All The Bells on Earth (26 page)

“Now you’re talking,” Henry said, nodding hard at Walt. “This is the kind of thing I was telling you about.”

“There’s a short testimonial first,” Vest said. “Then they’ll tap out the men who’ll be cleared for takeoff. I think you’ll be impressed with the ceremony. There’ll be a general discussion about selling distributorships and about the officer hierarchy. If you’re interested, you’ll get a supply of coupon booklets right then and there. You’re on your way.”

“Is this a sales organization?” Walt asked. Something was odd here—all this business about the card, the connection between Vest’s nonsense and Dilworth Catalogue Sales. Argyle again, like the many-armed octopus, tightening his grip.

“Indirectly. The real object is
service
. That’s the point of the coupon booklets.” He opened his briefcase and drew out a booklet the size of his palm. He flipped through it, showing Walt and Henry examples of the hundred-odd coupons—brake-job discounts, offers for free sodas at fast-food joints, two-for-one dinners, motel travel packages, cut-rate Vegas shows. “These will save you a buck every time you go to the movies,” Vest said, indicating a discount card for a local chain of theaters. “And look at this.” The back of the booklet was a Get-Out-of-Hell card, just like Walt’s, but without the Dilworth affidavit and signature. This one was imprinted with the Sensible Investor logo instead, and had little squares around the perimeter that apparently could be punched out by merchants when you redeemed coupons. “You can accumulate as many of these as you want,” Vest said.

“Why would you want more than one?” Walt asked, echoing the sentiment of the Dilworth man.

“For your children.”

“I don’t have any children,” Walt said, heating up a little. Henry was clearly roused by this baloney.

“Then put a few aside for your grandchildren. Think about the future.
Look
, what I’m saying is that you can hold activated cards for
anybody you please
—dead relatives, what have you. The cards are
entirely
retroactive. And five percent of coupon sales are put into a fund for locating the missing children. This is a
service
-oriented organization, but it’s got nothing against making a profit.”

“The missing children?” Walt asked, letting the “retroactive” part go.

“That would be the children depicted on the milk cartons?” Henry said helpfully.

Vest nodded in Henry’s direction. “Like that except different, if you follow me. But the
real
money is in distributorships. I don’t mind telling you that. None of us will make a dime by playing games here. When you buy the first program packet you’re a distributor, and
five percent of your sales come to me
. That’s right. You heard me right.
Straight
into my wallet. If I can pull in twenty distributors I’m what they call a ‘Hundred Percenter.’ That’s the end of the rainbow. The pot of gold. Just four distributors and you’re a vice president. That’s what I was asking about when I saw your card. That’s the Lamination Level. I myself was
four
vice presidents, and I’ve only been in the organization for two months.” He hit the table with his fist, to underscore things. “Do you have a pen?”

Walt took his pen out of his pocket and handed it over. Vest tore a coupon out of the booklet and wrote an address in the margin. He handed the slip of paper to Walt, who tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“You’re
four
vice presidents?” Walt asked. “All by yourself?”

“I was. George Nelson is thirty-eight vice presidents. You know George?”

Walt shook his head.

“Law office up on the Plaza? Well, he’s a charter member. Inner Circle. One of the First Captains. The sky’s the limit here. No ceiling. There’s only one question to ask:
how rich do you want to be
?”

Their pies arrived, and Vest started forking his down in a hurry.

“How many vice presidents are you now?” Walt asked.

“That’s not the point,” Vest said. “The point is, I
sold
my vice presidencies back to the Sensible Investor. That’s how it works. It happens that mine were bought by one of the Captains, and for
ten times their face value
, I made a couple of bucks on that one, and, listen to this, I receive two percent of the off-the-top profits into
perpetuity
. This is capitalism, gentlemen; there’s no part of this that you can’t sell at a profit. Surefire gain. What I’m thinking of doing is cashing out entirely. I’m from North Carolina, out around Raleigh. I’m going to take my nest egg and go home, buy a little place of my own.”

