The Fan Read Free

returned with a car door. Japanese?—Gil wondered. Verrucci laid it on the table. O’Meara opened his briefcase, took out a claw hammer, positioned the knife a few inches below the door handle, and began pounding on the pommel. Pounding hard; a sweat stain spread over his right armpit, and his face pinkened in pleasure. Ten blows—Gil counted them, too many—and the blade sank down to the choil. With a grunt, Verrucci stood the door on end, showing the tip of the blade protruding through a speaker grille inside. O’Meara jerked the knife free, extended his forearm, cut another swath. Garrity watched the wiry hairs falling on his appointment book.
    O’Meara passed the knife around the table. “Say hello to the Survivor,” he said. “State-of-the-art workhorse of our new state-of-the-art line.”
    “A new line?” someone said.
    “The Iwo Jima Experience,” O’Meara replied. “Doesn’t that say it all?”
    The reps hefted the Survivor, ran their thumbs across its edge, balanced it on their index fingers. All but Gil: he just handed it on to the next man. But that was enough to tellhim that the Survivor wasn’t state of the art, or even an improvement on the rest of their product: two or three grades below that. Blade too thin—quarter inch, when similar Japanese models were all five-sixteenths; pommel too small; light in the handle, indicating a half tang hidden in there. The spec sheet followed: 440 steel, acceptable, if inferior to the Japanese, and hardened to 61 on the Rockwell scale, an impressive number, but much too hard for a survival knife. Better, though, than junk; and maybe some buyers would go for that flashy handle.
    The Survivor came back around to O’Meara. “Who thinks they can sell this baby?”
    “Banzai,” said Verrucci.
    “That’s the ticket,” O’Meara said. “Renard?”
    “Depends on the price,” Gil answered, thinking: why me today?
    “Thirty-seven seventy-five.”
    Wholesale. That kicked retail to $70, $75, even $80. Would the Survivor sell at that kind of price? Gil had no idea. He didn’t know why any of their stuff sold at any price.
    “What’s the commission?” Gil said.
    O’Meara made a face, as though he didn’t like talking about money. “Twelve and a half.”
    “For a new line?”
    “Cincinnati thinks it’s more than fair. Any objections?”
    There were none.
    “Then let’s get it done.”
    O’Meara packed up his claw hammer and left for the airport. Garrity handed out new catalogues that included the Iwo Jima line, gave them each a Survivor for their sample cases, and wished them luck. The reps filed out, all except Gil.
    Garrity blew O’Meara’s hairs off his appointment book.
    “Tickets in yet?” Gil said.
    “Tickets?”
    “Sox.”
    Garrity studied the ruined car door, still lying on the conference table. “What am I going to do with this fucking thing?”
    “Bridgid said to ask you.”
    Garrity looked up. “No tickets this year, boyo.”
    “They didn’t come in?”
    “They came in, all right. And we sold them off—to Marriott, Gillette, couple others.”
    “Sold them?”
    “At cost.”
    “Why?”
    “Orders.”
    “Whose orders?”
    “Cincinnati. Who else gives orders?”
    “But I already promised all mine to clients.” Not entirely true, but he had promised some. “You’re making us look like assholes.”
    “Boyo. You got other things to worry about.”
    “Like?”
    “I’ll let you in on a secret—you came this close.” Garrity held up his hand, thumb and index finger almost touching. “This close. To being out on the street. O’Meara had you on the list with the rest of them when he flew in last night. I talked him out of it. Don’t make me regret it.”
    “Thanks, massa.”
    “Fuck off.”
    They glared at each other. Gil picked up the Survivor lying on the table in front of him, flipped it in his sample case, and walked out. Bridgid was crying at her desk. Right. She had a thing with Figgy. Saving for a down payment,