Roughneck by Jim Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

out of business? The display would have to come down immediately.
           Carl told them what they could do. If our decoration job was in any way disturbed he would personally see to it that their concession was yanked. "I'm uh doddam boss here," he pointed out. "Oo wun oor skewin concession my way or oo don't wun it!"
           One of two of the department heads accepted this dictum. The majority, however, headed for the nearest telephone and laid the matter before their concession owners. The latter called our home office. The home office called us. It was what Carl had wanted.
           He listened, grinning, to the outraged tirade which poured over the wire. Then, when there was a temporary pause for breath, he had his blasphemous and bloodcurdling say. He was "fuddin well twitting and Tompn was twitting." We had already paid ourselves to date, and now we were walking out. And since there would be no one around to carry out the management's orders, the decorations—or a large part of them—would stay right where they were. At least they would stay there until someone arrived from the home office.
           "At'll teath oo to skwew people!" he yelled. "Doddam dirty pithanth! Do on an skweam oor fudding lungth out—ith muthik to my earth!"
           He ended his remarks with a raucous raspberry—and if you have never heard a lisping raspberry, you have missed something. Then, he and I donned our hats, and left the office for the last time.
           It was raining that day. As usual, when the weather made agricultural pursuits impractical, the farmers had come into town to shop. It was not yet ten in the morning, but already the store was filling up with customers—or, I should say, people. For few of them were buying anything. They stood around in little groups, the men haw-hawing and pointing, the women giggling and blushing. Wherever they looked they saw the same thing, and each look brought a fresh outburst of amusement.
           "Well, Tompn," said Carl happily. "Ith at sumpn or ith at sumpn?"
           I said that it was, indeed, something. And it was.
           Throughout every department, throughout the store, boxes of the things were arranged in neat pyramids and piles, each forming a pedestal for some bit of advertising matter—a pennant, placard, or counter card.
           The pedestals were all of a kind, all made of boxes of sanitary napkins. The advertising matter all voiced the same slogan, the magic words-of-the-week intended to overpower sales resistance. That was all you saw, wherever you looked—stacks of s.n.'s, each crowned or draped with the same gaudily-lettered slogan:
           HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN

9

    My literal-minded friend Durkin, the ex-credit manager, had an outside sales and collection job with an installment store. On his recommendation, I got a job with the same firm. My hours were the same as they had been during our previous association, and permitted me to attend school in the morning. The pay was twenty dollars a week, plus car allowance, plus commission.
           On the surface, it seemed to be a very fine job and the manager a very cordial fellow. Durkin, who was assigned to breaking me in on my duties, advised me not to be too optimistic.
           "You wanted a job, Jim," he said, heading his car toward the shabbiest section of town, "so I helped you to get it. But I don't think you're going to like it. I don't, and I think I can take a lot of stuff that would throw you."
           "I don't understand," I said. "Mr. Clark seemed to be—"
           "Mr. Clark 'is' a nice guy. As long as you produce. That's all he asks of you, to get the money, and he doesn't care how you do it. But, brother, you'd sure as hell better get it."
           "Well," I shrugged, "that's our job. If a man doesn't do his job, he should catch hell."
           "It's not quite that simple," said Durkin. "But you'll see what I