Cold Sale. . . . . from Orphan Paper

Fredericks stood by the Pontiac’s door and thought about the Iowa visit. He had never operated a well crank before that day and always assumed those kind of wells existed only in story books, stone upon stone fashioned into a cylinder, the hollow center converging down to pinpoint blackness. Aside from the well, his visit had not been a good one. He’d been required him to improvise, even exert himself; and had to do a lot more cleaning up than usual, to the point he started worrying half way through he might have gotten in over his head. Having to defend himself happened every now and then, but was unusual. The secret had always been Fredericks’ element of surprise. He looked exactly like you’d imagine some tired old salesman to look with a vague twinkle in both eyes telling whoever answered the door here was a fella that liked people.

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