wearing ’em because once you been used to going around with ’em, then the ground underfoot is always gonna seem slippery and strange without —though you maybe been wearing oxfords for years and years.
Finished with his facial rub, he sat for a moment without moving and let his eyes remain closed. His eyes were tired. And his back was tired. In fact all the hell over he was tired. But it had been worth it. He knew he’d made a good impression on the flunky. And he was pleased by the report; it proved conclusively that the Stamper mills were in absolute fact , by Jesus, contracted to supply Wakonda Pacific with lumber. No damn wonder old man Jerome or the rest of the WP bunch hadn’t been sweating the month-long walkout. The boys could strike till hell froze shut and it wouldn’t be hurting profits. Not as long as Stamper and his scabby kind were cutting for them! It was even worse than he’d figured. He’d figured Jerome had contacted Stamper and maybe made a deal to buy some logs later on to make up for the setback suffered during the strike. He’d suspicioned this when he saw how hot and heavy the Stampers were hitting it. And it had griped his ass anyhow, them working while the rest of the town laid off. So he’d written Jonathan Draeger, and Draeger had put this union detective to researching the suspicion. And Christ, what that research had turned up: since back as far as August, Stamper’d been contracted to WP, cutting and storing the booms at his place so nobody’d know. So them sonsabitches across the river there were not only working , business as usual while the rest of the town sweated a strike, they’d been doing twice, maybe three goddam times as much business as usual!
His eyes opened with a snap. He scooped up the untidy bundle of papers and clapped them in a manila folder. “This oughta do it,” he said, nodding at the thin flunky who had sat across the table from him, drumming his fingers nervously, all the while Floyd had studied the report. The man seemed reluctant for Floyd to leave. “Ah—you used to go to school with Hank Stamper, I heard,” he said, in a voice too friendly for Floyd’s taste.
“You heard wrong,” Floyd replied coldly, refusing to look at the man. He picked up a can of beer in his other hand and took a drink from it. He knew the man had been watching him. He knew his every twitch and belch were being recorded by this little, thin-shouldered information flunky and would eventually get back to Mr. Draeger himself; this report, different as it was, showed that. It was thorough to a gnat’s eyelash. His report to Draeger would likely be just as thorough. Floyd didn’t like the man’s little bootlicking grin and he ached to bring his fist hammering down on that nervous handful of fingers. He hated it that this sort of man had to be associated with the union at all. And when he’d made an impression on the boys at the top , Floyd promised himself he’d see to getting shut of this sniveling little snake. But if you aim to impress the ones on top, you damn sure have to impress the ones on the bottom. So he kept his face impassive and his spine stiff and forced himself to take another sip of the flat beer.
“Least that’s what I been told about you,” the man went on.
Evenwrite lifted the veined bumps of his eyes to the wheedling voice and tried to gauge the success of his visit. He had personally driven all the way from Wakonda to get this report. He’d wanted to test himself on this man before dealing directly with Draeger. It had taken him nearly an hour to find the flunky’s home in Portland’s confusing street system. He’d been in the city only once before, and he’d been so furious and outraged then that he could remember it only as a red blur. That was the time his teammates at Florence had taken a collection to pay his bus fare to the Shrine All-State Game, giving him the ticket and consoling him, “You shoulda been picked, Floyd. You was a
Finished with his facial rub, he sat for a moment without moving and let his eyes remain closed. His eyes were tired. And his back was tired. In fact all the hell over he was tired. But it had been worth it. He knew he’d made a good impression on the flunky. And he was pleased by the report; it proved conclusively that the Stamper mills were in absolute fact , by Jesus, contracted to supply Wakonda Pacific with lumber. No damn wonder old man Jerome or the rest of the WP bunch hadn’t been sweating the month-long walkout. The boys could strike till hell froze shut and it wouldn’t be hurting profits. Not as long as Stamper and his scabby kind were cutting for them! It was even worse than he’d figured. He’d figured Jerome had contacted Stamper and maybe made a deal to buy some logs later on to make up for the setback suffered during the strike. He’d suspicioned this when he saw how hot and heavy the Stampers were hitting it. And it had griped his ass anyhow, them working while the rest of the town laid off. So he’d written Jonathan Draeger, and Draeger had put this union detective to researching the suspicion. And Christ, what that research had turned up: since back as far as August, Stamper’d been contracted to WP, cutting and storing the booms at his place so nobody’d know. So them sonsabitches across the river there were not only working , business as usual while the rest of the town sweated a strike, they’d been doing twice, maybe three goddam times as much business as usual!
His eyes opened with a snap. He scooped up the untidy bundle of papers and clapped them in a manila folder. “This oughta do it,” he said, nodding at the thin flunky who had sat across the table from him, drumming his fingers nervously, all the while Floyd had studied the report. The man seemed reluctant for Floyd to leave. “Ah—you used to go to school with Hank Stamper, I heard,” he said, in a voice too friendly for Floyd’s taste.
“You heard wrong,” Floyd replied coldly, refusing to look at the man. He picked up a can of beer in his other hand and took a drink from it. He knew the man had been watching him. He knew his every twitch and belch were being recorded by this little, thin-shouldered information flunky and would eventually get back to Mr. Draeger himself; this report, different as it was, showed that. It was thorough to a gnat’s eyelash. His report to Draeger would likely be just as thorough. Floyd didn’t like the man’s little bootlicking grin and he ached to bring his fist hammering down on that nervous handful of fingers. He hated it that this sort of man had to be associated with the union at all. And when he’d made an impression on the boys at the top , Floyd promised himself he’d see to getting shut of this sniveling little snake. But if you aim to impress the ones on top, you damn sure have to impress the ones on the bottom. So he kept his face impassive and his spine stiff and forced himself to take another sip of the flat beer.
“Least that’s what I been told about you,” the man went on.
Evenwrite lifted the veined bumps of his eyes to the wheedling voice and tried to gauge the success of his visit. He had personally driven all the way from Wakonda to get this report. He’d wanted to test himself on this man before dealing directly with Draeger. It had taken him nearly an hour to find the flunky’s home in Portland’s confusing street system. He’d been in the city only once before, and he’d been so furious and outraged then that he could remember it only as a red blur. That was the time his teammates at Florence had taken a collection to pay his bus fare to the Shrine All-State Game, giving him the ticket and consoling him, “You shoulda been picked, Floyd. You was a
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