“Good for you,” Walt said. “But this whole thing sounds a little like a pyramid scheme, doesn’t it? Excuse me for saying so.”

“Perfectly reasonable question,” Vest said. “But I can assure you this is no pyramid. This is
circular
, with levels. Look, don’t take my word for it. Come around on Thursday and you’ll hear the real McCoy, the horse’s mouth, from men and women who are already making money. And I mean
money
.”

He stood up to leave. “Thanks for the lunch,” he said, shaking Walt’s hand.

“About the drawings …” Henry said, picking up the envelope.

“Why don’t you bring those around on Thursday night when you come?” Vest said. “We’ll see if we can’t put something together.”

“Now you’re talking,” Henry said.

“And what about the sales club?” Vest asked. “Have you thought that over?”

“I certainly have,” Henry said. “I’m ready.”

“Can you take delivery tomorrow? Betty’s got a party set up already, gratis. You don’t pay any percentage on your first party—profit’s all yours, so you can’t lose. It’s a house right over here on Harwood, ten women so far and a couple more possibles.”

“Ten …” Henry said, nodding.

“We’re talking a
three-figure party
. That’s not chump change. I’d jump in with both feet on this one.”

“By heaven, I will. Tomorrow’s fine. Jinx is going out to see Gladys,” he said, turning to Walt, “in Costa Mesa.”

Vest nodded and turned to leave, heading toward the door without a backward glance.

“I told you he was a go-getter,” Henry said.

“He’s a ball of fire,” Walt said. “What’s this ‘delivery’ he was talking about?”

“I mentioned that yesterday, I believe.”

“You said something about a business venture that Vest was going to let you in on. That wasn’t this ‘Sensible Investor’ scheme?”

“No,” Henry said. “This is something else—
immediate
money. He’s already shown me the ropes.” Henry paused, looking shrewdly at Walt. “What do you think? Partners? It’s ready money. I’ll put up the three hundred to cover Vest’s stock.”

“Sure,” Walt said weakly. “I guess so.”

“Don’t worry about me. The three hundred’s entirely refundable if we can’t sell the product. But that’s not the issue. We’ll sell it. You heard what Sidney said about that. He represents a surefire line of clothing articles. He books what they call ‘parties.’ “

“I’ve heard of that,” Walt said uneasily. “So this isn’t crystal or Tupperware or potted plants or something?”

“Women’s lingerie,” Henry said, scraping his pie plate clean with his fork.

Sidney Vest bumped out of the parking lot just then, the old Torino boiling away up Chapman Avenue toward the Plaza. The waitress arrived, and Walt found himself paying for the lunch, for Vest’s steak, for “pie all around.”

Rain swept against the window in a sudden gust of wind, and Walt heard the bells start up again, over at the church. It was the top of the hour—two o’clock. If they rang true to form, they wouldn’t let up for twenty minutes, which was perhaps getting to be too much of a good thing. Probably it was in the memory of poor Simms. Walt picked up his card from the tabletop and slipped it back into his wallet, noting for the first time that he hadn’t signed it yet.

Maybe he’d wait….

And anyway, he didn’t have a pen—Vest had taken it.

O
N THE WALK IN
front of the Sprouse Reitz store on Chapman Avenue stood several dozen Christmas trees nailed onto the crossed sections of bisected two-by-fours. A scattering of over-the-hill trees had been piled off to one side, and a boy in a T-shirt was just then dragging two of them around the side of the building toward a big trash bin, leaving a wide trail of fallen needles on the wet asphalt behind him. Walt parked the Suburban near the trash bins and rolled down the window. “Throwing them out?” he asked.

An idea had come to him, an inspiration; why shouldn’t he take a few trees home, for the kids—maybe set up some kind of Black Forest under the avocado tree?

“They’re not really any good,” the boy said. His T-shirt had a picture of a trout on it, along with the words, “Fish worship, is it wrong?”

