mean."
We had crossed Salt Creek and entered a neighborhood of rutted dirt streets and unpainted shacks. Durkin stopped in front of one of them, took a collection card from the dashboard clip and got out. I followed him across the trash-strewn yard to the house.
Durkin knocked; he pounded; he stood back and kicked the door. There was no response. All was silent behind the drawn shades of the place.
"Well," I said uneasily, "it looks like there's no one home, Durk."
Durkin gave me a pitying look. Drawing back his fist, he jammed it through the screen and lifted the latch. Then, he turned the doorknob and walked in.
I tottered after him.
Seated at a table made of packing boxes was a burly unshaven man in undershirt and trousers. As we walked in, he set down his tin cup of coffee and directed a string of curses at Durkin.
"Ought to beat your goddamned head off," he swore. "Ought to call the cops on you. Breaking and entering—don't you know that's against the law?"
"Let's have the dough," said Durkin. "Come on, snap into it!"
"I ain't got any dough! I ain't been working."
"Come through," said Durkin. "You worked two days and a half last week."
"So I made a few bucks. I got to have something to eat on, don't I?"
"You don't do any eating on our money," said Durkin. "Let's have it."
The man ripped out another string of curses. Surlily, his eyes wavering away from Durkin's stern stare, he jerked a five-dollar bill from his pocket.
"All right. There's your goddamned dollar. Give me four bucks change."
Durkin put the five in his billfold, wrote out a receipt for it and tossed it on the table. "You were behind in your payments, Pete," he said evenly. "That brings you up to date."
The man's face purpled. Fists clubbed, he started toward Durkin, and, almost absently, Durkin turned to me.
"Jim, get that size forty-six coat out of the car—the sheep-lined. I want Pete to try it on."
"But,"—I stared at him incredulously—"b-but he—"
"That's right. I brought it along especially for Pete. Winter's coming on, and he's going to need a good warm coat."
I got the coat out of the car, noting that it had cost six dollars wholesale according to the code number. Durkin slipped it on Pete, even as the big man glowered and grumbled threats.
"Fit's you like a glove," he declared. "Isn't that a swell coat, Jim? Makes Pete look like a new man."
"Prob'ly fall apart in two weeks," muttered Pete. "What you want for the damned thing?"
"Oh, I'll make you a good price on that. Let you have it for twenty-five dollars."
"Twenty-five dollars!" Pete let out a howl. "Why you can get the same damned thing anywhere for eleven or twelve!"
"But you don't have eleven or twelve," Durkin pointed out, "and you can't get credit anywhere else...Tell you what I'll do, seeing that you're an old customer. I'll make it twenty-two-fifty, and you can pay it out at four bits a week. Make your payments a dollar-fifty a week instead of the dollar you're paying now."
"Well...twenty dollars and two bits a week!"
"You're wasting my time," said Durkin, crisply. "Let's have the coat."
Pete hesitated. "Oh, hell," he said. "Okay. Twenty-two fifty and four bits a week. What you got for me to sign?"
Having given me a demonstration of what the job was like, Durkin filled me in orally as we drove on to the next customer. The store was one of a nation-wide chain of eighty, all operating under the same unorthodox methods. They deliberately sold to poor credit risks—a market avoided by other stores. Thus, being without competition, they could operate from the most unpretentious side-street
We had crossed Salt Creek and entered a neighborhood of rutted dirt streets and unpainted shacks. Durkin stopped in front of one of them, took a collection card from the dashboard clip and got out. I followed him across the trash-strewn yard to the house.
Durkin knocked; he pounded; he stood back and kicked the door. There was no response. All was silent behind the drawn shades of the place.
"Well," I said uneasily, "it looks like there's no one home, Durk."
Durkin gave me a pitying look. Drawing back his fist, he jammed it through the screen and lifted the latch. Then, he turned the doorknob and walked in.
I tottered after him.
Seated at a table made of packing boxes was a burly unshaven man in undershirt and trousers. As we walked in, he set down his tin cup of coffee and directed a string of curses at Durkin.
"Ought to beat your goddamned head off," he swore. "Ought to call the cops on you. Breaking and entering—don't you know that's against the law?"
"Let's have the dough," said Durkin. "Come on, snap into it!"
"I ain't got any dough! I ain't been working."
"Come through," said Durkin. "You worked two days and a half last week."
"So I made a few bucks. I got to have something to eat on, don't I?"
"You don't do any eating on our money," said Durkin. "Let's have it."
The man ripped out another string of curses. Surlily, his eyes wavering away from Durkin's stern stare, he jerked a five-dollar bill from his pocket.
"All right. There's your goddamned dollar. Give me four bucks change."
Durkin put the five in his billfold, wrote out a receipt for it and tossed it on the table. "You were behind in your payments, Pete," he said evenly. "That brings you up to date."
The man's face purpled. Fists clubbed, he started toward Durkin, and, almost absently, Durkin turned to me.
"Jim, get that size forty-six coat out of the car—the sheep-lined. I want Pete to try it on."
"But,"—I stared at him incredulously—"b-but he—"
"That's right. I brought it along especially for Pete. Winter's coming on, and he's going to need a good warm coat."
I got the coat out of the car, noting that it had cost six dollars wholesale according to the code number. Durkin slipped it on Pete, even as the big man glowered and grumbled threats.
"Fit's you like a glove," he declared. "Isn't that a swell coat, Jim? Makes Pete look like a new man."
"Prob'ly fall apart in two weeks," muttered Pete. "What you want for the damned thing?"
"Oh, I'll make you a good price on that. Let you have it for twenty-five dollars."
"Twenty-five dollars!" Pete let out a howl. "Why you can get the same damned thing anywhere for eleven or twelve!"
"But you don't have eleven or twelve," Durkin pointed out, "and you can't get credit anywhere else...Tell you what I'll do, seeing that you're an old customer. I'll make it twenty-two-fifty, and you can pay it out at four bits a week. Make your payments a dollar-fifty a week instead of the dollar you're paying now."
"Well...twenty dollars and two bits a week!"
"You're wasting my time," said Durkin, crisply. "Let's have the coat."
Pete hesitated. "Oh, hell," he said. "Okay. Twenty-two fifty and four bits a week. What you got for me to sign?"
Having given me a demonstration of what the job was like, Durkin filled me in orally as we drove on to the next customer. The store was one of a nation-wide chain of eighty, all operating under the same unorthodox methods. They deliberately sold to poor credit risks—a market avoided by other stores. Thus, being without competition, they could operate from the most unpretentious side-street
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