The Snow Falcon (7 page)

“No,” he agreed.

She was maybe twenty-five, he thought, and he was flattered by her attention, but it also made him nervous. He picked up a magazine from the table and started to flick through it, thinking about what he’d tell her if she asked him where he was from. He could feel her watching him now and again as she looked up from her work, and once he met her eye and they exchanged smiles. He started to think the suit had been a mistake, that he should have made himself less conspicuous—which he thought was ironic, given the job he was applying for.

After ten minutes or so a door opened, and a tall, upright-looking man with a shock of white hair stopped by the desk and then came over to Michael, extending his hand. His grip was firm, belying the

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age his leathery, deeply lined skin gave away. He smiled and introduced himself as George Wilson, his quick, intelligent eyes meeting Michael’s and holding the look for a half second.

“Come on through,” he said, pointing the way.

Stairs led up to the offices on the first floor where the administration was handled by half a dozen women and one man who had a desk in a small corner office. Some of them cast curious glances their way. Wilson’s office overlooked the front of the lot and contained a huge desk, some visitor’s chairs, and a liquor cabinet. The smell of cigar smoke permeated the room, ingrained deeply into the carpet and the furniture. Wilson closed the door.

“You’re not from around here?” he began.

“No,” Michael said, thinking that now wasn’t the time to elaborate. “Toronto.”

“I didn’t think you bought that suit around here.”

Michael didn’t reply, feeling that nothing was required. He had the feeling that Wilson was shrewd, sizing him up. The old man gestured that they should stand by the window, and together they looked out on the vehicles arranged in lines on the lot below. This had about it a little of the feeling of a king surveying his domain, and Michael guessed that Wilson spent a fair bit of time standing right at this spot. At that moment, the salesman who’d approached Michael earlier appeared outside and went over to a young guy who’d wandered in off the street. The salesman just appeared at his side, scuttling like a crab, and from where he and Wilson were standing, Michael could see the smile that automatically arrived on his face. Michael saw the salesman glance up, and for a brief instance their eyes met, then the salesman was casually touching the customer’s elbow, starting to guide the guy further onto the lot, gesturing toward a line of Ford trucks.

Wilson nodded toward the lot. “That fellow there has worked for me for five years now. He’s a good man. He wanted to apply for this job you’ve come about, but I told him he wasn’t right for it. The truth is, I’m looking for somebody with some fresh ideas, and that puts most people around here out of the running.” The old man turned, and for a second their eyes met. “I believe in cutting through the b.s.,” Wilson said briskly. “I rely on my instincts when it comes to business; the same applies to people. So, you’re from Toronto, eh?”

“It’s where I’ve lived most of my adult life.”

“What kind of work did you do there?”

THE

SNOW

L C O N

“I was in advertising.” He held up his resume. “It’s all in here.”

He’d put it together using the computer in the library at St. Helen’s. After a lot of thought, he’d decided to end his career record at a point six years earlier without giving any explanation as to what he’d been doing since then. It was something he’d thought was best handled face to face, when at least he could explain.

Wilson made a dismissive gesture. “We can get to the paperwork later. I like to hear what a man has to say about himself first. The way somebody talks tells me a whole lot more than some fancy resume ever will. So, what brings you to a place like Little River?”

It was a question Michael had expected, but for the moment he sidestepped it. He wanted a chance to explain what he thought he could offer before he got into that. “A lot of things, I guess. But you could say I needed a change of scenery.”

“It’d be that, all right,” Wilson said. “And what makes you want to apply for a job like the one I’m offering? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s an important position for us. We never had a promotions manager here before, but somehow I doubt this is the kind of thing you’re used to.”

“Advertising is what I know about, Mr. Wilson, and everything that goes along with it. I understand that Little River is a different environment from the one I’m used to, but I knew that when I decided to come here.”

