No carrier No carrier, her screen flashed. The guy in Atlanta couldn’t read it for the distortion. So, in the end, she had to talk it to him.
Hoke, who’d told Lois he had to work late, got on another line, hurraying and huzzahing.
“What’d Rae Ann do? What’d she say?”
Sam didn’t have the slightest. She would have to do the follow-up tomorrow, beg, borrow, or steal Rae Ann away from her schedule.
“Now I guess you’re off to the Georgia victory party?” asked Hoke. “God, I wish I could be there.”
“Now,” said Sam, whose day had been fuller and richer and more confusing and exhausting than she’d thought possible, “I’m finding Harry, and he and Harpo and I are hitting the sack, pronto.”
7
Wayne leaned back in Action Central in his big leather chair, an exact copy of Mr. F’s. He was feeling very pleased with himself.
There was nothing in the world like the pride of accomplishment at the end of a long day.
Not that the days ever seemed that long, working for Mr. F, who made everything easy—and exciting.
Like one day he might ask you to meet him at the train station, and he’d be dressed up in his conductor suit. Mr. Franken loved trains. He had the biggest collection of toy trains in the whole world.
Or there was the time he sent Wayne a ticket to the circus, in Chicago. And a train ticket, of course. Wayne had a front-row box seat, was having a great time—he especially liked the lions and tigers—when halfway through the second clown act, the bozo in an orange wig with a purple nose pulled him out into the arena to be part of the show. He whispered in Wayne’s ear just as he stuffed him in a barrel. It was Mr. F.
Mr. F said he liked kid stuff—games, toys, playacting, dressing up—because he had been raised so poor, he and his sister, by an aunt in West Texas. So when he got to where he could afford it, and he could afford anything now, he was one of the richest men in the country, he played all the games he wanted. He said making money was game-playing too, especially if you had a gift for salesmanship—which Mr. F did. He learned it from his Aunt Gracie who ran the only general store in Crockett County. Wayne loved to hear Mr. F talk about when he was a boy, selling Bibles door-to-door. Mr. F dropped out of high school at 15, bought an old Ford, made himself a small fortune selling vacuum cleaners even to folks who didn’t have electricity. He said not to worry, they would. And they did, eventually.
Mr. F invested his earnings in real estate, just like in the game Monopoly, buying big pieces of cheap property, like Baltic and Oriental Avenues, building warehouses on them. Then he moved on to houses and hotels and office buildings. He said he’d figured out the way to make real money was not by selling, but by developing and holding on.
But Mr. F’s favorite was his FrankFairs. He’d started buying up tracts of land in West Texas, especially near dead-ass little towns, put up these big stores on ’em, giant versions of his Aunt Gracie’s store. He sold almost everything you could think of. And sold it cheap. He insisted his FrankFairs have big cheap toy departments. They gave each kid a prize for just walking through the door. Mr. F figured soon every kid in America’d be whining for his parents to take him to FrankFair. And he was right.
One of Mr. F’s favorite things was to play dress-up, wear disguises, show up in FrankFairs unannounced and take a serious look around. Incognito, he called it—one of Wayne’s very favorite words.
Mr. F’d been on one of those unannounced incognito visits two years ago to a store in Cherry Hill, not too far from Philly, when he’d found Wayne.
It was on his way to the FrankFair, actually. Mr. F was riding his bike. That’s what he’d do, sometimes. Ride the train till he got to a town, then take his bike out of the baggage car, pedal along incognito, pretending he was just another guy down on his luck, couldn’t afford
Hoke, who’d told Lois he had to work late, got on another line, hurraying and huzzahing.
“What’d Rae Ann do? What’d she say?”
Sam didn’t have the slightest. She would have to do the follow-up tomorrow, beg, borrow, or steal Rae Ann away from her schedule.
“Now I guess you’re off to the Georgia victory party?” asked Hoke. “God, I wish I could be there.”
“Now,” said Sam, whose day had been fuller and richer and more confusing and exhausting than she’d thought possible, “I’m finding Harry, and he and Harpo and I are hitting the sack, pronto.”
7
Wayne leaned back in Action Central in his big leather chair, an exact copy of Mr. F’s. He was feeling very pleased with himself.
There was nothing in the world like the pride of accomplishment at the end of a long day.
Not that the days ever seemed that long, working for Mr. F, who made everything easy—and exciting.
Like one day he might ask you to meet him at the train station, and he’d be dressed up in his conductor suit. Mr. Franken loved trains. He had the biggest collection of toy trains in the whole world.
Or there was the time he sent Wayne a ticket to the circus, in Chicago. And a train ticket, of course. Wayne had a front-row box seat, was having a great time—he especially liked the lions and tigers—when halfway through the second clown act, the bozo in an orange wig with a purple nose pulled him out into the arena to be part of the show. He whispered in Wayne’s ear just as he stuffed him in a barrel. It was Mr. F.
Mr. F said he liked kid stuff—games, toys, playacting, dressing up—because he had been raised so poor, he and his sister, by an aunt in West Texas. So when he got to where he could afford it, and he could afford anything now, he was one of the richest men in the country, he played all the games he wanted. He said making money was game-playing too, especially if you had a gift for salesmanship—which Mr. F did. He learned it from his Aunt Gracie who ran the only general store in Crockett County. Wayne loved to hear Mr. F talk about when he was a boy, selling Bibles door-to-door. Mr. F dropped out of high school at 15, bought an old Ford, made himself a small fortune selling vacuum cleaners even to folks who didn’t have electricity. He said not to worry, they would. And they did, eventually.
Mr. F invested his earnings in real estate, just like in the game Monopoly, buying big pieces of cheap property, like Baltic and Oriental Avenues, building warehouses on them. Then he moved on to houses and hotels and office buildings. He said he’d figured out the way to make real money was not by selling, but by developing and holding on.
But Mr. F’s favorite was his FrankFairs. He’d started buying up tracts of land in West Texas, especially near dead-ass little towns, put up these big stores on ’em, giant versions of his Aunt Gracie’s store. He sold almost everything you could think of. And sold it cheap. He insisted his FrankFairs have big cheap toy departments. They gave each kid a prize for just walking through the door. Mr. F figured soon every kid in America’d be whining for his parents to take him to FrankFair. And he was right.
One of Mr. F’s favorite things was to play dress-up, wear disguises, show up in FrankFairs unannounced and take a serious look around. Incognito, he called it—one of Wayne’s very favorite words.
Mr. F’d been on one of those unannounced incognito visits two years ago to a store in Cherry Hill, not too far from Philly, when he’d found Wayne.
It was on his way to the FrankFair, actually. Mr. F was riding his bike. That’s what he’d do, sometimes. Ride the train till he got to a town, then take his bike out of the baggage car, pedal along incognito, pretending he was just another guy down on his luck, couldn’t afford
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