“Do you expect them to break?”
“Every machine breaks. Any electric typewriter needs constant maintenance.”
“Leave that up to the customer.”
“We have to put some kind of guarantee on them.”
“Don’t play up the imported business. You’re not going to notify them that they’re made in Japan, are you?”
“No,” he said.
“Well, that’s fifty percent of it. If they think they’re made in this country it won’t occur to them to worry about service.”
“We’re not a schlock outfit,” he said. “That’s not the way we do business.”
“And this isn’t a schlock typewriter,” Baranowski said sharply. He gave up his unpacking and came back into the office, swinging his pry bar around. “It’s a good sound piece of workmanship and anybody who knows anything about machinery’ll recognize that.”
“How much?” Bruce said, feeling that he had the man on the defensive.
“For how many? I don’t want to break the warehouse down. If I keep it intact I can offer somebody an exclusive. If I sell you some and somebody else some, you’ll be in competition.”
“I’m not selling them in this area,” he said.
“Where, then?”
“The southern part of Idaho.”
“Around Boise?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Anywhere else?”
“No.”
“I could sell you two hundred.”
“At how much?”
Baranowski sat down at his desk and began writing figures. At last he said, “Fifteen thousand.”
It stunned him. He computed it and arrived at a figure of seventy-five dollars a machine. “Too much,” he said, “and too many.”
“How many, then? That’s as low as I can cut it.” Baranowski scowled.
“What about fifty of them?”
In a quiet voice Baranowski said, “Are you kidding? That’s almost a retail quantity.”
“Nobody walks into a retail outlet and buys fifty typewriters.”
“What sort of price do you think you can get on a quantity like that? What sort of selling are you in? Evidently you have no experience in this.” Baranowski started back to the store room.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s make it seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five,” Baranowski said, “at around one hundred dollars each.”
“No,” he said. “Seventy-five at forty dollars.”
“Well, glad to have met you.” Turning his back, Baranowski resumed his unpacking.
Bruce said, “I’ll buy seventy-five machines at forty dollars apiece. Three thousand in cash. I have the cash. No guarantee, but they have to be identical with the machine you loaned me, and in sealed original cartons.”
In the store room Baranowski said nothing.
“I’ll give you a call in a day or so,” Bruce said. “So long.” As he started out into the hall he said, “I’ll leave the machine you loaned me. It’s on the table.”
The door closed after him. Somewhat shaken, he walked downstairs to the ground floor and outside onto the sidewalk.
The next morning Susan telephoned him. “I got your letter,” she said. “It looks wonderful. Go ahead and buy them. I’m really excited about it. How many do you think you can get?”
“Time will tell,” he said.
The day dragged by. Late that afternoon the phone in his motel room rang. Sure enough, it was Baranowski.
“I’ll make one proposal,” Baranowski said. “Take it or leave it. I don’t go in for haggling. Sixty machines at fifty dollars apiece. I know you’ve got three thousand to spend, and that’s what it comes to.”
“It’s a deal,” he said.
“All right,” Baranowski said. “I’m not happy about this, but evidently you’re inexperienced at this so what the hell. Only next time don’t come to a jobber and try to buy a pissant quantity like that.”
Shortly, Bruce had driven out to meet Baranowski at the warehouse in the industrial section. A contract was typed out on one of the machines, the money passed over in the form of a cashier’s check, and then together they loaded sixty of the sealed cartons into the Merc. Bruce examined each one to be sure that the coded markings were identical.
“I think I’ll open them up,” he said suddenly.
Baranowski groaned.
“Since I’ll be selling them direct,” he said. “And you don’t care if I do.” While Baranowski stood unsympathetically by he carried all sixty cartons from the car and piled them back on the loading platform. One by one, with the blade of a screwdriver, he slit open the cartons, lifted out the machines, and made certain that he was getting what he had paid for. In all sixty he found no variation at all, except that one machine showed a dented side. Baranowski, wordlessly, grabbed up another carton from the warehouse and shoved it in his hands.
“Good luck,” Baranowski said, and then he disappeared inside the warehouse, for good.
Bruce drove away with his sixty portable typewriters, feeling the sluggishness of the car under the weight. Had he done right? Too late to worry about that now.
Returning to his motel he packed his suitcase, paid what he owed, and started the drive back to Boise with his typewriters.
14
The following night, at one A.M., he entered Boise. Parking in front of the house he locked up the car and climbed the stairs to the front porch. Letting himself in with his key he went into the bedroom and stood at the end of the bed until Susan awoke.
“Oh!” she said, staring at him.
“I’m back,” he said.
At once she slid from the bed and picked up her robe. “Let’s see them,” she said, buttoning her robe. “They’re still in the car, aren’t they?”
He said, “I’m too tired.” Seated at the end of the bed he began removing his shoes. “I took it as fast as I could. I only got a few hours sleep.”
Bending down, she kissed him. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“What a grind,” he said. He finished undressing, and, without putting any pajamas on, got into the bed where she had been. The bed was warm and it smelled of her. Almost at once he was off into sleep.
“Bruce,” she said, awakening him. “Can I go out and get one? I want to see what they look like.”
“Okay,” he murmured. And again he fell asleep.
The next he knew she had seated herself on the edge of the bed, in her robe and slippers. He had the feeling that a good deal of time had passed. “Hi,” he muttered.
Susan said, “Bruce, are you awake enough to look at something?”
The tone of her voice caused him to come fully awake, worn-out as he was. He sat up and looked at the clock. An hour and a half had gone by. “What’s the matter?” he said.
Arising from the bed, she walked to the door of the bedroom. “I want you to look at something.”
He got up, put his trousers on, and followed her down the hall to the living room. On the table a familiar Mithrias portable had been placed between two stacks of typing paper, one white and one yellow. She had been typing.
“Here,” she said. She handed him a small booklet, which he recognized as the book of instructions.
“What about it?”
“Open it,” she said.
He opened it. The cover had only the word Mithrias on it, and the first page was a diagram of the machine with each control numbered. He examined the second page.
The instructions were in Spanish.
After a moment he said, “Then these didn’t come in to Seattle by ship from Japan. Directly. They must have originally been shipped to Mexico or Latin America.”
Susan said, “I’m afraid to tell you.” She had a dry-eyed wild expression. “The keyboard isn’t standard.”