Tom stayed late Friday night, making his calls to locate a game after Janet went to bed. She seemed miffed at that, but he was too preoccupied to notice it overmuch.
He spent much of Saturday doing the kind of annoying, petty little chores around the house, yard and car that always seem to devour the first really decent Saturday of summer. Before he was really aware of it, it was six-thirty, and he was wolfing down his dinner and hurrying out to the game.
By midnight, he was up about fifteen dollars. A half-hour before, he'd been almost a hundred to the good, but Tom was a sport and was at that point, unreasonably early to leave.
Nonetheless, his luck went bad on him, and by midnight, he'd lost all of his earnings except the fifteen. No one really minded him leaving at that point. They all had played with Tom separately on previous occasions and all knew how much he enjoyed the game. They accepted without question his contention that he had to get home at a reasonable hour, at least an this night.
Tom was disappointed that he hadn't won enough to cover the cost of the phone in that one game. But as he drove home, twisting the car through the dark, winding streets, he sat straighter, more proudly in the seat. He had, after all, quit when he really didn't want to, proving to himself that he could knock off any time he decided.
And that was a question that had been nagging him. He'd seen the public service ads regarding compulsive gamblers and gambler's organizations modeled after A.A.. Considering how his luck had been going the past few weeks – and the way he kept coming back for more, gluttonous for punishment – it seemed reasonable.
But no more.
Janet was already sleeping soundly, her smooth, sleek curves beneath the sheets a taunt to him for his negligence of her charms. He debated briefly slipping up behind her; that wonderful ass of her lodged tightly against his abdomen, his cock hard and long between her legs, but decided against it. It wouldn't be much appreciated if he woke her from such a sound sleep.
On Sunday, Janet took Penny to the annual bake sale at the auxiliary. Janet was noticeably cool towards him. They called him – in the middle of the eighth inning – and informed him that they were stopping for a hamburger on the way home.
Later they called and announced they were going to a movie.
And he should not wait up.
All right, all right, he thought. I got the message already!
He was generally feeling peeved with the world when he reached his office on Monday. The first thing he did was call Penny at home and tell her to call the phone company. Then he had to listen to her excited chatter about what a neat idea Mom had to eat out and what a swell idea it was to go to the movies – and an R flick at that!
He got that message, too – indirect and subtle as it was, even though his daughter didn't know who was relaying a message.
The next thing he did was snap at Allison, and all she had done was bring him light coffee instead of regular. She'd already been looking at him strangely, curiously subdued with him. He wasn't able to figure that out until he found such mannerisms in her accentuated after he barked at her. She craved having a man dominate her with force of personality as well as with a hard cock!
It made his cock rise within his trousers thinking about it, especially when he thought of her pussy lips, so much like little Penny's, closing over the broad back of his prick as he ran it into her cunt.
Then the phone rang.
"Yes?"
"A Mr. Gilson asking for you by name on line two," Allison said with demure, husky appeal.
"Okay," he said curtly. For a moment, he couldn't pull the name out of the thoughts swirling through his head.
"Tom Jamison here," he said, pressing the button.
"Hi, Tom, this is Jake Gilson," boomed the voice, twanging with more Texas fervor than a country music jockey. Then Tom identified him. Jake Gilson, of the Gilson chain. The drawl gave him away.
"Yessir, Mr. Gilson, what can I do for you?" he asked. He'd dealt with a number of people working out of the Southwest and found they liked to sound friendly and expansive, but preferred and expected to get right down to business with New Yorkers.
"Well, Tom, I got into New York this morning, and I thought I'd give you a call. I was impressed with what your men had to say and your proposals and I'd like to talk with you some more on them. When can we get together?"
Tom flipped through his appointments calendar madly, quickly assigning priorities to the notes he saw.
"Tell you what, Mr. Gilson, how about meeting me for a late lunch, say, about three-thirty, and then we'll talk a little nitty-gritty. What do you say?"
Gilson said fine and Tom took his address, but not before Gilson asked him where he could find a good game of five card.
Tom answered the question truthfully. The break lightened Tom's mood for the rest of the day. He attacked his work with redoubled energy until Janet called him at two-thirty.
"Honey, I just got a call from the bank. They say our credit card is at the limit."
He remembered the trip for beer – and a stake to the game.
"Hmmm. Must be some error."
"That's what I told them."
"I'll check it out and clear it up," Tom said. "What were you going to use it for?" A shot in the dark, that, hopefully would put her on the defensive.
