The salesman was in his forties, bald on top, with a thin moustache and thick black glasses balanced on a thin nose. He had a wide eager smile. He looked like a cartoon you’d see in an ad for lightbulbs that were smarter than the other brands. “Mind if I smoke, young man?”

Joe shook his head. He pushed the glass ashtray across the desk. It was a large ashtray. It was a large desk. He took out his own pack while the man lit his cigarette, then held th match out for Joe. It went out. He struck another. B-grade, Joe thought. Nothing in the stick under the head to keep it going. They were pushing those for safety reasons, but the truth was they just cost less.

“Keep it!” said the man, and he put the book on the desk.

“Thanks. You never know when you’ll run out.”

“That’s so. Of course, I always have a few in the old pocket for promotional purposes. So! You’re interested in some peace of mind.”

Joe shrugged. “It’s the owner’s call. He wants me insured, for the company’s sake.”

The salesman nodded. “I checked your company’s name through our records, and we don’t have a policy on file for your firm. Is it likely you’ll be wanting to ensure other employees?”

“There’s me, and there’s a salesman, and that’s it. We might have had a policy with you - the name’s changed.”

“Atomic Promotions, yes, it’s very dynamic.”

Joe tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. He had to lean forward to do it. Damned big desk. “It wasn’t my name. The owner died, and his son took over. But the son doesn’t want to run the business, just live off it, but he likes being an owner of something. The big thinker. Idea man. This insurance is one of his ideas.” He picked up the matchbook. “I don’t suppose you guys ever get clients up in your office.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Terminal Tower? Anyone come up there, or do you mostly go to them?”

“We like to come to the client’s location. Insurance can be a hard sell for some people, you know - they’ll get around to it, they don’t like thinking about why they need it. You can imagine. And they’re more comfortable in their own setting. I’m happy to oblige, it’s no problem.”

“And I’ll bet no one likes to see a nice office and wonder where the money came from. I understand, I sell myself. In fact I have a call coming up, so if you could just leave the forms, I’ll get them back to you.”

“I can pick them up at your convenience. This -” he leaned down to a briefcase by the side of his chair and pulled out a folder - “has all the information on the policy, what we need from you, beneficiaries, and so on. I understand this is a corporate policy - and if I may say, judging from the size of it you’re well-regarded in this firm.”

I am the firm, Joe thought, and if I get hit by a train or drive the car off the road, Junior wants a pile to compensate when he shuts the doors or sells the client list.

“I’d like a separate policy as well,” he said. “Twenty thousand.”

“Oh! Well of course I can do that. As a matter of fact I have the papers here; I can make a few notations, and we’ll get them all in at once. Will the billing information be different?”

“Bill the company.”

“Very good. If you’ll bear with me.”

The salesman drew more documents from his briefcase - Joe wondered if he could have requested a policy on a parakeet getting hit by a missile, and the fellow would have the exact form required. He picked up the matchbook again and ran his finger along the back, testing the staple. He could feel the point with his thumb.

“The company buy these for you?”

“I’m sorry? Oh, the matches. Yes. The home office stamps them up with our address and sends them along.”

“They’re cheap.”

The man blinked and seemed to frost over a few degrees.

“I don’t quite understand.”

“The matches don’t stay lit long enough. They probably split when you strike too hard, right? And this - “ he turned the matchbook - “the staples were set but not crimped. That’s another step. It pushes in the points so they don’t snag the inside of your pocket lining” He pushed it back across the desk. “It’s the little things.”

“I had no idea.”

“It’s my business. If you’d like to look into a better class of matches, I’d be happy to come up to your office and show you what we could do.”

The man flashed the same smile he’d displayed when he sat down. There was less in the smile than there was before.

“The company buys them, as I say. Can’t fight City Hall, you know.”

Joe nodded. The man had been selling one-way for too long. Used to coming to people who didn’t want what he sold but had been nagged by the wife to get it. Used to having a certain amount of power, too: he could approve, or not. Never learned to lie and pretend he’d be interested in buying what the other guy sold.

“I understand,” Joe said. “But here’s a tip. When you hand out matches, give the customer a clean book. Not one with two sticks gone. You give that to a guy on the street who asks you for a light.” The man looked abashed; the smile was gone. Joe grinned. “Sorry. Like I say, it’s my trade. Gotta find a way to get people to need more inventory. Anyway, thanks for coming over with the papers. I’ll give you a call in a day or two and you can pick them up, or I’ll put them in the mail.”

“Mail would be fine,” said the salesman, and he reached into his briefcase again. He puled out an envelope. “It’s postage paid.”

They shook hands and stood and Joe saw him to the door. He walked back to the big desk. The man’s cigarette was still smouldering; he hadn’t crushed it enough to put it out. The elevator dinged down the hall.

Joe picked up the form for the insurance he wanted to buy with his mother’s name as the beneficiary; he looked at it, crumpled it up, and threw it in the wastebasket. He made a note to call someone else tomorrow.