Characters in Quitters, Inc.

He folded his hands. “Your son, Alvin Dawes Morrison, is in the Paterson School for Handicapped Children. Born with cranial brain damage. Tested IQ of 46. Not quite in the educable retarded category. Your wife—” “How did you find that out?” Morrison barked. He was startled and angry.

Bobby Crager dropped by my office one day and gave me a fatherly little pep talk. Do you remember what those are like?” “Yeah.” He had worked at Crager and Barton for eighteen months before joining the Morton Agency. “Get your butt in gear or get your butt out.”

… Forty-sixth Street was only two blocks over; it was a cool, sunny October day outside, and maybe, just for chuckles— When Henry brought his change, he finished his drink and then went for a walk. Quitters, Inc., was in a new building where the monthly rent on office space was …

“An old school friend. James McCann.” “Very good. Will you have a seat? It's been a very busy day.” “All right.” He sat between the woman, who was wearing a severe blue suit, and a young executive type wearing a herringbone jacket and modish sideburns.

Well, let's get it over with. It really was a very small slip. I believe thirty seconds should be enough. Junk?” Junk pressed the button with one hand and kept the pistol jammed firmly into Morrison's back with the other. It was the longest thirty seconds of his life.

“Lucinda Morrison. Her maiden name was Ramsey.” “Do you love her?” Morrison looked up sharply, but Donatti was looking at him blandly. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Have you ever had marital problems? A separation, perhaps?” “What has that got to do with kicking the habit?” Morrison asked.

Mort “Three-Fingers” Minelli had been a heavy smoker —up in the three-pack-a-day range. The paper he was holding in the picture was a doctor's diagnosis: lung cancer.

“What is your name, sir?” “Richard Morrison.” Clack-clackety-clack. But very muted clacks; the typewriter was an IBM. “Your address?” “Twenty-nine Maple Lane, Clinton, New York.” “Married?” “Yes.” “Children?” “One.” He thought of Alvin and frowned slightly. “One” was the wrong word. “A half” might be better.

“Sure,” he said, and gulped at his drink when it came. “I wasn't in very good shape,” McCann said. “Personal problems with Sharon, my dad died—heart attack—and I'd developed this hacking cough. Bobby Crager dropped by my office one day and gave me a fatherly little pep talk.

10017 1 Treatment $2500.00 Counselor (Victor Donatti) $2500.00 Electricity $ .50 TOTAL (Please pay this amount $5000.50 Those sons of bitches! he explodes. They charged me for the electricity they used to . . . to . . . Just pay it. she says, and kisses him.