Wilson nodded as if he understood. “I guess I can relate to that. Any man who decides the city doesn’t have everything this life has to offer has got my vote.” He looked out the window toward the mountains. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I’m seventy-four years old now. I’ve done a bit of traveling in my time, and I never found a place that offered anything better than what I’ve got here. Of course, I’m fortunate. My dad started this business, so I’ve always had something to work on, something I knew would be mine one day, which it was when he retired. I’ve done all right here, and I’m thankful for it.” He paused a moment, then added, “You married, Mike? Can I call you Mike?”

“Sure. I was married, I’m not now.”

Wilson frowned and looked thoughtful. “That’s a shame. I’ve been married for nearly forty years now myself. All of them to the same woman, too,” he added, and laughed briefly. “It’s a great thing, marriage. A family is important, don’t you think? Gives a man stability,

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something to work for. My only regret is that neither of my kids were interested in coming into the business. They’ve both done well by themselves, though. One of them’s a lawyer, the other’s a doctor. I’m proud of them. You got kids of your own, Mike?”

“Just one,” he said. “A girl.”

Wilson considered this for a moment. Michael had the idea that being divorced was a mark against him, but Wilson must have decided it was something he could overlook, and he waved a hand as if dismissing the subject.

“Let me tell you about the job, Mike,” he said.

They sat down, and Michael listened as Wilson outlined what the position involved. It was about what he’d expected. The business had done well enough over the years, but as Wilson had recognized, things were changing. Competition from out of town meant that some people, especially the younger ones, were tempted by deals and all kinds of offers. A lot of fancy stuff on the side, as Wilson put it. The company’s reputation, which was what they’d always traded on, was getting forgotten about when it was measured up against the glitz and glitter of their competitors.

“This business has been around a long time, Mike. My dad started it after the war, and he had a philosophy that’s always worked well for us: Treat people right, they’ll do the same by you. That’s it in a nutshell. See, we look after our customers, and that’s why they come back. Of course, it means the automobiles we sell cost a few dollars more because we back every one up with a guarantee, but people come back because they know they can trust us. We’re good people, I guess.” He grinned at himself. “Guess that sounds old-fashioned these days.”

“I don’t think the values you’re talking about ever go out of fashion,” Michael offered. “It’s the way you communicate them that has to change.”

Wilson cocked an eyebrow. “Values. That is what I’m talking about, I guess. It’s a word you don’t hear too often these days. I think you may have hit the nail on the head, Mike. Values is what we’re all about here. We stand for the way things used to be, when it wasn’t all a fast buck and make it anyway you can.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Nowadays, seems like that’s all young folks care about.”

“I guess it seems that way sometimes,” Michael ventured.

“Even a town like this isn’t immune to it.” Wilson gestured with

a sweep of his arm toward the window. “We’ve always provided a service here, a fair deal for a fair price, and we’ve always taken care of our customers. If you have a problem with a vehicle you bought from us, we’ll take care of you. Not like some of these places. Once they have your money, they don’t ever want to hear from you again. If you got a problem, it’s your problem, not theirs. People forget that when they sign up on some deal that gets them a fistful of Texaco vouchers and a free case of beer. That won’t do them any good when the damn head blows a mile or two down the road.”

Wilson shook his head ruefully. “I guess there’s no point in just complaining about it, that won’t do any good. We have to move with the times, I can see that. We have to let people know about what we stand for. Tell them about our values.” He paused. “You’ve had a chance to take the place in a little. What would you do if the job was yours, Mike?”

Michael gave the impression of giving the question some contemplation before replying, though in reality he could see what the issues were. “My opinion is that what you’ve got here is essentially an image problem,” he said eventually.

He watched for Wilson’s reaction to see just how open to new ideas the old man was. It was okay to pay lip service to the recognition a business needed to change, but sometimes when it came down to it, the people in charge balked at the practicalities. Wilson, however, indicated with an almost imperceptible nod that he was still listening.

