| “These turned out nice,” said the boss. “Hard account, when you consider.” He narrowed his eyes, looked at the matchbook again. “Is he wearing spats?” Joe flushed. “No, that’s his cuff. The client wanted me to add a picture of a guy who realized his pants were too short. For the tailoring side.” “Uh huh. “See, the guy’s noticing that he might want to lengthen the pants. And the client wanted a woman too, since they do women’s tailoring.” “How do they lengthen pants? I’ve never been able to figure it out.” “They take it out of the cuff, I imagine.” “Then you’re left with less cuff.” “No going back.” “Uh huh. And the star? Your idea?” “His. It's a Catholic thing, I guess. Or a Texas thing. Or a Catholic Texas thing, for all I know. He wanted it in there." The boss nodded. “Glazed furs. Never had a fur glazed.” He looked at the back. “I hope old man Wennes is selling the legit type of drugs, or he’s pretty much asking for trouble here. . . Nice lettering. I would have moved the for over a bit, and it looks like your ran out of space on the address, but that’s what I get for making you turn this one around so fast. Did you ever do one book for two clients before?” Joe shook his head. “Wave of the future, I think. You get more and more of these shopping centers going up you’re going to have guys pooling their resources. Hard on the business. “Unless we offer forty-strikes,” Joe said. “Wider books mean wider space, higher fees – you could fit four clients on one book, charge each 75 percent of what you’d charge for one side.” “Okay,” the boss shrugged. “Fine by me.” Like that? His stubborn opposition to forty-strikes gone, just like that? A few months ago he would have wondered what was happening to the old guy But now of course he knew. “So anything happen while I was gone?” “Nooooo,” he sighed. “I gotta go in again Monday and my son says it’ll be an all-day affair, so don’t expect me until Tuesday.” “If anything comes up I’ll tell them you’ll be back in the saddle first thing the next day.” “Nothing will come up,” he said. He tapped the matchbook on the desk. “Well, take the rest of the day off, Joe. You did good this week. Only you could sell that crap and come back with an additional order for a motel in Fumbuck Ohio, I’ll tell you that.” “Not that hard. There’s something about a burst pipe in your room that makes a motel manager wondering how he can make it up to you.” “Explain that part again?” “I don’t know, a pipe froze or something. A plumber I’m not. All I know is I woke up to shouting from the guy in the next room, and then I get out of bed and put my feet in an inch of cold cold water. The manager was awfully apologetic about ruining my samples, asked what he could do, pay me for the trouble. Hell, they’re just samples. I showed him the line – what was left – and he liked the standard motel number, ordered a case. Nothing custom, just the name and a clip-art motel on the back.” “And you didn’t dunk the stuff in the toilet or nothing, to make it look like it got ruined, apply the old psychology?” “Well – no.” The boss gave him a wan smile. “Of course not. That’s why I trust you.” Not enough to let me run the business after you’re gone, Joe thought, and hated himself for it immediately. Later that night after three Carlings, he found he no longer felt resentful. Now he felt almost angry, and he liked himself even less. |
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