over.
Tronen rose. The breath sucked in and out of him. He trembled.
But it was from excitement, anger, release. His delirium had left him. His mind felt sharp and clean as an ax. Catharsis, he thought, underneath, catharsis, is that the word? Whatever, I’m free.
He rejoiced to carry the body back to the garbage and, this time, ring down the lid loud enough to wake Harry Quarters across town. He scrubbed the blood and rinsed the sponge with a sense of having gotten back some of his own. Oh, he wasn’t a child, he thought in the shower which he had become glad to take. He didn’t blame the kitten personally. It had merely happened along at foul hours. In his confusion, subconscious mind on a rampage and all that stuff, he’d made the creature a symbol. Now he was done. He could cope with reality, the real people and real forces ranged against him. And would, by God! He hardly needed coffee. Wakefulness, anger sang in his veins.
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His car leaped into the street. He fumed at the need to observe speed limits in more crowded areas where an officious cop might see him. Why couldn’t a leading responsible private citizen, who had urgent business on which a substantial payroll depended, be allowed a siren to clear his path?
The watchman at the plant looked surly. No doubt he was a sympathizer of the machinists and their strike threat. How in Christ’s name could a man explain the reasons, the elementary economics, behind an executive decision? Sure, the shop was chilly; but their workday ended after a measured eight hours (not that they honestly produced for half that time), unlike his which had no end. And meanwhile, was it impossible for them to wear heavier clothes? Could they absolutely not see that their jobs, their well-being was tied in to the company’s? … No, they couldn’t, because in fact that was not true. Let the company fail and they’d suck unemployment pay out of his taxes.
Management and capital didn’t breed any race of angels either. In his office, Tronen hunched over papers which made him pound the desk till his fist was sore. What did that Kruchek mean, doubting the quality control here? What the hell did he expect? Gustafson had acted satisfied. Kruchek must have a private motive unless Gustafson had led him on for reasons that would be very, very interesting to know … And this letter from the regional manager, the veiled complaints and demands, how was Tronen supposed to answer those, how much ass must a
THE KITTEN
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man kiss to get anywhere in this rotten system? No wonder it bred radicals and rioters! And then the authorities were too busy pussyfooting to do what was necessary: open fire on a few of those mobs.
His secretary was almost an hour late. “I’m sorry, my car wouldn’t start”
“It would not occur to you to call a taxi, of course, nor to make up the time. Didn’t you mention once that you’re a Lutheran? Ah, well, I suppose your keeping a Protestant work ethic was too much to hope for.” He spoke levelly, reducing her to tears in lieu of the three or four slaps across the chops that the stupid cow deserved.
In midmorning he summoned his chief of operations. They were bothered by occasional juvenile vandalism in their isolated location, rocks through windows a few times a year, most recently naughty words painted on a wall. “I’ve about decided we need more guards for nights and holidays,” he said. “Issue them shotguns for use, not show.”
“Huh?” The man recovered. “You’re joking.”
“Oh, we’d post conspicuous notices. And a single young hoodlum shot in the belly should end that form of recreation.”
“Leo, do you feel all right? We can’t use extreme violenceon kidsto prevent a few dollars’ worth of damage. Anyhow, you objected yourself, when we discussed this before, that a chain link fence would cost out of proportion. Have you figured the wages of those extra guards?”
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Tronen yielded. He had no choice. However, the law did not yet forbid him to sit half an hour and visualize what ought to be done.