like that, huh? Imagine being a car salesman—preying on the vanity of a bunch of old men and rich snobs, or swindling some poor guy out of his last buck with a used clunker.

  “Just thank God you’ve got a chance to get into an honest line of business, where you can give the customer some real service and an honest return for his money.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Phil murmured.

  “Well, you think about it now,” Harrigan told him. “I’m going back to my office. You make up your mind what you’re going to do. If you want to try the job out, you can start right away. If not, you can shove off. It’s up to you.”

  “I—I think maybe I’ll give it a whirl.”

  “Suit yourself.” Harrigan started walking away. “But remember one thing—you have to change your attitude. In this business we wheel and deal, understand?”

  He continued on into his office, without looking back. For an hour or so he busied himself at his desk, and it was almost noon when he strolled out onto the Used Model lot again.

  There was young Phil, over in the corner, looming over a battered blonde 70 model that Harrigan remembered picking up from a one-day rental service. He had removed the covering from the nylon hair and he was gesturing earnestly to a small, rabbity-looking man who had all the earmarks of a hesitant customer. Harrigan could hear his vibrant voice even at a distance.

  “Book value?” Phil was saying. “Never mind about the book value. This one doesn’t use any oil at all. I happen to know about this baby, Mister. You see, she belonged to an elderly school teacher, and he only used to take her out on Sundays—”

  Mr. Harrigan smiled and quietly tiptoed away.

  YOU GOT TO HAVE BRAINS

  MUST have been about a year ago, give or take a month when Mr. Goofy first showed up here on the street.

  We get all kinds here, you know—thousands of bums and winos floating in and out every day of the year. Nobody knows where they come from and nobody cares where they go. They sleep in flophouses, sleep in bars, and in doorways—sleep right out in the gutter if you let ’em. Just so’s they get their kicks. Wine jags, shot-an’-beers, canned heat, reefers—there was one guy, he used to go around and bust up thermometers and drink the juice, so help me!

  When you work behind the bar, like me, you get so you hardly notice people any more. But this Mr. Goofy was different.

  He come in one night in winter, and the joint was almost empty. Most of the regulars, right after New Year’s, they get themselves jugged and do ninety. Keeps ’em out of the cold.

  So it was quiet when Mr. Goofy showed up, around supper time. He didn’t come to the bar, even though he was all alone. He headed straight for a back booth, plunks down, and asked Ferd for a couple of hamburgers. That’s when I noticed him.

  What’s so screwy about that? Well, it’s because he was lugging about ten or fifteen pounds of scrap metal with him, that’s why. He banged it down in the booth alongside him and sat there with his hands held over it like he was one of them guards at Fort Knock or wherever.

  I mean, he had all this here dirty scrap metal—tin and steel and twisted old engine parts covered with mud. He must have dug it out of the dumps around Canal Street, some place like that. So when I got a chance I come down to this end of the bar and looked this character over. He sure was a sad one.

  He was only about five feet high and weighed about a hunnerd pounds, just a little dried-up futz of a guy. He had a kind of a bald head and he wore old twisted-up glasses with the earpieces all bent, and he had trouble with the hamburgers on account of his false choppers. He was dressed in them War Surplus things—leftovers from World War I, yet. And a cap.

  Go out on the street right now and you’ll see plenty more just like him, but Mr. Goofy was different. Because he was clean. Sure, he looked beat-up, but even his old duds was neat.

  Another thing. While he waited for the hamburgers he kept writing stuff. He had this here pencil and notebook out and he was scribbling away for dear life. I got the idea he was figuring out some kind of arithametics.

  Well, I was all set to ask him the score when somebody come in and I got busy. It happens that way; next thing I know the whole place was crowded and I forgot all about Mr. Goofy for maybe two hours. Then I happened to look over and by gawd if he ain’t still sitting there, with that pencil going like crazy!

  Only by this time the old juke is blasting, and he kind of frowns and takes his time like he didn’t care for music but was, you know, concentrated on his figures, like.

