All Flesh Is Grass Read Online Free PDF

same as ever. There were a few more cars and the dog had disappeared and Stiffy Grant had changed his loafing place. Instead of propping up the Happy Hollow tavern, he was propping up my office.
    Or at least what had been my office. For now I knew that there was no point in waiting. I might as well go in right now and clean out my desk and lock the door behind me and take the key down to the bank. Daniel Willoughby would be fairly frosty, but I was beyond all caring about Daniel Willoughby. Sure, I owed him rent that I couldn’t pay and he probably would resent it, but there were a lot of other people in the village who owed Daniel Willoughby without much prospect of paying. That was the way he’d worked it and that was the way he had it and that was why he resented everyone. I’d rather be like myself, I thought, than like Dan Willoughby, who walked the streets each day, chewed by contempt and hatred of everyone he met.
    Under other circumstances I would have been glad to have stopped and talked a while with Stiffy Grant. He might be the village bum, but he was a friend of mine. He was always ready to go fishing and he knew all the likely places and his talk was far more interesting than you might imagine. But right now I didn’t care to talk with anyone.
    â€œHi, there, Brad,” said Stiffy, as I came up to him. “You wouldn’t happen, would you, to have a dollar on you?”
    It had been a long time since Stiffy had put the bite on me and I was surprised that he should do it now. For whatever else Stiffy Grant might be, he was a gentleman and most considerate. He never tapped anyone for money unless they could afford it. Stiffy had a ready genius for knowing exactly when and how he could safely make a touch.
    I dipped into my pocket and there was a small wad of bills and a little silver. I hauled out the little wad and peeled off a bill for him.
    â€œThank you, Brad,” he said. “I ain’t had a drink all day.”
    He tucked the dollar into the pocket of a patched and flapping vest and hobbled swiftly up the street, heading for the tavern.
    I opened the office door and stepped inside and as I shut the door behind me, the phone began to ring.
    I stood there, like a fool, rooted to the floor, staring at the phone.
    It kept on ringing, so I went and answered it.
    â€œMr. Bradshaw Carter?” asked the sweetest voice I have ever heard.
    â€œThis is he,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
    I knew that it was no one in the village, for they would have called me Brad. And, besides, there was no one I knew who had that kind of voice. It had the persuasive purr of a TV glamor girl selling soap or beauty aids, and it had, as well, that clear, bright timbre one would expect when a fairy princess spoke.
    â€œYou, perhaps, are the Mr. Bradshaw Carter whose father ran a greenhouse?”
    â€œYes, that’s right,” I said.
    â€œYou, yourself, no longer run the greenhouse?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I don’t.”
    And then the voice changed. Up till now it had been sweet and very feminine, but now it was male and businesslike. As if one person had been talking, then had gotten up and gone and an entirely different person had picked up the phone. And yet, for some crazy reason, I had the distinct impression that there had been no change of person, but just a change of voice.
    â€œWe understand,” this new voice said, “that you might be free to do some work for us.”
    â€œWhy, yes, I would,” I said. “But what is going on? Why did your voice change? Who am I talking with?”
    And it was a silly thing to ask, for no matter what my impression might have been, no human voice could have changed so completely and abruptly. It had to be two persons.
    But the question wasn’t answered.
    â€œWe have hopes,” the voice said, “that you can represent us, You have been highly recommended.”
    â€œIn what