"Money goes for the toy drive, Kendall said with perfect timing.
"Our goal is nine thousand bucks."
"Last year we raised just over eight."
"Hitting it harder this year"
"Christmas Eve, we'll deliver toys to six hundred kids."
"It's an awesome project."
Back and forth, back and forth. A well-drilled tag team.
"You ought to see their faces."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, "Anyway, gotta raise the money, and fast."
"Got the old faithful, Mabel's Fruitcakes." Kendall sort of waved the bag at Luther as if he might want to grab it and take a peek inside.
"World - famous."
"They make 'em in Hermansburg, Indiana, home of Mabel's Bakery."
"Half the town works there. Make nothing but fruitcakes."
Those poor folks, Luther thought.
"They have a secret recipe, use only the freshest ingredients."
"And make the best fruitcake in the world."
Luther hated fruitcakes. The dates, figs, prunes, nuts, little bits of dried, colored fruit.
"Been making 'em for eighty years now."
"Best - selling cake in the country. Six tons last year."
Luther was standing perfectly still, holding his ground, his eyes darting back and forth, back and forth.
"No chemicals, no additives."
"I don't know how they keep them so fresh."
With chemicals and additives, Luther wanted to say.
A sharp bolt of hunger hit Luther hard. His knees almost buckled, his poker face almost grimaced. For two weeks now his sense of smell had been much keener, no doubt a side effect of a strict diet. Maybe he got a whiff of Mabel's finest, he wasn't sure, but a craving came over him. Suddenly, he had to have something to eat. Suddenly, he wanted to snatch the bag from Kendall, rip open a package, and start gnawing on a fruitcake.
And then it passed. With his jaws clenched, Luther hung on until it was gone, then he relaxed. Kistler and Kendall were so busy with their routine that they hadn't noticed.
"We get only so many."
"They're so popular they have to be rationed."
"We're lucky to get nine hundred."
"Ten bucks a pop, and we're at nine thousand for the toys."
"You bought five last year, Mr. Krank."
"Can you do it again?"
Yes, I bought five last year, Luther was now remembering. Took three to the office and secretly placed them on the desks of three colleagues. By the end of the week, they'd been passed around so much the packages were worn. Dox tossed them in the wastebasket when they shut down for Christmas.
Nora gave the other two to her hairdresser, a three-hundred-pound lady who collected them by the dozen and had fruitcake until July.
"No," Luther finally said. "I'll pass this year."
The tag team went silent. Kistler looked at Kendall and Kendall looked at Kistler.
"Say what?"
"I don't want any fruitcakes this year."
"Is five too many?" Kistler asked.
"One is too many," Luther replied, then slowly folded his arms across his chest.
"None?" Kendall asked, in disbelief.
"Zero," Luther said.
They looked as pitiful as possible.
"You guys still put on that Fourth of July fishing rodeo for handicapped kids?" Luther asked.
"Every year, " said Kistler.
"Great. Come back in the summer and I'll donate a hundred bucks for the fishing rodeo."
Kistler managed to mumble a very weak "Thanks."
It took a few awkward movements to get them out the door. Luther returned to the kitchen table, where everything was gone-Nora, his plate with the last two bites of steamed fish, his glass of water, his napkin. Everything. Furious, he stormed the pantry, where he found a jar of peanut butter and some stale saltines.
Chapter Nine
Stanley Wiley's father had founded Wiley Beck in 1949. Beck had been dead so long now no one knew exactly why his name was still on the door. Had a nice ring to it-Wiley Beck-and, too, it would be expensive to change the stationery and such. For an accounting firm that had been around for half a century, the amazing thing was how little it had grown. There were a dozen partners in tax, including Luther, and twenty or so in auditing. Their clients were mid-range companies that couldn't afford the national accounting firms.
If Stanley Wiley'd had more ambition, some thirty years earlier, the old firm might possibly have caught the wave and become a force. But he hadn't, and it didn't, and now it pretended to be content by calling itself a "boutique firm."
Just as Luther was planning another quick departure for another sprint to the mall, Stanley materialized from nowhere with a long sandwich, lettuce hanging off the sides. "Got a minute?" he said with a mouthful. He was already sitting before Luther could say yes or no or can it be quick? He wore silly bow ties and usually had a variety of stains on his blue button-downs-ink, mayonnaise, coffee. Stanley was a slob, his office a notorious landfill where documents and files were lost for months. "Try Stanley's office" was the firm's slogan for paperwork that would never be found.
"I hear you're not going to be at the Christmas dinner tomorrow night," he said, still chewing. Stanley liked to roam the halls at lunch with a sandwich in one hand, a soda in the other, as if he were too busy for a real lunch.
"I'm eliminating a lot of things this year, Stanley, no offense to anyone," Luther said.
"So it's true."
"It's true. We will not be there."
Stanley swallowed with a frown, then examined the sandwich in search of the next bite. He was the managing partner, not the boss. Luther'd been a partner for six years. No one at Wiley Beck could force him to do anything.
"Sorry to hear that. Jayne will be disappointed."
"I'll drop her a note," Luther said. It wasn't a terrible evening-a nice dinner at an old restaurant downtown, in a private room upstairs, good food, decent wines, a few speeches, then a band and dancing until late. Black tie, of course, and the ladies tried hard to one-up each other with dresses and jewelry. Jayne Wiley was a delightful woman who deserved a lot more than she got with Stanley.
"Any particular reason?" Stanley asked, prying just a little.
"We're skipping the whole production this year, Stanley, no tree, no gifts, no hassle. Saving the money and taking a cruise for ten days. Blair's gone, we need a break. I figure we'll catch up rather nicely next year, or if not, the year after."
"It does come every year, doesn't it?"
"It does indeed."
"I see you're losing weight."
"Ten pounds. The beaches are waiting."
"You look great, Luther. Tanning, I hear."
"Trying a darker shade, yes. I can't let the sun get the best of me."
A huge bite of the ham-on-baguette, with strands of lettuce trailing along and hanging between the lips. Then movement: "Not a bad idea, really." Or something like that.
Stanley's idea of a vacation was a week in his beach house, a hand-me-down in which he had invested nothing in thirty years. Luther and Nora had spent one dreadful week there, guests of the Wileys, who took the main bedroom and put the Kranks in the "guest suite," a narrow room with bunk beds and no air conditioning. Stanley'd knocked back gin and tonics from midmorning until late afternoon and the sun never touched his skin.
He left, his cheeks full, but before Luther could escape, Yank Slader darted in. "Up to fifty-two hundred bucks, old boy," he announced. "With no end in sight. Abigail just spent six hundred bucks on a dress for the Christmas dinner, don't know why she couldn't wear the one from last year or the year before, but why argue? Shoes were a buck-forty. Purse another ninety. Closets're full of purses and shoes, but don't get me started. We'll top seven grand at this rate. Please let me go on the cruise."