Max Collins - Quarry's deal

It was a mice irony, but when I questioned her about it further, gently, she said it was just rumors. She wasn’t a Des Moines native, and only knew what she’d heard longer-time residents say.

“Hey, Jack!” Ruthy said, moving toward us remarkably quickly, considering the tight jeans. “The boss lady says she’ll see you, now.”

And Ruthy put an arm around my waist and showed me the way.

A stairway off the lobby took us to the second floor, where the living, quarters and offices were. That is, all of them except Ruthy’s; her small apartment was downstairs, in the basement of the place.

The door she led me to said PRIVATE on it. She knocked, a tenor voice within said, “Yeah,” and we went in, Ruthy first.

It was a small office, just big enough for a metal desk with wood top, a few files, a few chairs and several walls of plaques and framed citations and some signed photographs of moderately well-known actors. The only wall that wasn’t that way, besides the one with a door on it, was the bookcase wall, and the shelves of that were top-heavy with trophies. There were a few books, too, paperbacks mostly, and hardcovers on the careers of movie stars.

The woman was drinking orange juice, sitting behind the desk, which had nothing on it except a little brown box with a face the time appeared on, rolling along like the odometer of a car.

She was about thirty-five and looked about forty-five, a cadaverously thin woman with an intelligent, unattractive face; her dark brown, almost black eyes were penetrating, demanding of attention, although she kept them constantly stiffed, eyes so commanding they diverted from her sunken, pockmarked cheeks, hook nose and well-kept but painfully thin colorless brown hair, which she wisely wore short.

She was wearing a bathrobe, light blue and softly quilted and rather feminine, but not in the blatant way Ruthy’s tight jeans and plunging neckline were.

“I’m Christine Price, Mr. Wilson.”

She extended her arm across the desk like a spear. I took the hand she offered, shook it, gave it back. She had a firm grip. She was skinny but I wouldn’t want to arm wrestle her.

“Please call me Jack,” I said and took a chair.

“Jack, then. I prefer Christine, to Chris, and Ms. Wilson to Mrs. But you call me what you like.”

“Christine, then.”

“Good,” she smiled. A toothy white smile that was so honest and engaging I almost didn’t notice it was grotesque.

“I understand you do advertising work, here,” I said, and we were off and running.

Ruthy sat and listened quietly, palms pressed together and slipped down between her thighs against her box, a posture of innocence that evoked the opposite.

I told Christine Price that I imagined their clients had been largely in the Des Moines area itself, advertisers drawn to the Candle Lite production company, because it was an arm of the first professional theater group in Des Moines, whose good reputation and high visibility in the community were all the selling necessary, locally. She told me I was right. I told her how a man on the road could extend their market to the entire state, and probably to surrounding states as well. She wanted to know how. Various ways, I said. By playing tapes of radio commercials produced by Candle Lite to potential clients, and showing films or video tapes of television commercials; by accumulating letters of references from satisfied Des Moines clients, and having photographs to show taken during production of both radio and TV commercials, and perhaps some taken at the theater at a performance, showing off particularly impressive sets and a packed house, neither of which directly related to advertising work but both of which spoke of professionalism and were just generally impressive, especially in the hands of a good salesman. Which I claimed to be. It was a pretty good spiel. Christine Price seemed to think so, too. Anyway she leaned forward across her desk, listening.

She also smoked a skinny cigar that didn’t smell too terrific, but made her feel like an executive, I guess, so what the hell.

I was glad she seemed to believe me, because if she did, chances were Ruthy did, too. And all of this was more for Ruthy’s benefit than anybody else’s, as she would surely report this conversation to Lu, hopefully confirming me as a real person actually out looking for work, maybe making me a little less suspicious.

It also gave me an excuse to be here, at the Candle Lite, my real reason being to check up on Ruthy; but to do that properly I needed to get rid of her and talk to the boss lady in private. And I could see no way of doing that.

But then Christine Price did me a favor.

“Ruthy,” she said, “I believe your friend Jack, here, and I are going to talk some hard business. And I think we’d best be left alone for that, if you don’t mind.”

“I got some sets to paint,” Ruthy said cheerfully, leaning over and patting me on the upper thigh, and got up and left.

And her boss came around the desk and sat on top of it, crossing her legs, showing a knee and a couple of calves. She didn’t have bad legs for an ugly woman.

“What kind of experience have you had?” she asked.

“I had a nice childhood.”

She smiled coquettishly. “I mean as a salesman.”

“I was a salesman for five years. A little longer than that actually. Before that I was in Vietnam.”

“You must be about thirty.”

“About.”

“What did you sell? How many firms did you work for?”

“Just one firm. Ladies underwear.”

She liked that.

She said, “You look like somebody who wouldn’t have much trouble getting in a woman’s pants.”

So that was her game. She wanted to be a man, wanted to play the employer role, but she wanted it all the way: she wanted to sleep with her secretary like any good boss.

“Actually I don’t look that hot in women’s pants,” I said. “I don’t have the build for it.”

She gave me that toothy smile again and said, “Can I offer some friendly advice? It’s free.”

This was starting to sound familiar. “Price is right,” I shrugged.

“Ruthy.”

“What about her?”

“Be a little careful of her.”

“Just a little?”

“Maybe a lot. She says you met Frank Tree last night. That you play cards and may do some dealing for him.”

“That’s right. I prefer a selling job, though. That’s why I’m here.”

“Ruthy’s been thick with him, lately. How much do you know about him?”

“Frank Tree? Nothing.”

“He’s got some connections.”

“Is that why I should be careful of Ruthy?”

“No. Not really. She’s got some connections herself.”

Something happened in her face, then; something turned it blank.

But only for a moment, after which she uncrossed her legs and lowered them to the floor and leaned her butt against the desk and folded her arms. The intense, businesslike look was back on her face.

“I like your idea,” she said. “I think I could use you.”

I’ll bet.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.

“Let me sleep on it Get back to me tomorrow, or sometime later this week and we’ll talk it all out. Here. Here’s my card, with my personal number.”

She gave me a business card and I put it away.

“I’m sure we’ll work something out,” she said.

“Fine.”

There was an awkward silence and I realized, suddenly, I’d been dismissed.

“Well,” I said. “Thanks for the advice.”

She went behind the desk and smiled flatly and looked down at its smooth empty surface, as if there were invisible papers that needed straightening.

I left, wondering what exactly had unnerved her. Made her cut short both business interview and seduction attempt. I hadn’t said enough myself to cause that. It had to be something she said. Something she let slip…