Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4)

by Dave Jackson

  Greg saw the Jaspers’ white minivan bringing the whole family home about three that afternoon. Did their church really go that long? Maybe they went out to eat or something. But he didn’t want to waste time waiting around. His stop at the boat show Friday evening had given him an idea. He’d use the boat show as his excuse for dropping in on the Jaspers, ask whether they’d attended or not, and if so, how they’d enjoyed the show. He could mention a few of the things he’d noticed when he’d dropped by. Then he could casually introduce SlowBurn. “Oh, by the way . . .”

  Greg considered Jared a prime candidate for an associate, a real go-getter, always busy. As they say, if you want something done, ask a busy person. Besides, with three teens, certainly he’d welcome some additional income.

  Greg waited a little longer to give everyone time to kick off their church shoes or whatever, and then he put a six-pack of the small cans in a brown paper bag and headed up the street.

  “Singer!” Jared said when he opened the door. “Come on in.”

  There was no foyer in the Jasper home. The door opened right into the living room. “Hope I’m not bothering you folks. But I, uh, wanted to share something with you. You got a minute?”

  “Sure.” Jared waved him inside.

  “I wanted to ask how you enjoyed the boat show. Did you get a chance to attend?” Greg asked.

  “No. We’ve been so busy we didn’t get down there. But here, have a seat and tell us how it was.”

  As Greg settled on the couch, Jared’s son wandered through.

  “I bet Destin would love to hear this. You remember my son, don’t you?”

  “Sure do.” Greg reached out his hand and Destin stepped forward to shake it.

  “How you doin’, Mr. Singer?”

  As Greg sat down, Destin stepped back and leaned casually in the doorway that led into the dining area. Greg told about some of the big yachts he’d noticed at the show, the ultralight airplane, and the flyboard demonstration, where the rider was lifted into the air on two jets of water streaming from reverse nozzles at the end of a giant hose.

  “Awesome,” Destin said. “Wish I’d seen it.”

  “Yeah, it was.” Greg turned to Jared. “But there’s something else I wanted to mention to you. I’m starting a new business and wanted to tell you about it.” Greg was tempted to ask if Jasper’s wife could join them, but Jared squirmed a little when he mentioned “business,” so he pressed on while he had the man’s attention.

  He reached into the brown bag and pulled out a couple of cans of SlowBurn, tossing one to Jared and one to Destin. “Here, give it a try.” Destin immediately popped the top and took a sip as Greg described the basics of SlowBurn and how it helped keep a person alert. “I imagine that’s pretty important in a profession like yours, Jared—you’re an air traffic controller, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. But anything stronger than coffee could get a guy in trouble.” Jared was shaking his head. “I rely on Dr. Pepper myself.” And he set the can down on the floor beside his chair.

  “That’s the thing. SlowBurn really doesn’t have that much caffeine in it. It’s not like other energy drinks you might buy at the grocery store, because it relies on other ingredients.”

  Jared shrugged. “Well, that’d be a problem, getting anything else approved. No performance enhancers, no drugs, no nothing on the job. It’s the law. In fact, even for prescription meds there’s a whole list of what’s approved. I mean, it’s like a twenty-four-page circular. Anything new could take ten years of testing before it’s approved. To be honest, I don’t think ATCs would make very good customers for this SlowBurn of yours.”

  Greg was realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere when Jared’s wife came into the room. “Hi, Greg! I hope you’ll excuse me for not coming out earlier.” The attractive woman held out her hand. “I have an appointment downtown this evening. Someone is picking me up at five, and I needed to get ready. How are Nicole and the kids?”

  Greg stood up to shake her hand. “They’re fine, fine. Didn’t mean to keep you folks. It’s just such a wonderful opportunity, I wanted to let Jared, here, know about it on the ground floor.”

  Michelle Jasper just smiled, kissed her husband on the cheek, and breezed out the front door.

  Jared stood up too. “I appreciate it. But I’m really not in a position to take on anything like that.”

  Greg was obviously being dismissed. They chatted a minute more at the door, but Greg was soon walking down the sidewalk toward his own home. Destin had accepted a sample can of SlowBurn and acknowledged it was good. But Jared hadn’t even tasted it.

  Chapter 17

  Two of Greg’s Monday appointments with people from church canceled when he called to confirm, and discouragement drifted over him like a dark cloud. He fought back. Obviously there’d be days like this before a new business took off.

  Instead of calling Arlo for a pep talk, he began calling his old associates from Powersports. After all, it was the company’s last day, and people would be eager for a new direction. Three of them expressed real interest. Unfortunately, none of the three would’ve been Greg’s top picks for solid reps. One was Ethel Newhouse, Hastings’ secretary, whom he planned to keep on after Powersports closed. Ethel was nervous and didn’t know if the arrangement would last, so she was interested in alternatives, but she wasn’t ready to get onboard just yet. “Chuck still has a mountain of things he needs me to do as he closes up. But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Tuesday, Greg worked his warm list of former business contacts. A couple of people said they might be interested, but he’d have to drive down to Indiana and up to Michigan to meet with them. He decided to wait until he could put together a trip before locking in a date.

