Free Roughneck by Jim Thompson Page B

don't you check on it yourself? Maybe you can get that cornmeal away from 'em."
           Each week the inflow of cash dropped to a new low. Even some of the best accounts began to go sour. One of the collectors was laid off, then another; finally only Durkin and I remained. The home office issued instructions that no merchandise should be sold except for cash.
           This last happening, Durkin told me, was the tipoff. It was all over now but the shouting. "The chain's getting ready to fold, Jim. It's finally sunk in on 'em that they can't beat this. They're just stalling for time, trying to grab off what they can without putting out anything more."
           I was sure he was right, but Clark, when I asked him about it, furiously denied that the company was on the verge of bankruptcy.
           He had grown quite thin in recent weeks. The flesh was drawn tight on his broad, strong face. He swayed a little as he addressed me, and his breath stank with the odor of rotgut whiskey.
           "That goddamned Durkin," he jeered. "A goddamned rube! What the—'hic!—'what the hell does he know? Why, Jim, Jim, ol' pal—" He leaned forward, confidentially, dropping a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. "I've 'seen' it, Jim, I know what I'm talking about. They got their own office building, hundreds, thousands of people workin' in it, an'—and they got their own factories and trucking lines an'—and warehouses that cover a city block. An' they got all these stores—stores in almost every state in the union, two'r three in some states. An'—'hup!—'they even control some banks, Jim. Just the same as own 'em. S-say our accounts are spread over a year's time, why they can take that paper to the banks an' get the cash on it. They got 'em by the balls, see? They crack the whip just like we do, an'—an' you know us, Jim. Long's the bastards've got a nickel to get, we—w-we—"
           He swayed, staggered, and lurched back against his desk. He sat there, nodding owlishly into space, and mumbling and muttering to himself.
           "G-got to be. S-saw it myself, didn't I? All the people'n the buildings'n the factories'n the b-banks'n the warehouses'n the...the everything. Didn't let 'em jus' tell me. Saw it m'self. Know it's there—g-gotta be there. Somethin's there it's 'there.' 'S'there an' thass all there is to it. Where—w-where the hell's it gonna be if it ain't there? What...where'n hell is anything gonna be?"
           Two weeks later the chain closed its doors.

11

    I squeezed through the summer on a variety of odd jobs, anything I could get that would bring in a few dollars. Early in the fall, the radio store for which I had been making an occasional sale came out with a line of low-priced table models—a decided novelty in those days—and I made money hand over fist. I was convinced that I had the depression licked. So much so that I not only reenrolled for the college fall term, but I also got married. My wife had a good job. Our understanding was that, if I should be caught in a pinch, she could give me enough financial help to get through college. Meanwhile, until I was solidly on my feet and a better arrangement could be worked out, she continued to live with her family and I with mine.
           Alas, for the best laid plans of newly married couples. A horde of other salesmen jumped in on the radio bonanza. Within a few weeks, the depression-narrowed market was saturated and my earnings fell to nothing. I could find no other work. My wife's employers learned of her marriage (we had been keeping it secret), and having a no-married-women policy, they promptly fired her. Then, to further complicate the situation, she discovered she was pregnant.
           Mom and Freddie went back to my grandparents' home. I withdrew from school, gave the remitted tuition fees to my wife and took to the road.
           I think I must have hitchhiked the length and breadth of