“Fletcher,” said The Leather Duke, “that business about the Black Hand...”
“Words, Mr. Towner. To keep your mind occupied until the dinners came. But I told you only the truth, sir. About the Black Hand and — about us. I said we were working here as laborers. We are. I gave you a history of the Black Hand, a true history. If you misunderstood...”
Harry Towner suddenly pushed back his big chair and got to his feet. “Wait, Fletcher. Be still for ten seconds. Don’t say another word.”
He turned his back to Johnny and smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand. Johnny looked at Elliott Towner, smiled weakly. The Leather Duke’s son gave him a bleak look in return.
Chapter Ten
For thirty seconds the only sound in the room was the heavy breathing of The Leather Duke. Then he turned.
“That story you just told me about how you got that bruise, Fletcher...”
“The truth, sir. After we left you last night, Sam and I rode up to little Italy; we went into a poolroom and I got into an argument with Carmella. He and four or five of his friends attacked us. As a matter of fact, I can prove that. There was a witness, a man who works up in the counter department...”
“His name?”
“Joe Genara.”
Harry Towner stabbed at his son with a forefinger. “Go upstairs, Elliott. Ask this Genara man—”
“All right, Dad,” said Elliott. He started for the door, but as he opened it, Towner called, “Wait!”
He turned back to Johnny. “You’d let him go up and ask?”
“Of course, sir.”
“All right, Elliott,” Towner said, “never mind.” He drew a deep breath. “All right, Fletcher, let’s have it. Why are you here?”
“Why, you asked me to come down and—”
“There you go with your words again,” Towner snapped. “You know very well that wasn’t what I meant. Why are you working here at this factory?”
“Because I’m broke. Actually, I’m a book salesman...”
“A salesman!”
“The world’s greatest and I’m not bragging when I say that, Mr. Towner.”
“No, I don’t think you are. You certainly sold me last night.” Towner picked up his cigar and puffed on it. “A salesman, eh?” He suddenly flicked a switch on an interoffice communication system and leaning over his desk, barked out: “Come in here, Edgar!” He shut off the intercom and looked thoughtfully at Johnny.
“I’ve always prided myself upon being a judge of character,” he said to Johnny. “I thought I had you sized up last night, but if I’ve made a mistake...”
He stopped as the door opened and a completely bald man came into the room.
“Mr. Bracken, our sales manager. Edgar, this is Mr. Fletcher, one of our counter sorters.”
At the beginning of Towner’s introduction, Mr. Bracken came forward, hand out, a smile on his face, but at the final announcement of Johnny’s status the smile disappeared from his face, the hand fell and Mr. Bracken came to a halt.
“Yes, Mr. Towner,” he said, puzzled.
“Mr. Fletcher,” Towner went on, “tells me he’s a salesman. I’m going to give him a tryout. I want you to give him some counter samples and an order blank. He’s going to call on the John B. Croft Shoe Company and get an order for some counters...”
“The John B. Croft Company!” exclaimed Mr. Bracken. “But, Mr. Towner, you know—”
“Yes, I know,” cut in Towner, “they buy lots of counters. They make a poor grade of shoes, but still they use counters in them and we sell counters. All grades and all prices. Well, Fletcher, do you think you can get an order of counters?”
“And if I sell them?”
Harry Towner shrugged. “You won’t be working upstairs.”
Johnny grimaced. “Has this company ever sold the John B. Croft Shoe Company any counters?”
“Oh, yes!”
“How long ago?”
“How long is it, Mr. Bracken?”
The sales manager gulped. “Uh, twelve years.”
“I see,” said Johnny. He drew a deep breath. “Give me the samples.”
Mr. Bracken looked at Harry Towner. The Leather Duke nodded grimly. “Give him the samples, Mr. Bracken. And the order blanks.”
“And a small expense account, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said. “I haven’t even got carfare.”
“Oh, you won’t need carfare, Fletcher. They’re only a few blocks from here. But you’re right, a little expense money is only fair. Bracken, give him ten dollars... You’re going to call on them now, Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting here to find out how you made out.”
Bracken started to leave the office and Johnny followed. As he passed Elliott he heard a distinct snicker.
Bracken led Johnny into a small office near Towner’s. When Johnny had entered the sales manager closed the door.
“I don’t know what this is all about, Fletcher,” he said, “but I feel that I should tell you that there is great enmity between the John B. Croft Company and this firm...”
“Oh, sure, I gathered that.”
“John B. Croft has a standing order in his place that anyone from the Towner Company should be thrown out the moment they set foot in their factory. You’d only be wasting time calling there. If you’re wise you’ll take the ten dollars in lieu of your salary here—”
“I’ll take the samples, too. And the order blanks.”
Bracken looked at Johnny a moment, then shaking his head, went to a long table and picked up a leather salesman’s kit. He handed it to Johnny.
“It’s your funeral.”
Johnny opened the kit, took out two leather counters and stuffed them into his pocket. He picked up an order pad and tore off two sheets, which he folded and put into his breast pocket. “Now if you’ll give me the expense money...”
Mr. Bracken took out his wallet and extracted a ten dollar bill. “Good-bye, Fletcher,” he said.
“See you in a little while,” Johnny said. He gave the sales manager a half salute and left the office.
He stopped at Nancy Miller’s desk.
“Fired?” she asked.
“Promoted. I’m now a salesman. I’m going over to get an order from the John B. Croft Company.”
She gasped. “Somebody’s ribbing you.”
“The Duke. He says if I get an order from Croft I can have any job in the place.” -
“But that’s it, Johnny,” Nancy said, tautly. “You can’t get an order from the Croft Company. Harry Towner and John B. Croft are deadly enemies.”
“I’m doing it because of you, Taffy,” Johnny said dramatically. “You said you wouldn’t go out with a laborer, so I’m trying to become a white collar man, a salesman, just so you—”
“You’re crazy, Johnny,” Nancy said softly. “Crazy, but I like you. Only—”
“I shall return,” said Johnny, and walked out of the office.
But out on the street, some of his confidence ebbed from him. He walked north to Division Street and turned east. At the corner of Larrabee, he stopped for five minutes and had almost decided to give it up when his eye caught a sign over a store on the other side of the street. ASSISTANCE LEAGUE.
On a sudden impulse he crossed the street and entered the store. On the inside it looked like an orderly junk shop. Secondhand clothing in all stages of wear and tear hung from racks. Rusted tools and hardware were spread out on counters. Near the rear of the shop was a counter piled high with old shoes. In front of the counter stood four wooden barrels, all filled with old shoes.
A thin, pale man who looked like a reformed boozer blocked Johnny’s path. “Something for you?”
“Shoes,” Johnny said. “Size nine and a half.”
The clerk pointed at one of the counters. “Here you are, but we don’t guarantee the sizes.”