Read Online Area of Suspicion by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: John D. MacDonald
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aspects of melodrama. I began to whistle. It sounded too loud in the room.
I ran water into the wash basin. I looked into the mirror and found myself looking over my shoulder out into the bedroom behind me. I made a face at myself in the mirror. Steady, boy.
Chapter 5
It was nearly noon when, from my hotel suite, I got the call through to Tom Garroway in Syracuse. It had taken them fifteen minutes to locate him out in the shop. It made me remember the times I had tried to find him, and the uselessness of trying to teach him to leave word where he’d be.
He came on the line. “Gev! It’s damn good to hear your voice. Say, I read about Ken in the papers. I was going to write you. A damn shame, Gev. A sweet guy.”
“Thanks, Tom. Can you talk or do you want to call me back?”
“I can talk. What’s up?”
“Why did you leave? You had a good deal here.”
“I know that. After you left, I got lonesome.”
“Let’s have it, Tom.”
“Okay. When Mottling came into the picture it ruined things.”
“How?”
“I don’t like people leaning over my shoulder. I want to be given something and a chance to work it out my own way. If I had to spit, I had to make out a request in triplicate and get Mottling’s initials on it. I could feel an ulcercoming. Do it this way. Don’t do it that way. Do it my way not your way, and report on the hour.”
“No way to handle bull-headed Garroway.”
“You’re damn well told. This is a good outfit, Gev. Fine people. Hot problems. But I want you to know this. The day you toss out Mottling I’ll come running back if you want me to. And two bits says Poulson and Fitz will come back too.”
“Are they gone?”
“Man, yes. Where have you been? Mottling really took over. He pushed your brother around too. I don’t know why Ken stood for it. Mottling and that tin soldier Dolson are thick as thieves. The next step is to hoist Grandby out of there; then all the old guard will be gone. I’m not sentimental about it, Gev. If you were a knuckle-head, I’d say stay the hell out. But you’re one Dean who’s entitled to run Dean Products. Why don’t you take over again?”
“It’s a little late for that, Tom.”
“Hell, I’ll come back and teach you the ropes. You can be a trainee. One of Garroway’s bright young men.”
“I’m a beachcomber. There’s something with a real future.”
His tone changed. “Seriously, Gev. No joke. I almost wrote you a few times. There’s a smell around there. Like something crawled under the buildings and died. Maybe I should have stayed and fought. But it was safer to land another job. Give some thought to going back in there, Gev. Those years were good. I’d like it to be the way it used to be.”
I thanked him. The odds were against my going back in. I hung up and called room service and ordered a sandwich sent up. I thought of what he had said. Even thought I’d tried to deny it for four years, when I had quit, I’d felt as though both hands had been cut off at the wrist.
Sure, it was just another corporate entity that would keep churning along whether Gevan Dean was there or not.
But I missed it. I missed the hot stink of coolant and oil, that rumble and chatter and screech of the production areas, where metal is peeled sleekly back from the high-speedcutting edges, and the turret lathes and automatic screw machines squat heavily and busy themselves with their robot operations. And it had been good to go into the shipping department and smell the raw wood of the big packing cases, and see the fresh-paint stencils which said DEAN PRODUCTS .
When the pressure was off, I’d go down to Receiving and watch the materials coming in, the sheets and the bar stock, the castings and forgings, the billets and pigs. Raw and semi-fabricated items would come in; they would leave as complete assemblies, machined, assembled, inspected, crated. It all started when some prehistoric genius squatted on his haunches and chipped out an ax
I ran water into the wash basin. I looked into the mirror and found myself looking over my shoulder out into the bedroom behind me. I made a face at myself in the mirror. Steady, boy.
Chapter 5
It was nearly noon when, from my hotel suite, I got the call through to Tom Garroway in Syracuse. It had taken them fifteen minutes to locate him out in the shop. It made me remember the times I had tried to find him, and the uselessness of trying to teach him to leave word where he’d be.
He came on the line. “Gev! It’s damn good to hear your voice. Say, I read about Ken in the papers. I was going to write you. A damn shame, Gev. A sweet guy.”
“Thanks, Tom. Can you talk or do you want to call me back?”
“I can talk. What’s up?”
“Why did you leave? You had a good deal here.”
“I know that. After you left, I got lonesome.”
“Let’s have it, Tom.”
“Okay. When Mottling came into the picture it ruined things.”
“How?”
“I don’t like people leaning over my shoulder. I want to be given something and a chance to work it out my own way. If I had to spit, I had to make out a request in triplicate and get Mottling’s initials on it. I could feel an ulcercoming. Do it this way. Don’t do it that way. Do it my way not your way, and report on the hour.”
“No way to handle bull-headed Garroway.”
“You’re damn well told. This is a good outfit, Gev. Fine people. Hot problems. But I want you to know this. The day you toss out Mottling I’ll come running back if you want me to. And two bits says Poulson and Fitz will come back too.”
“Are they gone?”
“Man, yes. Where have you been? Mottling really took over. He pushed your brother around too. I don’t know why Ken stood for it. Mottling and that tin soldier Dolson are thick as thieves. The next step is to hoist Grandby out of there; then all the old guard will be gone. I’m not sentimental about it, Gev. If you were a knuckle-head, I’d say stay the hell out. But you’re one Dean who’s entitled to run Dean Products. Why don’t you take over again?”
“It’s a little late for that, Tom.”
“Hell, I’ll come back and teach you the ropes. You can be a trainee. One of Garroway’s bright young men.”
“I’m a beachcomber. There’s something with a real future.”
His tone changed. “Seriously, Gev. No joke. I almost wrote you a few times. There’s a smell around there. Like something crawled under the buildings and died. Maybe I should have stayed and fought. But it was safer to land another job. Give some thought to going back in there, Gev. Those years were good. I’d like it to be the way it used to be.”
I thanked him. The odds were against my going back in. I hung up and called room service and ordered a sandwich sent up. I thought of what he had said. Even thought I’d tried to deny it for four years, when I had quit, I’d felt as though both hands had been cut off at the wrist.
Sure, it was just another corporate entity that would keep churning along whether Gevan Dean was there or not.
But I missed it. I missed the hot stink of coolant and oil, that rumble and chatter and screech of the production areas, where metal is peeled sleekly back from the high-speedcutting edges, and the turret lathes and automatic screw machines squat heavily and busy themselves with their robot operations. And it had been good to go into the shipping department and smell the raw wood of the big packing cases, and see the fresh-paint stencils which said DEAN PRODUCTS .
When the pressure was off, I’d go down to Receiving and watch the materials coming in, the sheets and the bar stock, the castings and forgings, the billets and pigs. Raw and semi-fabricated items would come in; they would leave as complete assemblies, machined, assembled, inspected, crated. It all started when some prehistoric genius squatted on his haunches and chipped out an ax
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