Worthington’s eyes narrowed. “I smell some decaying fish, here. Maybe he has another square melon in the works which is better than this one, and he’ll be selling the new one to Burpee.”
Saroyan shrugged. “Mr. Schriner anticipated such a reaction on your part. He is quite willing to have me write in an exemption from the clause of any other square melon he may have developed or might develop in the future.”
Worthington glowered. “Do it!”
The final form of the contract, after having been retyped by Worthington’s secretary, was resting on Worthington’s desk when Jackson raised one last caveat. “I think it might be a good idea to have a plant specialist look through some of the technical details here.”
“Plant specialist?” Worthington broke into a laugh. “You know as well as I do I got rid of all those leeches two years ago.”
“I should also mention,” Saroyan broke in, “Mr. Schriner is very anxious to conclude this arrangement. In fact,” he looked at his watch, “we have until five to do so. Otherwise, it’s back to Burpee. And, oh yes. Mr. Schriner feels because of the unhappy experience he had with you concerning the White Hope, he insists I not sign until I receive a cashier’s check for the full amount.”
Jackson immediately protested.
“Screw it!” Worthington said. Give me a pen. He flipped on the intercom and shouted to his secretary to call the bank and tell them to prepare a check. “And then send up the market manager. We’ve got a new product to move, and I want him started on it today.”
Saroyan had just finished shaking hands after signing the agreement and collecting the check when the market manager came in and passed the attorney on his way out. Worthington glowed and pushed the contract, along with the square watermelon, across the desk to the newcomer. “Read this and taste this. Then get ready to start a national ad campaign. And think up something a hell of a lot better than ‘Diner’s Delight’ as a name.”
He paused and added, “Maybe…Miracle Melon. Hell, what do I need an ad agency for? That’s it! Miracle Melon.
The market manager nodded absently as he swiftly scanned the contract, before sampling the proffered slice of watermelon. “Where’s the pollinator?”
“What?”
“The pollinator. You need a pollinator for this watermelon. Can’t you see. It’s seedless. You need a separate strain specialized to cross with this one to produce the watermelon.”
“What do you mean? Don’t you just plant the seeds, and the watermelon grows off the bush or vine or whatever?
“For the seeded varieties, yes. But not for the seedless ones. Don’t ask me why, I just sell the seeds. I don’t understand why. All I know is all of our seedless variety seeds have an additional packet of some other kind of watermelon in with them, special to pollinate the seedless variety. Without the pollinator, the seedless watermelon doesn’t produce. My guess is it will take an extra-special pollinator, an entirely different strain of watermelon which looks a lot different, probably doesn’t even look like a melon, and sure wouldn’t look like this one.” He gestured at the square watermelon, and took a bite of the remaining slice. “Delicious!” he exclaimed. “Or taste like it,” he added.
“Don’t give me any shit about needing a pollinator. There has to be a way to get the plant to produce watermelons without any damn pollinator. Can’t plants be grown without seeds. I heard something about cloning or whatever.”
“Well, Mr. Worthington, I really don’t know much about plant propagation, but I do know farmers plant watermelon seeds, not clones. Unless you can get the pollinator for this melon, we might just as well sit down and eat the rest of it, because it’s the last one we’ll ever see.”
THE STRANGER
I’m almost sure it was my idea. I was twelve at the time, and Tom was almost a year older, but I was always the leader. Anyhow, the two of us were in front of the general store shagging some Confederate coins Tom’s older brother had brought back after the war, when The Stranger rode up in his trap and dropped the reins over the horse rail.
His name was Spencer, but if you said anything around town about “The Stranger” everyone understood you were talking about John Spencer. Now, I know small towns have the reputation for being unfriendly, for taking years before really accepting a newcomer, but The Stranger kind of made the town’s people even more standoffish than they otherwise might have been. About the only time he came into town was Monday mornings to buy his week’s groceries, and he never said much more than what was needed to buy what he wanted and then get back home. Every so often he rode through town and disappeared for two or three days, which made him seem even more mysterious. But nobody ever asked him where he was going or where he’d been.
