Free Robert B. Parker by Love, Glory Page A

manager in Lee’s office. Lee, being president, had an office with walls and a ceiling. He had a secretary with a good-looking ass, and he had a mahogany desk as big as a manager comma’s office. He looked kind of small sitting behind it, sort of like a white-haired cherub with bright pink cheeks. Probably too long under the sunlamp. Lee was looking at the current issue of
Discretionary Pulse
, the twelve-page four-color sales promotion toilet paper that I wrote and edited once a month. He was not pleased.
    “Pat,” he said. “You sign off on this magazine every month. Am I right or wrong?”
    There was a faint gloss of sweat on the upper lip of the general sales manager. He looked like he needed to urinate. If Lee turned up the volume a little, I thought he might, right through the fabric. Did the Brooks Brothers guarantee cover urine stains?
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    “Yes, I do, Lee,” the general sales manager said, “but I never saw this.”
    “It’s your business to see it, Pat.” Lee looked at me. He had bright blue eyes under white eyebrows and he looked a little like a mean Santa Claus.
    “Boone,” he said to me, “what’s the company policy on selling to Negroes?”
    “We discourage it,” I said.
    “Then why do you have a picture of one of our agents delivering one of our policies to a Negro couple in this month’s
Pulse?
”
    “I was reading that copy you had me write for your speech to the Life Underwriters Council. That part about it being not only the right of every American to have life insurance protection, but the obligation of every life insurance professional to provide that protection. I thought you were including jigaboos.”
    Lee bent forward toward me over his desk. “There will be no racial slurs in this office, or, by God, in this company. We do not encourage the sale of life insurance to Negro men and women because they are a poor business risk. Was that explained to you?”
    I nodded.
    Lee looked at the general sales manager. “Was it, Pat?”
    Pat sat very straight in his chair. “Absolutely, Lee. I checked on that personally with Bill Reardon and he told me that Walt Waters had absolutely touched base with Boone on that score. No question about it.”
    “It has nothing to do with race or with racial prejudice,”Lee said. “It is a simple matter of dollars and cents, Boone.”
    I nodded. The general sales manager said, “Absolutely.”
    Lee eased back in his chair. “Boone,” he said. “I was your age once. I know how you feel. You’re full of piss and vinegar about equality, and I admire that. But when you’re older you’ll come to see that you can’t run a business on theory. When the Negroes become acceptable actuarial risks, I’ll be the first one to say, ‘Sell ’em, and keep selling ’em.’ ” Lee smiled at me. He was probably an excellent actuarial risk. Unless they rated you for being a blow. “Okay?” he said.
    I nodded.
    “So, let’s not have any more foul-ups, Pat,” Lee said.
    “Roger,” Pat said.
    “Wasn’t his fault, anyway,” I said. “I slipped it by him on purpose.”
    Lee smiled some more. “That’s behind us,” Lee said. “Water under the dam.” He leaned briskly forward. “Let’s get back to work,” he said. The general sales manager and I got up and went out.
    As I waited for the elevator the general sales manager said, “It was pretty decent of you to take the blame.” His voice was full of wonder.
    I shrugged. “It was my fault,” I said.
    “Lee can come down pretty hard,” the general sales manager said.
    I nodded. The elevator came. I got in. The general sales manager said, “Well, let’s get to it. Let’s get this thing oiled up.” He walked down the hall toward his office with walls and a ceiling (only a little smaller thanLee’s) with a spring in his step. I went down in the elevator.
    Dear