  By midafternoon, he was frustrated. “Nicole,” he called down to the schoolroom, “I need a break. I’m going out to mow the lawn.”

  “Okay. I’ve gotta go to Dominick’s for some groceries. Will you still be around to watch the kids? They’re involved in an art project and don’t want to go with me.”

  “No problem.” He didn’t expect the art project to last very long, but so what? He wasn’t trying to work on the computer. The kids could just come outside.

  Greg had about half of the front yard done when over the roar of the lawn mower he saw Destin Jasper, the young man from up the street, standing on the sidewalk, waving to get his attention.

  He finished the swath and shut down the mower. “Destin. Imagine that, two times in the same week. What can I do for you?”

  “Hello, Mr. Singer.” Destin stepped up to him, hands deep in his pockets. “I really liked that drink you gave me the other day.”

  “Great. You want to order some for yourself?”

  “Yeah, kinda. I drank both cans, the one you gave me and my dad’s too.” He shrugged with a nervous laugh. “He’s kind of a Dr. Pepper fanatic, if you ask me. But what I really wanted to ask is if there’s an age requirement for . . . for selling that drink.”

  “Age? No.” Greg frowned. “I don’t think so. No. I’m sure there isn’t. It’s not like alcohol or anything. Anybody can buy it, so pretty sure anyone can sell it. Why? You interested?” Might Destin become his second rep?

  “Yeah. I need a job, especially because I’m doing a Five-Star Basketball Camp this summer that costs quite a bit, so I have to pay my folks back for the tuition.”

  This could be good. The kid was motivated. A smile tickled his mouth. Why not? Young people—young athletes, in particular—would make ideal customers.

  “Well, Destin. I think we can talk. You heard me describe the company to your dad on Sunday, but that was just an overview. Let’s go into the house. I’ve got a brochure that describes the business a little more, and I want to show you the website.”

  A few minutes later they were huddled before Greg’s computer. “Everything’s up on the web, but it’s best to go through a sponsor, like me, where you have the support and encouragement to make this a real success.”


  Greg spent the next hour going over all the details with Destin. The kid grasped things quickly, and though he asked a lot of questions, they were the kind that let Greg know he really understood the company’s objectives and business model.

  “So how much do you owe your folks for this basketball camp?”

  “They chipped in fifty bucks for the registration fee. But I borrowed another five hundred from them for the tuition. So, I gotta pay back that whole five hundred. Plus, I need money for clothes and other stuff. Do you think I can—”

  “No problem, son. When SlowBurn gets rolling, you’ll pay ’em off and put money in the bank. Now, we’ve got this starter kit for only forty-nine dollars.” Greg opened the brochure that listed the options. “It includes twelve six-packs. The company presumes you’ll give away a dozen cans as samples. The product sells itself.”

  “How much can I sell it for?”

  “Whatever the market will bear. You set the price. Some people sell it for two dollars a can, or more.”

  “Hmm. That wouldn’t go very far to pay for my camp.” Destin scanned down the page of the brochure to the bottom. “What about these? Says larger discounts. What’s that mean?”

  “Well, the larger your order, the greater your discount. More profit, you know. There’s the bronze, silver, gold, and even platinum orders. With each level you get an additional ten percent discount on your purchase, and there are bonuses too. But they’re kind of expensive.”

  “How much is the platinum?”

  “Well now, that’d be kind of steep for someone just starting out, nearly fourteen-hundred bucks.” Of course, Greg had sprung for that amount. Maybe Destin could become his superstar and sell that much.

  “Oh.” Destin seemed sobered. “But I wouldn’t have to pay nearly a dollar per can for it, right?”

  “No. In fact, with the platinum, you’re only paying about sixty cents per can.”

  “So, what would it be for the silver, eighty cents a can?”

  “Right. For three hundred dollars”—could the kid afford that much?—“you’d get sixty-four six-packs for sale plus a bonus of six more the company estimates you’d need for samples. Of course, you could sell them, too, if you wanted. The order includes a total of seventy six-packs, or four hundred and twenty cans.”

  “Yeah, and if I sell it for the right price, I could pay for my basketball camp.” Destin pursed his lips as if pondering his options, then nodded his head. “I think I’ll take the silver.”

  “You sure? You know you could start off smaller and work up.”

  “But you just told me the profit is so much better with larger orders.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Greg smiled. He was recruiting a real go-getter!

  “When can I get it?”

  “Oh, I’ve got the product sitting in the garage right now. Soon as you pay me, it’s yours.”

  “You mean I can’t get it on . . . whadda they call it . . . consignment or something?”

  Greg shook his head. “As much as I trust you, Destin, I can’t do that. It’s company policy.” Arlo had explained it to him when he’d wanted to do the same: “It destroys the incentive, and the company’s whole approach is to help each rep become the best salesman he or she can be.”

  Destin’s face fell.

  “Look, Destin, maybe you should begin with a starter kit. Do you have any money, any at all?”

  “No way, sir. I’m broke. That’s why my folks had to spring for my basketball camp.”

  Greg wanted to lighten the mood before he lost this rep. “So you have no money tucked up under your mattress or in a cookie jar?” He laughed. “Seriously, think. Any money in a bank account that’s in your name, anything?”