That’s the other side of living in a small town. It doesn’t mean folks won’t gossip—because they sure do—but people don’t interfere in other people’s business. “If what you’re doing don’t bother me, then I won’t bother you.” It could’ve been a motto hanging over our town hall, if we’d a had a town hall back then. Tom and I stopped tossing coins as we watched The Stranger going up the steps to the store. He did look different from other folks, but it was hard to say exactly what the difference was. I think his hat brim was narrower. It looked more like it had come from some New England or New York store. And his clothes generally seemed to be tighter fitting. Mom said he just dressed more “up-to-date,” more like the town lawyer than like any of the farmers.
“I’ll bet he’s a Reb,” Tom said mostly in a whisper, which wasn’t necessary, because The Stranger had already disappeared into the store.
“Nah,” I said. Being a Reb in our part of the country wasn’t far out of place, even when the war was going on. Pa used to say the surrounding area was alive with Copperheads. I’d even heard there was a family of Democrats living over in Oakville. But with the war three years over, we could’ve had a regiment of ex-rebels move in. Just so long as they paid good old Union cash for groceries, no one would’ve minded much. I added, emphatically, “He’s more likely an outlaw. Maybe he murdered someone and he’s hiding out here.”
Tom tried to top my story. “I’m sure he’s a Reb. He probably rode with Quantrill.”
I didn’t know much about Quantrill except his Raiders had the reputation of having butchered free Negroes and Union sympathizers in Kansas, so I figured I had to move one up on Tom.
“Nope. He’s an outlaw, for sure. He may even have stolen someone’s horse, and they’ll hang him for sure if they catch him.” Actually, the notion he might be a horse stealer conjured up visions of Pa taking his army carbine down from the wall and going off with a half-dozen other townsmen to pay a visit on The Stranger. The town was tolerant, but folks drew the line at horse thieves. So I strengthened my argument, or at least added some drama to it, by describing the hanging Pa had seen on his last trip to the Territorial Capital.
“They’ve got a gallows set up right behind the courthouse.” I had actually seen the gallows myself, though never when it was in use. Our territory put a lot of emphasis on being law abiding. A cattle rustler or horse thief wasn’t just strung up from the nearest tree. The governor insisted the thief be brought in and stored in the capital’s one-cell jail until court time the next morning. Then the judge would find him guilty and see to it he was hanged good and proper at high noon.
“Pa says the hangman’s a real expert.” I dressed up the description some for Tom’s benefit, but mostly I was telling it like Pa told me. “He comes out of the jailhouse wearing a black hood, and he has a special noose with thirteen slip knots in it. Pa says it’s all over in a flash. The hangman drops the noose over the rustler’s neck and knocks out the prop. The rustler drops through the trap door and his neck breaks every time.” I snapped my fingers for emphasis, and Tom jumped so high he startled me, and I jumped, too.
Tom’s reaction set me off to impress him even more. “Pa says the hangman’s a lot better than the one who hanged the woman who helped Booth. He says they had
to have two men pull down on her legs to be sure she was dead.”
Tom really topped my theory then—all to smithereens. His eyes grew bigger than any saucers I’d ever seen as he said, “That’s who The Stranger is! He’s John Wilkes Booth.”
Tom and I had already had long discussions about how Booth had never really been in the burning barn where he was supposed to have been caught, and there were a lot of people who felt the same way. It took me only about five seconds to decide Tom was absolutely right, but I didn’t agree with him about what we should do. He wanted to rush home and tell his pa, but I said we needed proof. So we sat down and started making our plans—for the following Monday.
We were waiting at the edge of town when we saw the familiar trap approaching, leaving little swirls of dust behind it. It was the signal. The Stranger’s place was almost five miles away by road but, as the crow flies, it wasn’t much over a couple of miles. And we flew! We ran across Hatfield’s pasture and through his apple orchard, climbed the railing into his wood lot and took off down Mormon Hill, toward the one-room cabin sitting on a rise next to the creek. We headed right for the door, knowing even The Stranger would never bother to lock it up in this country.
