Free The Fan by Peter Abrahams

Chuck. Gil Renard here.”
    “What is it?”
    “Our meeting on the eighth. Two-thirty’s tough for me, Chuck. How’s the morning?”
    “Full up.”
    “Maybe late afternoon, then.”
    “Flying to Chicago.”
    “Any chance we could make it earlier?”
    “Earlier?”
    “A day or two earlier. The sixth? The seventh?”
    “Didn’t we go through this already?”
    “I just thought maybe you’d had a cancellation or something, could squeeze me in.” Shit. First rule of the commission rep: Look and sound successful.
    “No.”
    “What about later that week?”
    “In Chicago. Didn’t I say that?”
    “When are you coming back?”
    “End of the month.”
    “End of the month?”
    “I’m in Chicago till the twelfth. Then we’re taking two weeks in Maui.”
    Rule two: take the offensive. Gil tried to think of a line that would do that, and failed.
    “Hello?” said the VP. “You still there?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So what is it? Scratch you for the eighth?”
    “No,” Gil said. “I’ll be there.” He thought of a line. “Have that checkbook ready.”
    “We’ll see,” said the VP, and hung up.
    Rule three: ignore rejection. He called Garrity. “Good news,” he said. “Everest loves the Iwo Jima stuff. Going to build their whole approach around it. Thing is, they’re asking for a few weeks to solidify their plans. Should I give it to them?”
    “You mean they’re not going to order this month?”
    “They need time to retool, like I said.”
    Silence. “Give it to them,” Garrity said at last. “But it better be a whopper, Gil.”
    “What?”
    “Their order, I’m talking about.”
    “Count on it,” Gil said.
    “We are,” said Garrity. “See you on the ninth.”
    “The ninth?”
    “Sales meeting.”
    “Right,” said Gil. “Got to go. I’m on a call.” Look and sound successful.
    Gil stopped at Cleats for a quick one, then got back in the car, kept plugging. First, the bank. After making the car payment and the interest payments on his cards, he had $693.20 in his checking account and three or four hundred in his pocket. Plus the tickets. Free and clear, big boy, free and clear.
    He hit Bluewater Fishing and Tackle. The owner’s son was out front. Gil showed him the Iwo Jima catalogue, got him excited. Then the owner, a fat old guy in a plaid shirt, walked in from the back room. He checked out the catalogue, asked if Gil had any samples. Gil handed him the Survivor.
    “Great handle,” said the owner’s son.
    The owner turned the Survivor over in his hands a few times, then looked up at Gil. “This is shit, Gil. You know that.”
    Gil wanted to say, “Shit sells.” Especially if it’s got a fancy handle. But: don’t argue with a customer. He put the Survivor away. “What about the regular stuff?” His headache, which had shrunk back to the wedge behind his right eye, now expanded again.
    “I’ll take three-dozen Clipits,” the owner said. “And a dozen of those folding hunters with big bolsters.”
    “Eight-inch?”
    “Five and a quarter. A dozen skinners, two boxes of pocketknives—”
    “Red?”
    “Blue. Dozen fillet knives, and maybe two of those birders.
    “And?”
    “That’ll do it.”
    “That’ll do it?” March was supposed to be a big month.Bluewater had ordered three or four times as much the year before.
    “Blame the economy,” the owner said.
    Gil wrote up the order. Commission: $187.63. He faxed it in from the car, then stopped at Cleats and checked the box scores over a hamburger and a beer. Rayburn: 0 for 4, 4 Ks.
    “Burrows is an asshole,” Gil said.
    “Just because he wants them to work for their money?” Leon said, drawing a pint of Harpoon.
    “Use your head, Leon. Rayburn’s an investment. Like an oil well. Got to protect your investments.”
    “I feel like shit today,” Leon replied, “and I’m in here busting my ass. No one said, ‘You’re our oil well, Leon. Take the day off.’ ”
    “You’re replaceable. That’s the