handle the deal by himself—and Winfield wasn't interested in computer parts. "Gotta bring in a partner on this one," Bobby said when the price was agreed upon. "Would you excuse me while I attempt to make a phone call?"
Winfield and I went outside. Winfield still clutched the peanut butter jar. The ride over seemed to have sobered him up a little, but not enough to carry on a coherent conversation with me. He shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "England," he muttered.
Bobby came out a couple of minutes later. "All set, gentlemen. My partner is as interested as I am. Will tomorrow at three be convenient?"
"Sure, sure," Winfield replied.
"Wonderful." We all went back inside and sat down. Bobby opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch and a couple of greasy glasses. "Shall we have a drink to conclude the negotiations?"
Winfield perked up. "Sounds good to me."
Bobby poured a couple of ounces into each glass and passed one to Winfield. Bobby held his up in the air for a toast. "To friendship," he said.
"To England," Winfield said.
Bobby forced a smile and downed the Scotch. He shook his head. "They don't make this stuff like they used to," he complained.
Winfield finished off his drink. "It does the job, right?"
"That's certainly true. Care for another?"
"Don't mind if I do."
That was my cue to leave. I stood up. "I guess you people don't need me anymore."
Winfield looked at me, bleary-eyed. "You're goin' to England, Sands. Don't you wanna celebrate?"
"I guess not."
"Mr. Sands is the best non-drinking private investigator in the city," Bobby said. "You want Mickey to drive you home, Mr. Sands?"
"Nah. The weather's so invigorating, I think I'll walk."
"Come get me tomorrow," Winfield ordered.
"Yes, boss." I gave the two celebrants a wave, then walked off toward Louisburg Square, alone.
Chapter 14
I took my time—savoring my success, but mostly dreading the moment when I would have to tell my little family about it. That wasn't going to be easy.
I wandered through the city, steeling myself for the task. But maybe wandering wasn't a good idea. Wandering brought memories, and memories always confuse things.
Gwen and I had already moved in when we found the cardboard sign, which had fallen off the door and lay facedown amid rotting leaves on the front steps. "Property of Charles T. Moseby," it said in rain-streaked letters. "He Will Return." Well, property rights were somewhat illusory back then (still are, really); if Charles T. Moseby wasn't there, it wasn't really his. Gwen was frightened, imagining some stealthy creature pressing a gun to her temple in the middle of the night, but I was inclined to stay. People were always leaving places and planning to come back; they never did. And I liked the town house, liked the statue of Christopher Columbus outside, liked the cartons of books in the attic. We stayed.
Mr. Moseby returned several months later. It was a beautiful early fall evening, and we were sitting on the steps, enjoying the last of the good weather. He walked to the foot of the steps and stared at us. "This is my home," he said forcefully, like a bureaucrat sure of his rules. "You'll have to leave."
We stared back. It was hard not to. He was wearing a filthy brown pinstriped suit, a white shirt, and a paisley tie. He carried a battered, bulging briefcase. He fit my image of a traveling salesman—except that there were no traveling salesmen in our world.
And he looked like he was about nine years old.
There were enough dwarfs around, of course, that his size didn't shock us. It was hard to know what to make of the suit and tie, though. "Could we maybe talk about this?" I asked.
"There's nothing to talk about. You're trespassing."
"The laws nowadays are a bit vague on the subject of trespassing," I pointed out.
"There is a moral law. The moral law hasn't changed."
"You look hot and tired," Gwen said. "Would you like a glass of cider and something to
Winfield and I went outside. Winfield still clutched the peanut butter jar. The ride over seemed to have sobered him up a little, but not enough to carry on a coherent conversation with me. He shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "England," he muttered.
Bobby came out a couple of minutes later. "All set, gentlemen. My partner is as interested as I am. Will tomorrow at three be convenient?"
"Sure, sure," Winfield replied.
"Wonderful." We all went back inside and sat down. Bobby opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch and a couple of greasy glasses. "Shall we have a drink to conclude the negotiations?"
Winfield perked up. "Sounds good to me."
Bobby poured a couple of ounces into each glass and passed one to Winfield. Bobby held his up in the air for a toast. "To friendship," he said.
"To England," Winfield said.
Bobby forced a smile and downed the Scotch. He shook his head. "They don't make this stuff like they used to," he complained.
Winfield finished off his drink. "It does the job, right?"
"That's certainly true. Care for another?"
"Don't mind if I do."
That was my cue to leave. I stood up. "I guess you people don't need me anymore."
Winfield looked at me, bleary-eyed. "You're goin' to England, Sands. Don't you wanna celebrate?"
"I guess not."
"Mr. Sands is the best non-drinking private investigator in the city," Bobby said. "You want Mickey to drive you home, Mr. Sands?"
"Nah. The weather's so invigorating, I think I'll walk."
"Come get me tomorrow," Winfield ordered.
"Yes, boss." I gave the two celebrants a wave, then walked off toward Louisburg Square, alone.
Chapter 14
I took my time—savoring my success, but mostly dreading the moment when I would have to tell my little family about it. That wasn't going to be easy.
I wandered through the city, steeling myself for the task. But maybe wandering wasn't a good idea. Wandering brought memories, and memories always confuse things.
Gwen and I had already moved in when we found the cardboard sign, which had fallen off the door and lay facedown amid rotting leaves on the front steps. "Property of Charles T. Moseby," it said in rain-streaked letters. "He Will Return." Well, property rights were somewhat illusory back then (still are, really); if Charles T. Moseby wasn't there, it wasn't really his. Gwen was frightened, imagining some stealthy creature pressing a gun to her temple in the middle of the night, but I was inclined to stay. People were always leaving places and planning to come back; they never did. And I liked the town house, liked the statue of Christopher Columbus outside, liked the cartons of books in the attic. We stayed.
Mr. Moseby returned several months later. It was a beautiful early fall evening, and we were sitting on the steps, enjoying the last of the good weather. He walked to the foot of the steps and stared at us. "This is my home," he said forcefully, like a bureaucrat sure of his rules. "You'll have to leave."
We stared back. It was hard not to. He was wearing a filthy brown pinstriped suit, a white shirt, and a paisley tie. He carried a battered, bulging briefcase. He fit my image of a traveling salesman—except that there were no traveling salesmen in our world.
And he looked like he was about nine years old.
There were enough dwarfs around, of course, that his size didn't shock us. It was hard to know what to make of the suit and tie, though. "Could we maybe talk about this?" I asked.
"There's nothing to talk about. You're trespassing."
"The laws nowadays are a bit vague on the subject of trespassing," I pointed out.
"There is a moral law. The moral law hasn't changed."
"You look hot and tired," Gwen said. "Would you like a glass of cider and something to
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