  Destin’s face brightened. “Well, yeah. There’s my college fund. I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Hmm. College fund. Not sure that’s—”

  “No. It’s in my name. My grandparents set it up, but I’ve added to it whenever I could—ten, twenty dollars here and there that Mom made me put in. It’s up to three or four thousand by now.”

  Greg shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Destin.”

  But the boy had brightened. “No, it’s okay. It’s my money. I got the passbook and everything.”

  “Well, you’d have to be committed to paying it all back, or your folks will be very upset.”

  “Oh, I would. No question about that. And like you said, this stuff should sell easy. I’ll earn a lot, maybe even enough to grow my college fund. Right?”

  Did Greg still believe it would sell easily? He did. And he’d jumped in just as deep, using money he’d otherwise designated to pay bills and live on. But the product was good. It was just a matter of getting it to the consumers. And that’s where Destin and others like him came in. They were his key to success. He needed Destin. And if it could help this young man out with his future, all the better.

  “Right.” He nodded confidently. “It’s really just an investment. You’ll earn it back and lots more.”

  The teenager chewed on his lower lip. As confident as Greg felt, he hesitated to push Destin any more. Let him make his own decision. He’d already sold Destin on the idea of SlowBurn, and Destin had come up with a way to pay for it, so the best route was to let Destin’s ambition make his decision for him. It was a test of how much he wanted it.

  After a few moments, Destin sat back and blew out a huge breath as though he were bursting to the surface after a deep dive. “I’ll do it. I’ll go for the silver.”

  “You sure now? Well, that’s great. When do you want the product?”

  Destin grinned and bobbled his head. “When can I get it?”

  “As soon as you bring me the money. I’ve got the product out in the garage, waiting for you right now.”

  * * * *

  Greg was in high spirits when Harry Bentley picked him up that evening to go to the men’s Bible study. Two reps wasn’t much, especially when one was an old lady. But who knew? Perhaps she would contact some eager relatives. As for Destin, Greg had high hopes for him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the boy’s high school friends and sports buddies made for the perfect customer profile. Destin could end up selling a truckload of the product.

  “So tell me about this dog you work with,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat of Harry’s Dodge Durango. He looked over his shoulder into the cage-like compartment in the back. “You part of some kind of a K-9 unit?”

  “Yep, drug interdiction.”

  “No kiddin’. I guess dogs have a pretty good nose?” Greg’s own nose caught a slight whiff of dog in the sturdy gray SUV.

  “Oh definitely. They say a dog’s sense of smell can be ten thousand times more sensitive than humans.”

  “Amazing. So I suppose you had to spend a lot of time training her.”

  “Yeah, we trained together some, but she was primarily trained at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas.”

  Greg let the conversation die as Harry darted through traffic. As interesting as Harry’s K-9 partner sniffing out drugs on trains might be, he needed to focus on meeting the men at the Bible study. How much should he say about SlowBurn? It was probably not the place to actually sell product—and he hadn’t brought any samples with him—but perhaps a lower-key approach would work best.

  As Harry backed his car into a tight parking space in front of a brick three-flat, Greg asked, “Now who lives here?”

  “This is Peter Douglass’s place. He and his wife, Avis, are leaders in our church, but some of the guys in the study are from other churches too. You’ll like ’em.”

  “You always meet here?”

  “Usually, unless Peter’s out of town.”

  They climbed to the third floor, and Harry tapped on the door that had been left ajar.

  A growling voice said, “Get on in here, Bentley. You’re late. We were beginning to think you were off on one of your cross-country trips.”

  “That’s Ben Garfield,�
�� Harry murmured over the back of his hand as they entered the apartment. “He’s got a voice like a bullhorn, but he’s really an old teddy bear.”

  Greg followed Harry’s example of slipping off his shoes and adding them to the pile near the door. The shiny hardwood floors set off the bright area rugs and the modern beige-and-black furniture as they entered the living room.

  “All right now. Everybody behave.” Harry swept his hand to indicate the whole group. “This is my neighbor, Greg Singer. And this motley crew is made up of Peter Douglass, who lets us hang out every week—or maybe it’s his wife who’s the tolerant one.”

  Douglass, a tall, smartly dressed African American, his white shirtsleeves rolled up a turn, extended his hand.

  “The guy next to him is Ben Garfield, the loudmouth of the group.”

  “Hey, hey, that’s no way to recommend me. What’s he gonna think with an introduction like that?” Garfield was older, white, a little dumpy with gnarled hands and a reddish, bulbous nose.

  “Denny Baxter and his son, Josh.” Josh had a shock of light brown hair and appeared to be in his early twenties but wore a wedding ring. His dad’s tan face and trim frame did not suggest a desk job. “Denny’s the athletic director at West Rogers Park High,” Harry offered while they shook hands.

  Greg tucked that into the back of his mind. One more connection to young athletes.

  “And this is Carl Hickman. He’s the plant manager at Peter’s company, Software Symphony.” Carl was a wiry black man with what Greg thought were the lines of a hard life etched in his face.

  “How ya doin’?” Carl kept his seat, gave a small wave.