on him with tiny, burning eye.
The next morning, when Pete didn’t show up on the Lions Park footbridge, Alf went on by himself. It was the same the next morning, and the next. Pete was driving to Bannerman’s now. Each day, arriving at the mills, Alf saw the Sarasota’s towering tail lights parked in the dead-end lane beside the dyehouse. But he never managed to run into Pete himself.
He felt he really should call his friend. Pete was prone to these withdrawals. Once, years ago, Alf had criticized Pete for something, and Pete had vanished from his life for nearly a month. Then one day he’d just showed up again, acting as if nothing had happened. Alfsupposed that’s how it would go now. One morning Pete would come striding off the Lions Park footbridge, grinning his gap-toothed grin, telling some funny story, and they would go on as before, without a mention of their quarrel. He was worried, though, and sorry, yes definitely sorry, for some of the harsher things he’d said.
Twice he picked up the phone to call his friend. Twice he put the receiver back down, with a sense of confusion and defeat. He couldn’t sort out apologizing from admitting he was wrong.
One hot afternoon in the midst of this standoff, he was sitting on the floor of the knitting room, among the parts of a knitting machine he’d spread on newspapers, when the freight elevator floated into its bay. Behind the safety gates, Alf caught a flicker of bodies moving. Then the gates were flung back and a group of men stepped out. Their dress shirts, turned up crisply at the cuff, broadcast a shock of white into the room. There was a young woman with them: tall, in an extremely short skirt, her long legs stalking forward in black mesh stockings. A bald, tanned, handsome man touched her back and leaned over to whisper something into the teased cloud of her hair. She put back her head and opened her mouth in a silent, cheerless laugh, showing a wealth of teeth.
Twenty feet away, Alf instinctively drew up his legs, a man exposed in the bath. They had stopped outside the elevator. The bald man, who stood well over six feet, seemed oddly familiar. But the only figure Alf recognized was Gordie Henderson, the assistant manager of the sweater mill. He looked around anxiously, as if searching for shelter in a thunderstorm.
Spotting Alf, Gordie hurried over.
“Alf, I need Matt.”
“Think he went down to the dyehouse,” Alf said, glancing up. Tufts of black hair blocked Gordie’s big nostrils. In truth, Alf had no idea where Matt Honnegger was. The soon-to-be-retired foreman was just as likely to be in the can, relaxing.
“These people are from Intertex,” Gordie said in a tense undertone. “Top guns. They want a tour.”
“I’ll see if I can find Matt.”
“Maybe you could take us around —”
Gordie had already decided for him. As he waved the others over, Alf struggled to his feet. Unable to find a rag, he hurriedly wiped his hands on his trousers.
“Alf, this is Mr. Prince —”
“Bob Prince,” the bald man said in a low, rich voice: a heavy load on casters. Alf remembered where he’d seen him — that photo in the Star the previous spring. It was a bit like meeting someone whose fame had preceded him, a little whirlpool of excitement. Alf was on edge, aware that these men were perched high on a ladder he wanted to climb himself.
“Mr. Prince is vice-president of ah —,” Gordie faltered.
“New Acquisitions,” Prince said. He put out his hand.
“I’m a little dirty,” Alf said, dragging his hand again across his shirt front. The others were watching blankly.
“A little honest dirt,” Prince said. The hand remained in place: it had become an order. Alf took it. For a lingering moment the other man’s glowing eyes — they were a pale, icy blue, almost exactly the same colour as Alf’s — reached into his with a searchlight’s candour. Alf experienced an obscure shame.
“Alf’s our head fixer,” he heard Gordie
The next morning, when Pete didn’t show up on the Lions Park footbridge, Alf went on by himself. It was the same the next morning, and the next. Pete was driving to Bannerman’s now. Each day, arriving at the mills, Alf saw the Sarasota’s towering tail lights parked in the dead-end lane beside the dyehouse. But he never managed to run into Pete himself.
He felt he really should call his friend. Pete was prone to these withdrawals. Once, years ago, Alf had criticized Pete for something, and Pete had vanished from his life for nearly a month. Then one day he’d just showed up again, acting as if nothing had happened. Alfsupposed that’s how it would go now. One morning Pete would come striding off the Lions Park footbridge, grinning his gap-toothed grin, telling some funny story, and they would go on as before, without a mention of their quarrel. He was worried, though, and sorry, yes definitely sorry, for some of the harsher things he’d said.
Twice he picked up the phone to call his friend. Twice he put the receiver back down, with a sense of confusion and defeat. He couldn’t sort out apologizing from admitting he was wrong.
One hot afternoon in the midst of this standoff, he was sitting on the floor of the knitting room, among the parts of a knitting machine he’d spread on newspapers, when the freight elevator floated into its bay. Behind the safety gates, Alf caught a flicker of bodies moving. Then the gates were flung back and a group of men stepped out. Their dress shirts, turned up crisply at the cuff, broadcast a shock of white into the room. There was a young woman with them: tall, in an extremely short skirt, her long legs stalking forward in black mesh stockings. A bald, tanned, handsome man touched her back and leaned over to whisper something into the teased cloud of her hair. She put back her head and opened her mouth in a silent, cheerless laugh, showing a wealth of teeth.
Twenty feet away, Alf instinctively drew up his legs, a man exposed in the bath. They had stopped outside the elevator. The bald man, who stood well over six feet, seemed oddly familiar. But the only figure Alf recognized was Gordie Henderson, the assistant manager of the sweater mill. He looked around anxiously, as if searching for shelter in a thunderstorm.
Spotting Alf, Gordie hurried over.
“Alf, I need Matt.”
“Think he went down to the dyehouse,” Alf said, glancing up. Tufts of black hair blocked Gordie’s big nostrils. In truth, Alf had no idea where Matt Honnegger was. The soon-to-be-retired foreman was just as likely to be in the can, relaxing.
“These people are from Intertex,” Gordie said in a tense undertone. “Top guns. They want a tour.”
“I’ll see if I can find Matt.”
“Maybe you could take us around —”
Gordie had already decided for him. As he waved the others over, Alf struggled to his feet. Unable to find a rag, he hurriedly wiped his hands on his trousers.
“Alf, this is Mr. Prince —”
“Bob Prince,” the bald man said in a low, rich voice: a heavy load on casters. Alf remembered where he’d seen him — that photo in the Star the previous spring. It was a bit like meeting someone whose fame had preceded him, a little whirlpool of excitement. Alf was on edge, aware that these men were perched high on a ladder he wanted to climb himself.
“Mr. Prince is vice-president of ah —,” Gordie faltered.
“New Acquisitions,” Prince said. He put out his hand.
“I’m a little dirty,” Alf said, dragging his hand again across his shirt front. The others were watching blankly.
“A little honest dirt,” Prince said. The hand remained in place: it had become an order. Alf took it. For a lingering moment the other man’s glowing eyes — they were a pale, icy blue, almost exactly the same colour as Alf’s — reached into his with a searchlight’s candour. Alf experienced an obscure shame.
“Alf’s our head fixer,” he heard Gordie
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