An eccentric, Walt thought, immediately liking him. He was right about the trees, too; they
were
pretty clearly shot—not dried out, but mangled, with lots of broken limbs and twigs.

“What will you sell them for?” Walt asked.

“They’re not really for sale. They just came in, but most of them are broken up like this because they fell off the truck or something. The supplier is going to refund our money for the wrecked ones. So … I don’t know.”

“So you’re throwing them away?”

He nodded toward the trash bin. “They compost them.”

“Well, I’ll take a few off your hands,” Walt said. “Say, ten bucks? I’ll compost the heck out of them later.”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to sell them….”

“You’re not really selling them, are you? I need a few for a sort of…. theatrical production, for my niece and nephew. It’s hard to explain. I want to make a … a Christmas forest, I guess, in the backyard, around this garden shed, which would be the woodcutter’s cottage.”

The boy nodded, as if finally Walt was making sense. “How many do you want?” he asked.

“Let’s see … we can load a few on the rack here and then shove a couple more inside the truck. Whatever I can fit.” He dug his wallet out of his back pocket then and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Just drag a few more around here. If there’s any trouble I’ll say I was digging them out of the bin, and that you tried to stop me but I wouldn’t listen.”

He handed the money to the boy, who dropped the two trees he’d been holding onto, took the bill, and stuffed it into his pocket. Walt got out of the Suburban, picked up a tree, and lifted it onto the rack, swiveling the two parts of the wooden base together. He loaded the second tree back-to-front with the first, then took a roll of twine from the back of the truck and tied the trees down, yanking them flat so that he could fit more on top. Finally he opened the tailgate and crammed two more inside. Even tied down, the trees added about six feet to the top of the truck, which looked like some kind of specially camouflaged alpine vehicle.

“Thanks,” he said, handing the twine back and putting away his pocketknife. “Can I give you a hand with the rest of them? I really appreciate this.”

“I guess not,” the boy said. “Thanks for the ten dollars.”

Walt headed into the store, feeling lucky. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do with the trees, other than that it involved Nora and Eddie. There was too much rain to set up the trees outside, now that he thought about it. And there was no way Ivy would let him drag them all into the house. What was that play, he wondered, in which the old man ended up living in an attic full of Christmas trees? It involved ducks, Walt seemed to remember—ducks and garden elves. Walt admired that kind of who-cares-what-you-think lunacy, but it seemed to him to be the special province of either the very young or the very old. A man his age had to watch out.

He looked over the Christmas ornaments on the way into the store, picking out a couple of strings of illuminated candycanes suitable for hanging outdoors. He could decorate the porch with them. Then Argyle could come around and smash them to pieces with a stick. It would be an Argyle trap, a sort of monkey-and-coconut effect. Walt could watch through the upstairs window, and when Argyle really got going, Walt could point him out to Ivy: “Look, isn’t that poor old Bob Argyle dancing on the candycanes … ?”

“Aren’t those fun?” a woman asked him.

He looked up and nodded. She stood near one of the registers, an open bag of popcorn sitting on the Formica counter in front of her. Her wispy hair was blue-gray, and she wore a frilly kind of calico apron. The smell of popcorn was heavy in the store, and Walt noticed a big popping machine near the candy counter. “I’m taking two strings,” Walt said.

“Good for you,” she said, full of good cheer. Walt was apparently the only customer in the store.

“Tell me,” he said to her, wishing that she didn’t look quite so much like somebody’s nice old granny. “I notice that you sell parakeets.”

“That’s right,” she said. “They’re at the back of the store, in the corner, past yardage. Pick one out and we’ll get Andrew in here to catch it.”

“Well, what I need,” Walt said, “and this is going to sound weird, is a dead one.”

The idea had come to him after he and Henry had gotten home from Coco’s: he would give Argyle the dead bird after all, or at least
a
dead bird. He’d give it to him in ajar, too, filled with gin. “I’d be happy to pay full price,” Walt told the woman. This involves—what do you call it?—a science fair project. Dissection. One of these eighth-grade science projects …”