"I had to pick up some new clothes for Penny," she answered sweetly. "Our little girl is busting out all over."
He smiled, softly. "Can you cover it with cash?"
"I don't think so. And there's a good sale on at…"
"I'll take care of it right now, then, Janet. Bye-bye."
He told Allison he was leaving for the day, watching her eyes flash as she made the incorrect connection between the call from his wife and the sudden departure. Only at the door did he inform her of his actual destination – to meet Gilson.
First he stopped at the bank and made the payment onto the account, returning the money he'd advanced himself and restoring the credit line. But that left him short for the phone bill.
He decided to let it ride an extra month on his own bill. He paid the bills at home and Janet need never know. He'd just scrimp the extra together over the next month.
But then, there was the meal with Gilson. He went over to the loan officer and asked for one of the bank's often advertised short order personal loans.
And was informed that he could pick up his money on Tuesday – the next day.
Tom restrained himself, thanked the man politely, and left the bank. There was only one place, or one man, who could give him the kind of money he needed on the spot. But that man wasn't exactly listed in the yellow pages.
The shoe shine man was, the contact. From there, Tom strode quickly west to the address. He'd been expecting to find a seedy little room with cracked plaster and a slovenly man in mismatched, rough clothes. What he found was a gentleman, dressed in the most conservatively impeccable taste, sitting behind a desk in an office that outdid his own for elegance. The loan shark – and Tom found it hard to think of him that way – very patiently explained to Tom exactly what he was getting himself into.
"I'd rather lose business at the outset than lose it permanently," the man explained soberly. Tom, nodded.
And left with three hundred in bin pocket. He had five weeks to pay it back at three percent a week.
He was sure he could meet the terms easily. And besides, his mind was filled with the sugar plums of Gilson's account. Tom wasn't really thinking much beyond that. All he could see was the huge amounts of money that would come to him as salary and bonus for landing the account, and titers was no doubt in his mind that he could pay the man back, even at such an exorbitant rate.
He found Gilson in the lobby of his hotel, big as nil Texas and twice as Texan. As soon as Gilson took his hand in one big paw, pumping it and drawling away, Tom found himself annoyed by the man's appearance and mannerisms. Gilson wore cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat, a flashy suit and was barely understandable when he spoke. Tom was bothered by the way Gilson made himself a caricature of Texans. Tom had known and worked with a lot of Texans, including quite a number from Dallas. But none of them ever behaved like a cowboy, and, none of them acted like a comedian imitating a Texan.
They ate in a small restaurant on Fifty-Sixth, a place that was up a flight of ornate, wrought hut steps and had only nine tables.
It was usually a great place to talk business. But not with a man whose vocal volume seemed intended to override the thundering hoofbeats of a herd of longhorns.
Tom was easily able to tell that Gilson wasn't nearly as crude and unrefined as he tried to be. When he chose his selections from the menu, his pronunciation of the French words was impeccable, and never did he ask for the contents of any of the dishes.
Tom selected one of the pastries from the cart brought to their table and at last opened the discussion of business.
He was a skilled and experienced salesman and realized that without his years of experience on the road dealing with sharp-witted New Englanders and frugal owners of back-road stations in the forests of Washington, he wouldn't have had a chance. Gilson had a terrific way of weaving and bobbing around commitments. But Tom wore him down with persistence, unwaveringly boring in on the basic terms that his company was offering until Gilson finally leaned back in his chair, holding up both hands as if surrendering to the marshall and said, "Tom, boy, let's hold off here a bit. Let me think over what you've been saying to me, sort of mull it over like a cow with a good cud, and see how good it tastes after a night's sleep. You know, I never offered a thing in my stations except gas. This tire business is sort of a test for us – if it works out right, we'll be bringing in a complete service department. That means – well, hell, Tom, boy, you know what all goes into that."
"I sure do," Tom said calmly. But his mind was running amuck. If he could bring in the tire account and then reel in the entire service department contract trough it, it could be his ticket to the top.
"And naturally, I plan to see how well things go with the tires first, and if they do alright, well, Tom, that's one hell of a step in the right direction for the service line."
"You're a businessman," Tom said easily. "You know how these things work and the fact that you're on top shows it."
Gilson laughed loudly. Very loudly, drawing reproving glances from all about the little restaurant. "Well, Tom, boy, what do you say you and me get a move on and have ourselves a little fun and relaxation. Any ideas where I can find that poker game?"