There was only one small window in the building, so it took us a few minutes for our eyes to become adjusted. Tom, still out of breath, managed to whisper in my ear, “Maybe we’ll find the gun he used.”
I was always more practical than Tom. “More likely we’ll find some actor’s costumes, maybe some grease paint.” I really wasn’t sure what grease paint was, but I knew actors used it, and I figured I’d recognize it if I saw it.
Whatever the evidence, we were both positive it would be easy to find, since there weren’t many places in the room to hide things. All there was was a rickety table with some crockery sitting on it, a couple of chairs even I could have done a better job of cobbling together, and a bunk bed which looked even sadder.
There was also a rusty Franklin stove with some metal pans hanging on the wall behind it, but nothing much else in the room except for a splintery old wooden chest sitting in the corner. Tom and I both headed for it at the same time.
The minute I raised the lid I spotted a black cloth. I picked it up, and there was no mistaking it. The empty eyeholes of the hood stared out at me. Meantime, Tom had fished out a rope—a noose. I didn’t have to count the knots. I knew there’d be thirteen of them, for sure. We dropped everything, including the lid of the trunk, and shot out the door. It took us a lot less time to get back to town than it had to get to The Stranger’s cabin in the first place.
Tom and I never spoke to anyone about what we’d found, but we made it a point to be in town every Monday morning, just outside the General Store. We always watched respectfully as The Stranger went in to make his purchases.
THE SURPRISE PARTY
If ever trophies were to be awarded for favorite office gossip places, A-One Commercial Art Inc.’s water cooler would have won the city’s first prize hands down. At the moment, Walter Lovell and Tony Franelli were doing the drinking and gossiping.
“How’s the great office romance coming?” Walter asked.
“If you mean between Lou and Letty, the answer is nowhere. Lou’s hot to trot and I mean hot, but Letty is skittish. She’s still recovering from her lousy marriage. Her and her ex are in the process of splitting the sheets. Makes me glad I never entered the institution.”
Walter was amused at the answer since Tony was considered the office’s most ineligible bachelor, his reputation as a “bastard” still left untarnished after a string of affairs. Lou Cowley’s standing as a lover wasn’t far behind. It annoyed Walter to think males like Lou and Tony ran the race so successfully, leaving him in the backstretch without even the hint of a bad reputation. Lou’s was especially annoying, since he openly bragged about his conquests and obviously delighted in comparing those escapades favorably with Walter’s feeble attempts at seduction.
Walter also knew Tony especially despised his office rival. It was while mulling over Lou’s arrogance when a stupendous idea occurred to Walter. “Say, doesn’t Lou have a birthday coming up next week—Saturday isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But I’m not about to throw a party for him.”
“I think we should.” Walter’s voice became loud in its enthusiasm and then softened as he turned conspiratorial. “How well do you know Letty?”
“Well enough to know I’m not getting anywhere with her.”
“Does she have a sense of humor?”
“Considering the way she laughs at my line I’d say she has, though I don’t much appreciate it.”
“Well, why don’t you approach her and ask her to invite Lou out to her apartment Saturday night?”
“You’re out of your mind. I told you she’s skittish. And why should I help him out?” Tony’s voice went up several decibels as Walter tried to hush him up.
“Shh! This has got tremendous possibilities if we play our cards right.”
“The possibilities better be tremendous.”
“The idea is—and don’t tell anyone but Letty this, until she agrees with it—she’ll get him up to her apartment and then say something about changing into something more comfortable. What do you think Lou will do while he’s waiting?”
“I can speak only for myself. I would get ready for some very interesting by-play.”
“Right! Maybe even start taking your clothes off?”
“Sure, so what?’
“It’s going to be a surprise party in honor of his birthday. Don’t you see? When he’s stripped down and ready for action, the whole office crew will pop out of one of the rooms and yell, ‘surprise’ and ‘happy birthday.’“
Tony’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Hey! A terrific idea! The great lover will never live it down.”
