Peter Abrahams - The Fan

Gil switched off the radio, took his coat from the wall hook.

Lenore toyed with a lock of her hair. “I wouldn’t mind a little company,” she said.

“Got to work.” Gil moved toward the door. Lenore stepped aside, but not enough to keep him from bumping against her hip.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be.” Lenore pressed against him, pressed hard with her soft breasts, backing him against the bed.

Gil had work to do: he could see the day’s schedule in his head, laid out in neat boxes, ready to be checked off. He put his hands on her shoulders, almost pushed her away. But Lenore’s hips made a comma-shaped motion, like a preview of what could be happening in the next minute, and the neat boxes in his head collapsed.

The blue suit, the yellow tie, the white shirt, the kimono, all came off. “I’m so pent-up,” said Lenore, as they moved onto the bed, their bare skins, warm and soft from the shower, prickling up in goosebumps.

Gil was pent-up too. He was inside her in moments, her buttocks cupped in his hands.

“Gentle.”

But what good would gentle do? Not with this headache, not in this mood. His body took over. Her mouth was at his ear and he heard her suck in her breath, heard every nuance and texture of the sound. It was basic, animal, a world in itself. He came.

“Gil?”

He lay on her, the boxes rebuilding themselves in his head.

“You didn’t wait for me?”

First: call Everest. Second: bank what was left of Hale’s money, pay the car bill and something on the credit cards. Third: hit Bluewater Fishing and Tackle. Fourth: try a cold call at the new Great Outdoors on the north shore. That would leave just enough time to drive down for Richie at five.

“Gil?”

“Yeah?”

“You can’t just leave me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Pent-up, Gil. I’m still pent-up.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Something.”

He stuck his hand down there.

Her mouth was at his ear again. “Lick me, baby.” He still heard every nuance and texture of the sound, but now it didn’t have the same effect. She would have to settle for his finger. He moved it in circles, mentally putting on his white shirt, blue suit, yellow tie, unlocking the 325i, driving off, punching in Everest and Co. on the car phone.

You got in the car, you kept plugging. Gil told himself that a few times, until he was hyped enough to call Everest. He had to rehype twice before he got past the purchasing VP’s secretary.

“Hi, Chuck. Gil Renard here.”

“What is it?”

“Our meeting on the eighth. Two-thirty’s tough for me, Chuck. How’s the morning?”

“Full up.”

“Maybe late afternoon, then.”

“Flying to Chicago.”

“Any chance we could make it earlier?”

“Earlier?”

“A day or two earlier. The sixth? The seventh?”

“Didn’t we go through this already?”

“I just thought maybe you’d had a cancellation or something, could squeeze me in.” Shit. First rule of the commission rep: Look and sound successful.

“No.”

“What about later that week?”

“In Chicago. Didn’t I say that?”

“When are you coming back?”

“End of the month.”

“End of the month?”

“I’m in Chicago till the twelfth. Then we’re taking two weeks in Maui.”

Rule two: take the offensive. Gil tried to think of a line that would do that, and failed.

“Hello?” said the VP. “You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“So what is it? Scratch you for the eighth?”

“No,” Gil said. “I’ll be there.” He thought of a line. “Have that checkbook ready.”

“We’ll see,” said the VP, and hung up.

Rule three: ignore rejection. He called Garrity. “Good news,” he said. “Everest loves the Iwo Jima stuff. Going to build their whole approach around it. Thing is, they’re asking for a few weeks to solidify their plans. Should I give it to them?”

“You mean they’re not going to order this month?”

“They need time to retool, like I said.”

Silence. “Give it to them,” Garrity said at last. “But it better be a whopper, Gil.”

“What?”

“Their order, I’m talking about.”

“Count on it,” Gil said.

“We are,” said Garrity. “See you on the ninth.”

“The ninth?”

“Sales meeting.”

“Right,” said Gil. “Got to go. I’m on a call.” Look and sound successful.

Gil stopped at Cleats for a quick one, then got back in the car, kept plugging. First, the bank. After making the car payment and the interest payments on his cards, he had $693.20 in his checking account and three or four hundred in his pocket. Plus the tickets. Free and clear, big boy, free and clear.

He hit Bluewater Fishing and Tackle. The owner’s son was out front. Gil showed him the Iwo Jima catalogue, got him excited. Then the owner, a fat old guy in a plaid shirt, walked in from the back room. He checked out the catalogue, asked if Gil had any samples. Gil handed him the Survivor.

“Great handle,” said the owner’s son.

The owner turned the Survivor over in his hands a few times, then looked up at Gil. “This is shit, Gil. You know that.”

Gil wanted to say, “Shit sells.” Especially if it’s got a fancy handle. But: don’t argue with a customer. He put the Survivor away. “What about the regular stuff?” His headache, which had shrunk back to the wedge behind his right eye, now expanded again.

“I’ll take three-dozen Clipits,” the owner said. “And a dozen of those folding hunters with big bolsters.”

“Eight-inch?”

“Five and a quarter. A dozen skinners, two boxes of pocketknives-”

“Red?”

“Blue. Dozen fillet knives, and maybe two of those birders.

“And?”

“That’ll do it.”

“That’ll do it?” March was supposed to be a big month. Bluewater had ordered three or four times as much the year before.

“Blame the economy,” the owner said.

Gil wrote up the order. Commission: $187.63. He faxed it in from the car, then stopped at Cleats and checked the box scores over a hamburger and a beer. Rayburn: 0 for 4, 4 Ks.

“Burrows is an asshole,” Gil said.

“Just because he wants them to work for their money?” Leon said, drawing a pint of Harpoon.

“Use your head, Leon. Rayburn’s an investment. Like an oil well. Got to protect your investments.”

“I feel like shit today,” Leon replied, “and I’m in here busting my ass. No one said, ‘You’re our oil well, Leon. Take the day off.’ ”

“You’re replaceable. That’s the difference.”

“And you’re not?” Leon said, before he remembered they stood on opposite sides of the bar, or noticed the expression on Gil’s face. “Hey, no offense.” Leon drew another pint. “On me.”

Gil drank up, went outside. Snow was falling, just as Lenore had forecast. He realized he had to piss, didn’t want to go back inside. He stepped into an alley, pissed a yellow circle in the fresh snow, added crescent seams inside its borders: a baseball. And had plenty left inside him to melt it all away.

North of the city, snow fell harder. It took Gil an hour to reach Great Outdoors, a big well-stocked store with a waterfall and a wall for rock climbing. Gil walked around until a woman with a name tag on her down vest approached and said, “May I help you, sir?”

Look and sound successful. “I’d like to see the owner.”

“The owner?”

“Or the manager.”

“May I ask what it’s about?”

“Business,” Gil said. Tell nothing to underlings. That was another rule.

The woman looked him over, then led him to the manager’s office, went in by herself, came out a moment later. “He’ll see you.”