The Whipping Boy Read Free Page A

complaining about how poor things had got in his district. MacGinnis had been hired recently to replace J. D. Plagman, who’d committed suicide at the Wyandott Hotel in Texarkana, apparently because he was unable to sell hardware in southwest Arkansas—a sad fact, since the Angel of Commerce herself couldn’t have sold much hardware after more than a year of the Panic. MacGinnis was not doing any better than Plagman had before he shot himself. “It’s deader’n a nut down there,” he said. “Nobody buyin much as nails.”
    Jack Peters wheezed in his high voice, “That’s the way it is everywhere. The boom in Oklahoma Territory is a damn bust.”
    Dandy Pruitt and Marvin Beele both threw in their two cents about how low the Indian Nations had got. “What little you sell, you can’t count on being delivered. Trains ain’t running half the time,” Marvin said, quickly bobbing his head down and bull’s-eying the spittoon.
    When Mr. Dekker finally did walk into the big office, at nearly a quarter after twelve, Jake was further mystified. The old man always started meetings urgently, by saying, “Let’s see if you sons of bitches have sold any hardware this month.” Today he came in and sat down and looked at them—toward them—with no particular expression except what appeared to Jake to be a kind of light glowing around his eyes. He said nothing. Mr. Dekker was a lean man of average height, tending to bald, with a fierce sharp beak of a nose and close-set eyes. He was waiting for somebody else to arrive.
    After a time, Ernest came in. With one eyebrow floating high and a flushed look, the vice president took out a pre-rolled cigarette and put it into a black ivory holder. Jack Peters, the salesman for Oklahoma Territory, leaned out to light it. Unlike his father, Ernest was substantial in size, and he put on magisterial, impatient airs around “inferiors.” He looked over the men and asked Bob MacGinnis to come outside. After talking with MacGinnis for a few minutes, Ernest returned alone. The salesmen looked around at one another suspiciously. This was a very odd start for a sales meeting.
    At last Mr. Dekker said, “You’d better tell em.”
    Ernest glanced at his father and took the ivory holder from his mouth. “All right,” he said briskly. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, men, but it appears the Panic has finally got to us. The Mercantile Exchange Bank has called in our credit. They have demand notes and we have no choice but to meet them.”
    Jack Peters made a little
oof
sound, like he’d been hit in the gut. Marvin Beele rolled his eyes around to Jake. Pete Crapo of central Arkansas merely continued to look puzzled, his normal expression. Jake noticed that the old man, with head cocked back and eyes slightly narrowed, watched Ernest closely.
    Ernest scowled at his cigarette. “Mr. Bradley, chief teller, notified us this morning. It was completely unexpected.”
    Jake knew something of Bradley. He’d seen him around town, running in the same crowd as Ernest.
    Ernest continued, “I don’t have to tell you how precarious this situation is. We’ll have to take immediate action, or they’ll seize our merchandise and shut us down. You realize we have no choice in the matter. We’re declaring war against debt. We’ll have to collect all accounts. Those of you who don’t succeed I’m going to have to let go. I’m giving some of you couriers and I want you to keep em damn busy.”
    Couriers? As Ernest talked on, Jake’s disbelief mounted. Heat ascended the back of his neck. He couldn’t believe the old man would even listen to the idea of making an all-out collection sweep now. Nobody in the territory had any money. It was shipping season after a bad harvest on top of a panic. Arkansas, Oklahoma, and all of the Indian Nations were in turmoil.