The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [407]
“She’s something that could make a man forget whether or not he had a job on a day like this,” the crap artist beside him said insinuatingly, slyly poking Studs as he spoke.
A wiry, nervous, bald-headed man came from an adjoining office, followed by a barrel-like fellow who walked out of the office, carrying a folded newspaper under his arm.
“Who’s next?”
A tall lad arose and walked into the adjoining office after the bald-headed man.
The girl returned.
“Sticks what she’s got right up into your face,” the crap artist whispered.
Sitting down, the girl flashed an annoyed glance at them, and Studs flushed. But how could a guy help getting het up when a dame did everything she could to tantalize him? She was crossing her legs, showing one leg above the knee. Ought to be a law forbidding broads to tease that way. She pulled the gum from her mouth, stretched it several feet, pulled it back into her mouth, resumed chewing it, and began typing as if the lineup on the bench were non-existent.
He looked toward the unwashed windows at the opposite end of the office and, staring at the heavy pall of gray sky, he became aware of traffic noises from the street below. He was damp, wet, and what would he do if there was nothing decent here? And how long would he have to wait? He looked at his watch: a quarter to twelve.
Two shabby men entered and walked to the girl. The tall lad came out of the inner office. Didn’t look like he’d gotten anything. Maybe, then, it might be a good job. And if he got it, his troubles might be ended. If not, a whole morning wasted.
V
Studs saw the wiry, bald-headed man sitting at the littered desk of the cramped adjoining office, and beside him there were stacks of paper cups.
“How do you do, ah, Mr...”
“Lonigan,” Studs volunteered, taking the chair opposite the man.
“Glad to meet you, I’m Mr. Peters. Now tell me, Mr. Lonigan, are you, or are you not, a live-wire?” the man said, giving Studs a penetrating look.
Too stunned to answer, Studs stared back, puzzled.
“I have here a proposition that is for live-wires, and for live-wires only. Slackers, slow-pokes, easy-going, unambitious fellows, I neither want nor can tolerate. I am not even interested in the kind of salesman who thinks that because he has made a few sales in the morning, his day’s work is done and he can knock off. The reason I’m saying these things at the beginning of this interview is because if you are that type, we are both wasting our time in even discussing the proposition I have to offer you.”
“Well, I’d like to hear what your proposition is,” Studs said, not liking this oozy bastard, but trying to act up to him.
“I’ve got here the kind of proposition a genuine live-wire recognizes immediately for what it’s worth when it is presented to him. He sees that it is a sure-fire proposition that he can make plenty of money out of. I can prove it, too, that I’ve got a real money-maker here by showing you the reports of some of our salesmen.” Mr. Peters dug through the papers on his desk and found a blocked-off, criss-crossed sheet.
“Here’s a report from one of our salesmen who earned sixty dollars commission last week.”
Studs’ eyes opened widely, and his suspicions momentarily quieted. Sixty bucks in one week. If sixty, why not seventy or seventy-five? Leaning his elbows on the desk, his head bent forward.
“Here’s another whose net was fifty-four dollars. And fifty-four dollars a week in these days is real money. It’s big money for salesmen new at the game, who are selling a new product which is just being put successfully on the market. I can vouch for that. Our product is new, and anyone starting in with us at this stage of the game has boundless opportunities ahead. There’s no telling where the limits are, and he can make, from his very first week, more money than thousands and thousands of men are earning today after years of work in one line. The opportunities are boundless.”
Perspiring, Studs wished this goofy bald-headed bastard would come