“The thing is, reputation can work for you, as it always has here, but just as easily it can work against you if it isn’t presented in the right way. What you have to do is make your reputation for a fair deal the very foundation of your marketing, which in a way you already do.” He recalled the ad that Wilson’s ran, which showed a photograph of the old man himself alongside a banner of the company name and a slogan that said, “You Can Trust Me.”

“What that communicates, especially to younger people who’re getting bombarded by sophisticated messages all the time from magazines and TV, from radio and billboards, is that Wilson’s is old-fashioned,” Michael explained. “Also, they probably don’t believe it, and they probably don’t identify with your image.” He paused, unsure how this would go down, especially the last part.

“So, what would you do about it?” Wilson asked after a moment.

“Don’t use your picture, for one thing. You need an image that

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appeals to young and old. And that would be just the start. I’d recommend a total overhaul of your marketing from the top to the bottom. But I’d make it a gradual change. Nothing too dramatic all at once. That would just run the risk of alienating all your loyal customers.”

Wilson got up and went to the window again, where he stood with his back to Michael for a short while. When he turned around, his expression was serious.

“So, you’d take me out of the advertising, huh?”

“That would be my recommendation.”

“And that would be just the start?” He looked back out the window and appeared to be trying to envisage how things might change. “I guess I’d have to hand over the reins a little bit, wouldn’t I?”

“It would be a consultative process, I imagine,” Michael said. “Like I say, a little at a time.”

Wilson nodded slowly. “I like your ideas, Mike,” he said. “I guess you must have learned something in the city. I’m not so old and pigheaded that I don’t know I don’t have all the answers myself anymore. I guess we could use somebody like you around here.”

“Ideas are no good without someone to listen to them,” Michael said. “I admire you for being willing to accept change. Not everybody can do that.”

“Well, nothing stays the same, I guess,” Wilson allowed. “Even in a place like this. We’re a friendly bunch here, Mike, at least I like to think we are. We all get along together and we don’t stand on ceremony too much. You could even afford to dress a little more casual if you wanted to,” he added jokingly. “I think you’d like it here. I have to tell you, though, the kind of money I can offer probably wouldn’t match the expense account you’d have in a some big-city firm.”

Michael got to his feet. “I understand that. There’s something I think you ought to know about first, though.” He handed over his resume, and while Wilson flicked through it, Michael revealed he’d been in prison.

Wilson stopped turning the pages and looked up sharply. “Prison?”

“For three years. Then I was at a unit called St. Helen’s,” Michael said. “I was released a couple of weeks ago. That’s why I came to Little River. I was brought up here.”

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Wilson’s friendly expression dissolved and hardened; his brow furrowed while he looked down at the resume, rereading the title page.

“Somers? Michael Somers?” The name meant something, but it took him a moment or two to place it. “Your dad was John Somers who ran the hardware store?”

“That’s right,” Michael said. “You probably heard about what happened. I had a kind of a breakdown, but I had therapy while I served my sentence. I’m fine now.”

Wilson shook his head, barely listening. “This changes everything.” He closed the resume abruptly and handed it back. “You should have told me about this right at the start.”

Michael could see the change in him, the tight line of the older man’s jaw, the hard, unrelenting light in his eyes. A wave of disappointment swept over him, and he wondered why he’d ever thought that it would be any different, that people would overlook his past. All the same, he found himself arguing his case.

“And if I had told you, would you have listened to what I had to say? Would you have even agreed to see me?”

“I think you ought to leave,” Wilson said.

Michael uttered a short and bleak derisory laugh. “What happened to the way you liked my ideas? How about those values you were talking about earlier?”

Wilson’s expression remained closed. “I’m sorry. It just isn’t possible.” He started toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” Michael said. “You’re telling me you can’t give me a job because I’ve been in prison, is that it? I mean, I just want to get this clear, so that I know. Even though I served my sentence, even though I’ve paid my dues to society.”