Free The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck Page A

arms and went quickly out the front door and snapped it after him, and Ethan felt darkness on the world.
    A sharp metallic rapping came on the front door. Ethan pushed aside the curtain and called, “We’re closed till three.”
    “Let me in. I want to talk to you.”
    The stranger came in—a spare man, a perpetually young man who had never been young, a smart dresser, hair gleaming thinly against his scalp, eyes merry and restless.
    “Sorry to bother you. Got to blow town. Wanted to see you alone. Thought the old man’d never go.”
    “Marullo?”
    “Yeah. I was across the street.”
    Ethan glanced at the immaculate hands. On the third finger of the left hand he saw a big cat’s eye set in a gold ring.
    The stranger saw the glance. “Not a stick-up,” he said. “I met a friend of yours last night.”
    “Yes?”
    “Mrs. Young-Hunt. Margie Young-Hunt.”
    “Oh?”
    Ethan could feel the restless sniffing of the stranger’s mind, searching for an opening, for a bond on which to build an association.
    “Nice kid. She gave you a big build-up. That’s why I thought— My name’s Biggers. I cover this territory for B. B. D. and D.”
    “We buy from Waylands.”
    “I know you do. That’s why I’m here. Thought you might like to spread it out a little. We’re new in this district. Building up fast. Have to make some concessions to get a foot in the door. It would pay you to take advantage of that.”
    “You’d have to see Mr. Marullo about that. He’s always had a deal with Waylands.”
    The voice didn’t lower but its tone became confidential. “You do the ordering?”
    “Well, yes. You see Marullo has arthritis, and besides he has other interests.”
    “We could shave prices a little.”
    “I guess Marullo’s got them shaved as close as they’ll shave. You’d better see him.”
    “That’s what I didn’t want to do. I want the man that does the ordering, and that’s you.”
    “I’m just a clerk.”
    “You do the ordering, Mr. Hawley. I can cut you in for five per cent.”
    “Marullo might go for a discount like that if the quality was the same.”
    “You don’t get it. I don’t want Marullo. This five per cent would be in cash—no checks, no records, no trouble with the tax boys, just nice clean green cabbage from my hand to your hand and from your hand to your pocket.”
    “Why can’t Marullo get the discount?”
    “Price agreements.”
    “All right. Suppose I took the five per cent and turned it over to Marullo?”
    “I guess you don’t know them like I do. You turn it over to him, he’ll wonder how much more you aren’t turning over. That’s perfectly natural.”
    Ethan lowered his voice. “You want me to double-cross the man I work for?”
    “Who’s double-crossed? He don’t lose anything and you make a buck. Everybody’s got a right to make a buck. Margie said you were a smart cooky.”
    “It’s a dark day,” Ethan said.
    “No, it’s not. You got the shades pulled down.” The sniffing mind smelled danger—a mouse confused between the odor of trap wire and the aroma of cheese. “Tell you what,” Biggers said, “you think about it. See if you can throw some business our way. I’ll drop in to see you when I’m in the district. I make it every two weeks. Here’s my card.”
    Ethan’s hand remained at his side. Biggers laid the card on top of the cold counter. “And here’s a little memento we got out for new friends.” From his side pocket he brought a billfold, a rich and beautiful affair of pin seal. He placed it beside the card on the white porcelain. “Nice little item. Place for your driver’s license, lodge cards.”
    Ethan did not reply.
    “I’ll drop by in a couple of weeks,” Biggers said. “You think about it. I’ll sure be here. Got a date with Margie. There’s quite a kid.” With no reply, he said, “I’ll let myself out. See you soon.” Then suddenly he came close to Ethan. “Don’t be a fool. Everybody does it,” he said.