***
The next day, back at the water cooler, Tony’s enthusiasm hadn’t diminished as he conferred once again with Walter. “Letty thought it was the greatest idea ever. She insisted it was the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time, especially since she’s tired of him pestering her. She gave me a key to her apartment, and she’s really gung ho. She says she can hardly wait to see the expression on Lou’s face when the whole office crowd pops out of the spare bedroom.”
“So it’s all set?”
“Yup. Letty agreed to go to an early dinner with him, and they’ll be coming back to her apartment right around nine. By then, she’ll have him convinced he’s going to get the birthday present he’ll have had his mind on all evening.”
***
Letty rolled over in bed and looked at her watch. “The surprise party should be coming off just about now.”
A weary and satisfied Lou kissed her shoulder and said, “Not much of a surprise though, since the surprised guest won’t be showing up.”
Letty laughed. “Oh, but a surprised guest will show up. My ex is supposed to be arriving there about now to pick up his personal belongings, and he’ll be madder’n hell to find all those strangers hiding out in his bedroom. With the kind of temper he has, he’ll probably punch some of them out.
“By the way, Happy Birthday!”
THE SURVIVOR
There is no one so lonely as a stranger in a crowd. Morton Dyer remembered someone from the remote past having said that. At the moment, it seemed the unvarnished truth. Sitting in a corner of the waiting room watching the celebrants getting ready to board Transnational 475 from New York to Los Angeles, his first leg back to Hawai’i, the stranger envied the crowd. The booze must have flowed freely, he reflected, watching a large collection of well-primed conventioneers on their way home. Catching sight of at least one flask making the rounds, he realized the good cheer was still flowing. He wasn’t looking forward to being cooped up for hours with all such cheer.
It would have taken more than alcohol for Morton to generate any enthusiasm. The call from Isobel had been a thinly disguised revelation she knew all about the fake purchase orders. The col
d voice of Hawai’i Harvest’s Vice President in Charge of Marketing had made it clear she would be at the airport waiting for him. Morton wondered who else from Hawai’i Harvest would be there at two in the morning.
Joe Demos, the owner and president, would not be one of the “welcoming” committee, Morton decided. Joe was too busy trying to salvage odds and ends from the sinking company to be much concerned with what Morton had been doing. Had Isobel spoken to him? Unlikely, since she probably was looking forward to a one-on-one confrontation. But, really, none of it made much difference. This was the end of the run, and it didn’t matter who was at the finish line to greet him. Looking back at the past six months, Morton wondered why he had embezzled the funds, wondered even more how he had expected to avoid being caught.
It had been his wife, Charlotte, who had thought up the scheme. Damn Charlie anyway! She loved money and what it could buy, could never get enough, and when she’d found out just how much cash there was sitting around waiting to be skimmed off the top of the badly-managed company, she’d begun to work on Morton. When Charlie made up her mind, there was no changing it.
Morton broke out of his reverie as the scuffling near the door to the boarding ramp became cheers, and the boozy crowd began singing Happy Birthday for one of their number. Everyone tried to crowd through the door at once. The harassed ticket taker dropped a fistful of boarding passes and had to fish them out of the discarded convention brochures, name tags, empty cigarette packets and other debris—his efforts accompanied by roars of laughter and some unhelpful help from the herd. Morton glanced at his watch and sighed. Time enough for me to go to the can and let the crazies board first.
Despite all the talk of heavy air traffic, he met only a scattering of other people along the hall. A “Closed For Repairs” sign greeted him at the nearest men’s room, and he went off in search of another. His insides rumbled as he sat on the toilet, more constipated than ever. Finally, giving up, he headed back to Gate 42. His first impression when he arrived was he’d made a wrong turn somewhere. This had to be Gate 42 of some other wing. The floor was covered with litter, the door to the ramp was closed, the waiting room was empty. Looking up at the clock, badly placed above and behind him, the realization hit home. Damn! His prize Seiko was fifteen minutes slow. He’d missed his flight. Going to the thick glass and looking out into the night, he could see the pilot car towing the plane off its circle. A Transnational Express jitney was zipping its way back to the baggage room.
Expect the Unexpected Page 41
