Snagged Read Free Page B

process, tiny pieces of its glass arranging themselves on the floor of the factory. Sharp pain stung his knee and shin. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn! Damn! Damn!” he repeated faster and faster into the sudden darkness as he rolled on his back, cradling his knee to his chest while he rubbed his shin. With his flailing arm he accidentally brushed the side of the cardboard box and grabbed it to steady himself. And then he felt it. And forgot his pain. A jumble of the smoothest, silkiest material skimming his fingertips.
    Barney grunted as he lifted his back off the floor and arranged himself Indian-style, with his feet tucked underneath him, then greedily dipped his hands into the mound of luxurious fabric that turned out to be a couple of dozen pairs of panty hose. This must be the stuff, Barney thought. Richie’s latest. Knowing that Richie had never been too organized, he helped himself to a few pairs, hoping that they wouldn’t be missed. I’ll get these home and test these out myself, see if they’re what Richie claims they are.
    He did.
    As far as he could tell, they were.
    Run-proof.
    Snag-proof.
    Which had led him to the Calla-Lily Hosiery Company, whose owner had hired Barney’s nephew to do yard work. The only other hosiery company besides the defunct “Hose for the Religious” headquartered in the Miami area. That had been a month ago, and now Barney was waiting to meet with Ruth Craddock for the results of their lab tests.
    “Mr. Freize, Ms. Craddock is going to be a little while longer,” the receptionist reported to Barney, stirring him out of his thoughts. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” The request did not sound as if it were coming from an eager-to-please waitress.
    How about a life-insurance policy in case I die in this room? Barney thought, but what came out of his mouth was “Light and sweet.”

D OWN THE HALL Ruth Craddock sat at the head of the gleaming conference table, panting in exasperation. An ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts smeared with orange lipstick was positioned to her right. She constantly flicked her ever-present cigarette in its general direction, only occasionally hitting the mark. Crushed cans of Coke littered the table. Her ranting speech was interrupted only for deep drags, tornadolike inhales that puckered her weathered cheeks and looked as though they had the force to leave major tar and nicotine deposits in her little toes. Exhales were followed by a swig of soda.
    “We are going to get screwed!” she opined in her raspy voice. “We have got to buy the formula for that panty hose or else we’ll be out of business! If someone else gets it first, then we may as well put out a sign that says GONE FISHING !”
    The eight members of the board seated on either side blanched and shook their heads. They were all older men who had been with Calla-Lily since the early days and were called together now for the first emergency meeting since jeans started to replace skirts in the sixties as the fashion of choice, sending business into a tailspin. Women wanted to be liberated, and one thing they definitely wanted to be liberated from was garters. Garters that dug into the flesh on the backs of their thighs when they were seated, causing pain and leaving indentations. But garters held up stockings, Calla-Lily’s bread and butter. That’s when the idea of panty hose caught on, thank God, and kept women from adopting jeans or the dreaded pantsuit as permanent replacements for skirts and dresses.
    Bra manufacturers had also gone through a worrisome period when their pretty laced cups were being used to fuel bonfires. Fortunately for them, most women realized you can’t fight nature and the laws of gravity, and the bra business has held up since then, so to speak.
    “I’m telling you,” Ruth continued after another drag and swig, “we have got to buy out that Blossom guy before somebody else does. His Birdie Panty Hose is not to be believed. It’s comfortable, sexy, can