Peter Abrahams - The Fan

O’Meara had brightened suddenly, as though struck by an idea. “Unless it’s a misprint,” he was saying. He turned to Garrity. “Any chance it’s a misprint?”

“Wish it was.”

“Me too,” said O’Meara. “Because these numbers suck.” He sat down; Garrity drew up another chair beside him. O’Meara paused again, and in that pause met their gazes one by one. He had small green eyes, set deep in crowfooted pink pouches. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking-what a prick, expecting us to sell into this manure-pile economy, expecting us to compete with those Japs gobbling up the whole fucking business. Am I right?”

Nods from the three new men, various facial expressions from the others, nothing from Gil.

“Hit it on the head or what?” said Garrity.

O’Meara didn’t respond. He held up his index finger. His hands were small and plump, not even big enough to grip a baseball properly, Gil thought with contempt. “Let’s take the economy first. Does the expression self-fulfilling prophecy mean anything to anybody?” His eyes fastened on Gil. “Renard?”

“Nope,” Gil said, almost adding, Maybe it means something to Figgy.

“You were going to say?”

“Nothing.”

O’Meara didn’t take his eyes off him. “The thing is, Renard, all the pissing and moaning about the economy swells up into one big pig of an excuse. Self. Fulfilling. Prophecy. If the economy sucks, well, hell, how can I be expected to beat my quota, or even meet it, for Christ’s sake? Not my fault, right? So you don’t even try anymore, and then the economy really is in the toilet. Like lemmings, right? Whoosh. Boom.” He gestured out the window. It needed washing. Beyond it gray flakes, fatter now, swirled out of a dark sky. “That’s the beauty of our system, curse and beauty at the same time. We control it. Us. Guys like you and me, the folks in this room, up to our elbows in the machinery. We’re the ones who can make the economy whatever we want.”

Gil watched the snowflakes. A fastball, it had been, low and away, but too close to take. He’d slapped it to right, past the diving second baseman, whose name he couldn’t recall. He remembered the pitcher though: Bouchard, the Yankee ace. And he remembered the roar of the crowd as Claymore scored the tying run and he himself went all the way to third when they overthrew the cutoff.

“Let me give you an example,” O’Meara said. “Would you stand up, Verrucci?”

The man who now presided over Figgy’s Lifesavers rose.

“Verrucci’s come up from Texas to lend a hand for a while in area six. Mind telling us your take for the month of Feb?”

“Feb just passed, Mr. O’Meara?”

“That’s right, Verrucci.”

Verrucci named a figure Gil had never touched, not even when things were steaming during the Reagan years.

“Pay much attention to the state of the economy, Verrucci?”

“Don’t have the time, Mr. O’Meara.”

O’Meara laughed. “Ignorance is bliss.” He studied his audience. “Still with us, Renard?”

Gil nodded, thinking, Texas, that explained everything.

Verrucci was still standing. “Thank you, Verrucci. Sit down.” Verrucci sat, picked up the Lifesavers, peeled back the wrapper, and popped one in his mouth.

“Enough philosophy,” O’Meara said. He raised a second finger. “Which brings us to the Japs.” He smiled. “I think we’ve finally got something that’ll help you with them.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a knife. It was a tanto, about eleven inches, with a six-inch blade and a red-white-and-blue-checkered polymer handle. He held it high, like a king leading his men into battle, then nodded to Verrucci.

Verrucci left the room. O’Meara took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeve, and passed the blade lightly down his forearm, shaving off an inch-wide strip of wiry, rust-colored hair. It fell on the open pages of Garrity’s appointment book.

Verrucci returned with a car door. Japanese? — Gil wondered. Verrucci laid it on the table. O’Meara opened his briefcase, took out a claw hammer, positioned the knife a few inches below the door handle, and began pounding on the pommel. Pounding hard; a sweat stain spread over his right armpit, and his face pinkened in pleasure. Ten blows-Gil counted them, too many-and the blade sank down to the choil. With a grunt, Verrucci stood the door on end, showing the tip of the blade protruding through a speaker grille inside. O’Meara jerked the knife free, extended his forearm, cut another swath. Garrity watched the wiry hairs falling on his appointment book.

O’Meara passed the knife around the table. “Say hello to the Survivor,” he said. “State-of-the-art workhorse of our new state-of-the-art line.”

“A new line?” someone said.

“The Iwo Jima Experience,” O’Meara replied. “Doesn’t that say it all?”

The reps hefted the Survivor, ran their thumbs across its edge, balanced it on their index fingers. All but Gil: he just handed it on to the next man. But that was enough to tell him that the Survivor wasn’t state of the art, or even an improvement on the rest of their product: two or three grades below that. Blade too thin-quarter inch, when similar Japanese models were all five-sixteenths; pommel too small; light in the handle, indicating a half tang hidden in there. The spec sheet followed: 440 steel, acceptable, if inferior to the Japanese, and hardened to 61 on the Rockwell scale, an impressive number, but much too hard for a survival knife. Better, though, than junk; and maybe some buyers would go for that flashy handle.

The Survivor came back around to O’Meara. “Who thinks they can sell this baby?”

“Banzai,” said Verrucci.

“That’s the ticket,” O’Meara said. “Renard?”

“Depends on the price,” Gil answered, thinking: why me today?

“Thirty-seven seventy-five.”

Wholesale. That kicked retail to $70, $75, even $80. Would the Survivor sell at that kind of price? Gil had no idea. He didn’t know why any of their stuff sold at any price.

“What’s the commission?” Gil said.

O’Meara made a face, as though he didn’t like talking about money. “Twelve and a half.”

“For a new line?”

“Cincinnati thinks it’s more than fair. Any objections?”

There were none.

“Then let’s get it done.”

O’Meara packed up his claw hammer and left for the airport. Garrity handed out new catalogues that included the Iwo Jima line, gave them each a Survivor for their sample cases, and wished them luck. The reps filed out, all except Gil.

Garrity blew O’Meara’s hairs off his appointment book.

“Tickets in yet?” Gil said.

“Tickets?”

“Sox.”

Garrity studied the ruined car door, still lying on the conference table. “What am I going to do with this fucking thing?”

“Bridgid said to ask you.”

Garrity looked up. “No tickets this year, boyo.”

“They didn’t come in?”

“They came in, all right. And we sold them off-to Marriott, Gillette, couple others.”

“Sold them?”

“At cost.”

“Why?”

“Orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Cincinnati. Who else gives orders?”

“But I already promised all mine to clients.” Not entirely true, but he had promised some. “You’re making us look like assholes.”

“Boyo. You got other things to worry about.”

“Like?”

“I’ll let you in on a secret-you came this close.” Garrity held up his hand, thumb and index finger almost touching. “This close. To being out on the street. O’Meara had you on the list with the rest of them when he flew in last night. I talked him out of it. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Thanks, massa.”