Something for Nothing Read Online Free Page A

look, and you later on tonight, for cocktails.”
    Martin could envision this because he himself had a toupee (that was what he called it, though Linda liked to tease him and call it a wig). In fact, he had his own line-up of three of those Styrofoam heads in his bedroom. They were on his bureau, each one crowned by a toupee with a slightly different style: shaggy, wavy, and clean-cut.
    Shit, he thought. Was there an accident up ahead? He had a lot to deal with at work. A lot to worry about, that is. Radkovitch had stopped by the office on Thursday, which had surprised Martin. He was supposed to be out all week, pounding the pavement, working on loan possibilities. He hadn’t met yet with the guys from the Wells Fargo loan office (one of them was a contact from Merrill, apparently), but he wanted to talk about a backup plan.
    â€œA backup plan?” Martin had asked. “What the fuck are you talking about? I thought the Wells Fargo guy was your pal.”
    â€œI know, I know,” Radkovitch said to him. “He is. But just listen.” Martin heard the irritation in Radkovitch’s voice, and it occurred to him that Radkovitch was getting a little tired of him. He’d been surprised by this realization.
    â€œFine,” Martin said. “Fire away . . . I’m all ears.”
    Radkovitch nodded, and Martin was struck yet again by his looks. Lots of thick, dark, wavy hair, green eyes. And of course he was really built. Tall and lean. He looked like an athlete, is what it was, right down to the nice tan, and the telltale band of white skin that showed where he put a sweat band on his right wrist when he played tennis.
    â€œWell,” Radkovitch said. “I’ve been talking to the people who own the Buick dealership in Oakland. You know, the big place on Shattuck, near Fortieth Street?”
    â€œYeah,” Martin said, looking out the big front window at Michael Ludwig as he washed down a plane. “Go on.”
    â€œOkay,” Radkovitch said. “Well, the thing is, I heard through some contacts that they’ve been looking for a way to diversify. And I think Anderson Aircrafts is exactly the sort of business they’d be interested in right now. In fact, they are interested, Martin. I talked to them last week. It went well, all things considered.”
    It was a way to land on his feet, Radkovitch had explained. Essentially, it would be a kind of buyout. Martin could still run things, but in point of fact Anderson Aircrafts would be owned by the Buick guys. They’d been in business forever, and even though times were bad, their pockets were deep. They’d be fine, and so Martin would be fine, too.
    Of course, things would be different. It wouldn’t be like owning the place. He wouldn’t get the big bucks or be able to do the creative tax write-offs. He’d get commissions on sales, maybe a salary for managing the office. And they, in turn, would cover Martin’s debts. Which were considerable, Radkovitch reminded him. He’d have to sell the place at Tahoe, the boat, and probably the horse—definitely the horse. But his place in Walnut Station would be safe.
    â€œIt could be worse,” he’d told Martin. “I think you should give it some thought.”
    Martin had thought about it, all right. He’d sat there, projecting forward to his new life as a thinly disguised car salesman—a job he’d actually had a long time ago, before starting Anderson Aircrafts. He knew the drill: lots of hours, kissing up to customers, scraping for commissions, working your ass off. Get up, drive to work, drive home. Maybe have a good week here and there. And no time off—or probably not. And what would he have to do, anyway? No race horse, no boat, no membership at the club. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be able to save up and take the kids to Baskin-Robbins and see fucking Gary Roberts once in a