Body For Sale

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When I arrived back in Raine City, I didn’t go straight to the office. I stopped by Tony Vincinti’s Bar and Grill first. When you know you’re going to be fired anyway, what’s the point in being careful not to breathe liquor in the boss’s face?

At two in the afternoon the place was deserted except for fat Tony. He flashed me his white-toothed Sicilian grin and ran a rag over the already spotless section of the bar in front of me.

“You’ve been gone a while, amico,” he said.

“Just three weeks,” I said. I pulled my order book from my pocket and started to flip pages. “Seven fifty, five, three fifty and two. I netted four orders for good old Schyler Tools, Tony. Eighteen-hundred-dollars’ worth of business.”

Tony’s grin widened. “That sounds good, Tom.”

“It sounds lousy,” I told him. “The commission is ten per cent. It works out to sixty dollars a week.”

The tavern proprietor’s grin disappeared. “Well, you get expenses too, don’t you?” he said philosophically.

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