Magician's Wife Read Free

where the plastic was neatly shrunk, so the bundles came out tight, falling into a basket and bouncing like playful pups. Finally it traveled them to a labeler, which covered one side with a happy scene of children having a cookout and eating dogs named GRANT’S .
    He tarried briefly by this mechanical miracle, but then passed on to a smaller machine, tended by several girls, and gave it close attention. Its main part was a slicer, to which a girl clamped meat, big slabs of beef brisket, already corned, cooked, and chilled. A rotary blade took off big even slices, which dropped to a belt. From it another girl took clutches of three slices each, and placed them on squares of aluminum foil. Other girls folded the foil, crimped it, tucked the shining packets so formed into boxes, and pasted on labels showing a gay restaurant scene and carrying the caption:
ATTENTION, CHEFS!
    This Dish Is Ready to Serve!
    NO COOKING—NO CARVING—NO WORK
    Heat in Cover One Minute—Remove Cover
    THAT’S IT!
    IT’S READY!
    â€œKids, you’re doing fine,” he told the girls. “Looks like we got a smash.” The girls, who seemed to like him, twittered their thanks.
    He held the meeting in the “file room,” a place filled with cabinets, but large enough for the chair Miss Helm brought, and having a desk with phone. At the last moment he remembered Hal Daley, his chief salesman and right-hand man, and invited him himself. He gave Hal the place of honor, at one side of the desk, opposite Miss Helm. Then he stood at the door, waving the others in, the salesmen and cutters, all quiet, well-dressed men; the girls from the corned-beef unit, looking quite collegiate, and much slimmer now that they’d shed their thick coats; and Miss Niemeyer, the chief accountant, a tall woman, with an intellectual face, who habitually held her glasses over one thumb. When all were seated, he took his place at the desk, saying he wanted to bring them down to date “on this corned-beef thing—but first let’s call Portico, see what the score is there.” But the call to Mr. Granlund, Portico’s president, ran into a snag, as Miss Helm cupped the phone and told him: “Nelly says he’s not there. Will you call in twenty minutes?” His face darkening, he took the phone and growled: “Nelly? Have Mr. Granlund call me. Tell him it’s important, and I won’t wait twenty minutes! You have him call me at once! ” When he hung up, applause broke out from the salesmen, themselves fed up, perhaps, with Mr. Granlund and the difficulty of getting him on the line.
    Then the phone rang, and he took the call himself. When a man’s voice asked, “Clay, what do you mean, cussing out my girl?” he answered curtly: “I didn’t cuss her out.”
    â€œYou did something, the way she’s acting.”
    â€œAll I did was tell her to have you call, but I can damned well cuss you if you keep up this hard-to-get routine! Who do you think you are, De Gaulle?”
    To this, Mr. Granlund bellowed: “I’ll not have Nelly mistreated—I won’t have it, I won’t have it, I won’t have it! ” Then, even louder, but not quite so mean, he asked: “What did you call about?”
    â€œThe corned beef. How’s it doing?”
    â€œWell, how would I know, so soon after—”
    â€œSteve, quit cracking dumb! The same way I know, by getting with it and finding out! But it’s O.K. If you don’t care how it’s doing, I can always switch.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, switch?”
    â€œSwitch to Coastal, what do you think?”
    Mention of Coastal, Portico’s chief competitor, seemed to enrage Mr. Granlund, for he roared: “Clay, that’s blackmail, and I damned well won’t stand for it—not for one minute, do you hear?” Clay, suddenly sweet, replied: “I guess it is, Steve. I guess it is, at that, and I