transformed into a profession. Some meteorite hunters, and there were dozens of them, liked to process and market their finds. Others, Palmer among them, preferred to let someone else handle sales.
Quinton charged a 20% commission, but like many of the people in the trade, was in it for more than the money. Though too old and too arthritic to roam the world anymore, the ex-diplomat’s current role allowed him to see, touch, and yes, on occasion even taste the star stuff that passed through his hands. He enjoyed interacting with the people too. Individuals like Alexander Palmer who was both a supplier and a friend from the days when he’d been stationed in Chad.
***
Palmer opened the door and got out. He noticed that Quinton was walking with the assistance of an intricately carved cane. Quinton didn’t have much hair, but his face had an ageless quality, and the smile was genuine. A pair of glasses hung against his plaid shirt. “Alex! It’s good to see you!”
Palmer grinned. “It’s good to see you too, ambassador. That’s a nice cane.”
Quinton shook the other man’s hand. “I bought the damned thing in Chad. Thought I’d hang it on the wall. Now I have to use it. Old age sucks my friend… So enjoy what remains of your youth. That’s a nice sunburn by the way. Ever heard of sun block?”
Palmer laughed and wrapped an arm around the ex-diplomat’s shoulders. “Come on,” the older man said. “Florence spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen. We’d better get in there before we get in trouble.”
“What about the iron?”
“It’s been around for thousands of years,” Quinton replied airily. “So what’s a few more hours? Besides, taking a look at it will be like eating a second dessert…. Come, dinner awaits.”
Quinton and his wife had parted ways some 16 years earlier and, being childless, Florence Strong, and her son Luther were the only family the ex-diplomat had. Not counting some thirty North African orphans that the ex-diplomat supported from afar. So, when Quinton opened the back door and entered the kitchen, it was Florence who came to greet them. She had a halo of black hair that was shot with white, bright inquisitive eyes, and brown skin. She held out her arms. “Well, look what we have here! A skinny-assed half-burnt white boy!”
Palmer grinned and went to collect his hug. “And it’s good to see you too…. In fact you look more beautiful every time I see you.”
“That’s what all men say when you’re about to feed them,” Florence observed tartly. “The trouble starts later…. Now get into that dining room and sit down. I worked hard on this dinner and I don’t want it to get cold!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Palmer said obediently. “Can I carry something in?”
“Yes, you can. Grab that bowl of rice and those rolls. The ambassador and I will bring the rest.”
Palmer did as he was told, made his way into the richly paneled dining room, and placed the dishes on a long table. It was dark, like the woodwork, but covered with a white tablecloth. Luther had just finished setting the table. He was thirty something, and though well known to the local ladies, mysteriously single.
Some blamed Florence’s cooking for that. Others said it was a sign of the times. But the truth was simple: Luther liked working for Quinton, liked taking his boat out nearly every afternoon, and saw no reason to make life any more complicated than was necessary. He looked up and grinned. “Hey, Alex, it’s been awhile…. Did momma give you a hard time?”
Palmer shook his head. “She called me a ‘…skinny-assed half-burnt white boy.’ That’s a compliment isn’t it?”
Luther laughed. He was a big man with a big chest and a big laugh. “It sure as hell is! You oughta hear what she calls people she don’t like! Come on over and sit next to the ambassador.”
There was an audible thump as Florence made use of an ample hip to open the swinging door and entered the room with a
Quinton charged a 20% commission, but like many of the people in the trade, was in it for more than the money. Though too old and too arthritic to roam the world anymore, the ex-diplomat’s current role allowed him to see, touch, and yes, on occasion even taste the star stuff that passed through his hands. He enjoyed interacting with the people too. Individuals like Alexander Palmer who was both a supplier and a friend from the days when he’d been stationed in Chad.
***
Palmer opened the door and got out. He noticed that Quinton was walking with the assistance of an intricately carved cane. Quinton didn’t have much hair, but his face had an ageless quality, and the smile was genuine. A pair of glasses hung against his plaid shirt. “Alex! It’s good to see you!”
Palmer grinned. “It’s good to see you too, ambassador. That’s a nice cane.”
Quinton shook the other man’s hand. “I bought the damned thing in Chad. Thought I’d hang it on the wall. Now I have to use it. Old age sucks my friend… So enjoy what remains of your youth. That’s a nice sunburn by the way. Ever heard of sun block?”
Palmer laughed and wrapped an arm around the ex-diplomat’s shoulders. “Come on,” the older man said. “Florence spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen. We’d better get in there before we get in trouble.”
“What about the iron?”
“It’s been around for thousands of years,” Quinton replied airily. “So what’s a few more hours? Besides, taking a look at it will be like eating a second dessert…. Come, dinner awaits.”
Quinton and his wife had parted ways some 16 years earlier and, being childless, Florence Strong, and her son Luther were the only family the ex-diplomat had. Not counting some thirty North African orphans that the ex-diplomat supported from afar. So, when Quinton opened the back door and entered the kitchen, it was Florence who came to greet them. She had a halo of black hair that was shot with white, bright inquisitive eyes, and brown skin. She held out her arms. “Well, look what we have here! A skinny-assed half-burnt white boy!”
Palmer grinned and went to collect his hug. “And it’s good to see you too…. In fact you look more beautiful every time I see you.”
“That’s what all men say when you’re about to feed them,” Florence observed tartly. “The trouble starts later…. Now get into that dining room and sit down. I worked hard on this dinner and I don’t want it to get cold!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Palmer said obediently. “Can I carry something in?”
“Yes, you can. Grab that bowl of rice and those rolls. The ambassador and I will bring the rest.”
Palmer did as he was told, made his way into the richly paneled dining room, and placed the dishes on a long table. It was dark, like the woodwork, but covered with a white tablecloth. Luther had just finished setting the table. He was thirty something, and though well known to the local ladies, mysteriously single.
Some blamed Florence’s cooking for that. Others said it was a sign of the times. But the truth was simple: Luther liked working for Quinton, liked taking his boat out nearly every afternoon, and saw no reason to make life any more complicated than was necessary. He looked up and grinned. “Hey, Alex, it’s been awhile…. Did momma give you a hard time?”
Palmer shook his head. “She called me a ‘…skinny-assed half-burnt white boy.’ That’s a compliment isn’t it?”
Luther laughed. He was a big man with a big chest and a big laugh. “It sure as hell is! You oughta hear what she calls people she don’t like! Come on over and sit next to the ambassador.”
There was an audible thump as Florence made use of an ample hip to open the swinging door and entered the room with a
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