Preston doesn’t grin any more. “The factory thinks Fox had better let another agent take over. He’s so far behind on his contract minimums now that—”
The girl interrupts indignantly. “Those minimums! Dad didn’t know anything about the tire business when he signed that contract. Your man wrote in the minimums and said—”
Preston quits kidding her. “I’m sorry, Miss Fox. I haven’t any discretion about contracts.”
Pete says, “Make out your order, brother.”
This time there’s no mistaking the sounds behind the counter. Fox is getting up. Pete goes on easily, “I’m putting some loose capital in the business.”
Pete gives Preston the eye. The sounds behind the counter quit. Preston whips an order book out of his pocket and starts writing. He’s mad, but Pete’s bid a no-trump hand, and there’s nothing Preston can do about it.
Personally, I like my hamburgers well done, but I’m afraid we won’t be there that long. I say to the redhead, “Don’t make those hamburgers too well done — and plenty of onions.”
Pete doesn’t say anything. He’s sitting there with a detached smile. I can see he’s waiting for The Dame to show her hand. Preston figures Pete wall wilt when he sees the order. He’s shoving his pencil across the order blank at a mile-a-minute clip.
It’s a dead heat. The girl slides over the hamburgers and Preston shoves the order across to Pete.
Quint doesn’t even read the order. He signs, “George C. Fox, per P. R. Quint,” with his right hand, and picks up the hamburger with his left. I grab my hamburger in both hands. Preston rips the carbon copy out of his order book, slams it in front of Pete, and says, “Remember those tires come C.O.D.”
“Sure,” Pete says. “Tell the factory to duplicate that order every ten days.” He slips Preston’s pencil into his own pocket, sticks out his right hand, and says, “Glad to have met you, Preston. Come in any time you’re down this way.”
The screen door slams behind Preston. Fox gets up from behind the counter, I shove the rest of my hamburger into my mouth.
Fox says, “You’ve got to pay for those tires.”
My coffee is scalding hot, but I gulp it down.
Pete motions toward my coffee cup. “Mind giving Ed another cup of coffee, Miss Fox?”
I can see her hand tremble as she pours in the coffee. Pete chews his sandwich leisurely. “Of course,” he says to Fox, “I’ll have to investigate the business,” and then, as he sees the bushy brows coming together, adds calmly, “In the meantime, I’ll have a talk with your banker. Where do you bank?”
Everything stops for a minute. Even the girl Stops pouring coffee.
I crook my finger in the handle of the cup, so no one can jerk it away.
“The Smith National,” Fox says.
You’d have thought Pete owned the hank, from the way he says, “Do you? That’s fine! With whom do you deal?”
That’s Pete’s sales technique. Never let the other guy get set to say “No.” Keep asking him questions or making him do something until he’s ready to sign.
Fox says dubiously, “With Duncan. He’s a friend—”
“Of the family,” the redhead interrupts.
“Well, he comes out every once in a while to—”
“Look the business over,” the redhead finishes, with her chin in the air.
“He’s human,” Fox explains. “You can talk to him. He’s the cashier.”
“Who’s the president?”
“Hooker. He’s a sourpuss.”
I see the tension is eased and take time to put cream and sugar in this cup of coffee. Quint gives his philosophy of bank borrowing. “Never do business with the human guy in a bank,” he says. “Banks keep those birds to say ‘No’ pleasantly. ‘No’ is all they can say. The only one a bank ever trusts to say ‘Yes’ is a sourpuss.”
Pete hands me a paper napkin. “Wipe your mouth off, Ed”; then to Fox, “We’ll go in your car.”
Hooker looks as though he’s reached for a piece of candy in the dark and bit into a rancid lemon. Pete breezes up with the Quint glad hand pushed out in front.
“My name’s Quint, head of the Quint Sales Company. This is my assistant, Ed Felton. We’re about to take over the distribution of Mr. Fox’s product. Later on, I’ll probably put some capital in the business. In the meantime—” and Pete slides down into the chair opposite Hooker, and motions Fox and me to chairs over against the wall.
Hooker listens for a while. Then I see his eyes swivel over to Fox. “How’d you get in touch with these men, George?”
Pete starts out, quick like, “I’ve been looking—”
Hooker says, “I want Fox to answer.”
Fox brushes the cobwebs out of his mind, “Why, I... I don’t know exactly. They just sort of dropped in and—”
Fox gets that far and bogs down. Hooker smiles, the smile of a housewife sneaking up on a sleeping fly. “George,” he says, “if you’ll kindly step outside, I have something I want to say to these gentlemen privately.”
Fox goes out, and I grip the arms of my chair. It’s coming now. Hooker waits until the door closes, then he says, “You’re high-pressure salesmen. You’re either flat broke, in love with Arlene Fox, or both. You’re slipping a fast one over on Fox, and — you’ve both been eating onions!”
Pete never hats an eyelash. He always claims you have to grab the customer’s objections and turn ’em into sales arguments, but this time it won’t work. I wish I’d walked out with Fox.
Then Pete says quietly, “You’re right, Mr. Hooker. We’re broke. I’m not in love with Arlene Fox — yet but I think I’m going to be. Fox has a sales problem. He has no more sales ability than a tapeworm. My guess is he already owes you money. If he can’t pull out, you’re hooked. I can pull him out.”
I can see Hooker’s mouth twitch. I can’t tell whether it’s expression or a gas pain.
Quint leans across the desk. “I’m the vitamin P-E-P that Fox’s business needs to get your money hack. Do you want to show your cashier how to clean up on a bad loan he’s made? If you do, just nod your head. It’s that simple.”
Pete quits talking, and we sit there listening to the clock ticking back of the banker’s desk. A moment before, Hooker’s eyes had been like diamonds. Now they are no harder than ice. He reaches for a fountain pen.
“Young man,” he says, “the fact that you didn’t lie is the best argument you’ve used.”
Pete’s shoulders move as he eases out a sigh. “As I’ve mentioned, Mr. Hooker, I’m temporarily embarrassed personally. If you could include—”
Hooker looks up from the promissory note he’s filling out. His voice is as cold as the closing of a vault door. “Fox owes this bank money. You don’t, Mr. Quint, and you’re not going to.”
The editor of the local paper is a pushover.
Pete gives him the works. Quint and Company is taking over Fox’s sales. Fox has given a whale of an order to the tire company. It isn’t to be announced just yet, but the tire company is sold on Robinsvale as a distribution center. There’s going to be a lot of advertising. The local paper is going to get a big share. Robinsvale is due for a big boom. Quint is a big shot. The reclaimed tire process makes old casings twice as strong, four times as good, eight times as safe, and only costs half as much. It’s going like a house afire.
We get rates on full-page contracts and leave the editor standing with his mouth open. Pete is sprouting sales ideas like mushrooms on a damp log. A scoutmaster lets us talk to his Eagle Scouts. The town’s leading printer welcomes Pete with open arms. They’ve got a consignment of twenty-pound all-rag bond they ordered on approval. The customer decided the stuff was too expensive and backed out. The printer is willing to make concessions. The stationery looks like a million dollars net. Pete fingers it with loving care and places an order in Fox’s name.