  He sees me watching him and wiggles his fingers like so, and I went over there and he says, “Pardon me—but could you lower the volume of that instrument?”

  Just like that he says it, with a kind of funny accent I can’t place. But real polite and fancy for a foreigner.

  So I says, “Sure, I’ll switch it down a little.” I went over and fiddled with the control to cut it down, like we do late at night.

  But just then Stakowsky come up to me. This Stakowsky used to be a wheel on the street—owned two-three flophouses and fleabag hotels, and he comes in regular to get loaded. He was kind of mean, but a good spender.

  Well, Stakowsky come up and he stuck his big red face over the bar and yelled. “Whassa big idea, Jack? I puts in my nickel, I wanna hear my piece. You wanna busted nose or something?”

  Like I say, he was a mean type.

  I didn’t know right off what to tell him, but it turned out I didn’t have to tell him nothing. Because the little guy in the booth stood up and he tapped Stakowsky on the shoulder and said, real quiet, “Pardon me, but it was I who requested that the music be made softer.”

  Stakowsky turned around and he said, “Yeah? And who in hell you think you are—somebody?”

  The little guy said, “You know me. I rented the top of the loft from you yesterday.”

  Stakowsky looks at him again and then he says, “Awright. So you rent. So you pay a month advance. Awright. But that ain’t got to do with how I play music. I want it should be turned up, so me and my friends can hear it good.”

  By this time the number is over and half the bar has come down to get in on the deal. They was all standing around waiting for the next pitch.

  The little guy says, “You don’t understand, Mr. Stakowsky. It happens I am doing some very important work and require freedom from distraction.”

  I bet Stakowsky never heard no two-dollar words before. He got redder and redder and at last he says, “You don’t understand so good, neither. You wanna figure, go by your loft. No
w I turn up the music. Are you gonna try and stop me?” And he takes a swipe at the little futz with his fist.

  Little guy never batted an eye. He just sort of ducked, and when he come up again he had a shiv in his hand. But it wasn’t no regular shiv, and it wasn’t nothing he found in no junk-heap.

  This one was about a foot long, and sharp. The blade was sharp and the tip was sharp, and the little guy didn’t look like he was just gonna give Stakowsky a shave with it.

  Stakowsky, he didn’t think so either. He whitened up fast and backed away to the bar and he says, “All right, all right,” over and over again.

  It happened all in a minute, and then the knife was gone and the little guy picked up his scrap metal and walked out without even looking back once.

  Then everybody was hollering, and I poured Stakowsky a fast double, and then another. Of course he made off like he hadn’t been scared and he talked plenty loud—but we all knew.

  “Goofy,” he says. “That’s who he is. Mr. Goofy. Sure, he rents from me. You know, by the Palace Rooms, where I live. He rents the top—a great big loft up there. Comes yesterday, a month rent in advance he pays too. I tell him, ‘Mister, you’re goofy. What do you want with such a big empty loft? A loft ain’t no good in winter, unless you want to freeze. Why you don’t take a nice warm room downstairs by the steam heat?’ But no, he wants the loft, and I should put up a cot for him. So I do, and he moves in last night.”

  Stakowsky got red in the face. “All day today that Mr. Goofy, he’s bringing up his crazy outfits. Iron and busted machinery. Stuff like that. I ask him what he’s doing and he says he’s building. I ask him what he’s building and he says—well, he just don’t say. You saw how he acted tonight? Now you know. He’s goofy in the head. I ain’t afraid of no guys, but those crazy ones you got to watch out for. Lofts and machinery and knives—you ever hear anything like that Mr. Goofy?”

  So that’s how he got his name. And I remembered him. One of the reasons was, I was staying at the Palace Rooms myself. Not in the flops, but a nice place on the third floor, right next to Stakowsky’s room. And right upstairs from us was this loft. An attic, like. I never went up there, but there were stairs in back.