"John Kessel - The Pure Product" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kessel John)

a business checking account. She gave me a form to fill out, then sent me
to the office of Mr Graves.

Mr Graves wielded a formidable handshake. “What can I do for you,
Mr… ?”

“Tillotsen. Gerald Tillotsen,” I said. Gerald Tillotsen, of Tacoma,
Washington, died of diphtheria at the age of four weeks—on September
24, 1938. I have a copy of his birth certificate.

“I’m new to Kansas City. I’d like to open a business account here, and
perhaps take out a loan. I trust this is a reputable bank? What’s your
exposure in Brazil?” I looked around the office as if Graves were hiding a
woman behind the hatstand, then flashed him my most ingratiating smile.

Mr Graves did his best. He tried smiling back, then looked as if he
had decided to ignore my little joke. “We’re very sound, Mr Tillotsen.”

I continued smiling.

“What kind of business do you own?”

“I’m in insurance. Mutual Assurance of Hartford. Our regional office is
in Oklahoma City, and I’m setting up an agency here, at 103rd and State
Line.” Just off the interstate.

He examined the form I had given him. His absorption was too
tempting.

“Maybe I can fix you up with a life policy? You look like dead meat.”

Graves’ head snapped up, his mouth half open. He closed it and
watched me guardedly. The dullness of it all! How I tire. He was like some
cow, like most of the rest of you in this silly age, unwilling to break the rules
in order to take offense. Did he really say that? he was thinking. If he did
say that, was that his idea of a joke? What is he after? He looks normal
enough. I did look normal, exactly like an insurance agent. I was the right
kind of person, and I could do anything. If at times I grate, if at times I fall a
little short of or go a little beyond convention, there is not one of you who
can call me to account.

Mr Graves was coming around. All business.

“Ah—yes, Mr Tillotsen. If you’ll wait a moment, I’m sure we can take
care of this checking account. As for the loan…”

“Forget it.”

That should have stopped him. He should have asked after my
credentials, he should have done a dozen things. He looked at me, and I