All Sales Fatal
“Today was the first meeting of the self-defense class and I needed to set up for it. Harold Wasserman was already in the office, holding a mug of what smelled like peppermint tea.“Casual-dress day?” he greeted me, eyeing my slim-fitting red sweatpants and loose tee shirt.“I’m teaching a self-defense class.”“I saw the flyer. Not a bad idea. Lobbying to be the head cheese, huh?” He grinned in a friendly way when he said it and I smiled back, relieved he wasn’t as against the idea of my becoming the director of security as Vic Dallabetta was.“Are you applying for the job?”“Not me.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I don’t need the headaches. This job suits me just fine—gets me out of the house, puts a little change in my pocket, and doesn’t push my blood pressure into the stratosphere. I had enough of that in my first career.” He gulped some tea. “I quit smoking again, and the mint in this”—he lifted the mug—“is supposed to help with nicotine cravings.”“Really?”
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