huge platter of crusty brown pan-fried sole. She place the dish on the table, checked to ensure that everything was as it should be, and took the chair to Quinton’s right.
All three of the men waited for Florence to sit before taking their own seats and bowed their heads while she said grace. Then, at her urging, platters of food started to make the rounds. Palmer made note of the fact that there weren’t any wine glasses and knew it was because of him. He felt a strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment as Quinton raised his coffee cup. “To an old friend just returned… It’s good to have him back.”
The others raised their cups as well and the meal began in earnest. The food was excellent, Quinton told some of his well rehearsed stories, Luther shared a hilarious fishing adventure, and Florence reported on the latest shenanigans at her church. Time passed quickly. Finally, as Florence attempted to serve him a
second
piece of key lime pie, Palmer held up his hands in surrender. “Stop! I’ll explode.”
Florence sniffed disapprovingly, took what remained of the pie, and disappeared into the kitchen. Quinton grinned and made use of a linen napkin to dab at his lips. “Alex? Luther? Shall we retire to the shop?”
The men showered Florence with compliments as they passed through the kitchen and out into the coolness of the night. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Muted
reggae
could be heard from next door—and a plane roared over on its way to the airport. “So,” the ex-diplomat said, as he put his glasses on. “Let’s have a look at her.”
Palmer opened the back of the van, an interior light came on, and Quinton peered inside. The wooden crate was a three-foot square cube. “It looks like we’ll need the fork lift Luther…that sucker’s got to be heavy.”
“About 986 pounds,” Palmer confirmed, “give or take a few ounces. I spent $10,000 just to get it here.”
“But well worth the effort,” Quinton replied contentedly as he placed both hands on his cane. “Even after taxes, expenses, and my exorbitant fee you should clear $250,000. Not bad for a few weeks work.”
The geologist flashed back to the loud whup, whup, whup of the EC 135’s rotors as Jann tried to close with him before he could fire the missile. Had it been worth it? He wasn’t sure. But the money would be nice. Even after he paid Guiscard for the loss of the Volvo, damage to the Mog, and the finder’s fee he had promised.
There was a loud whir as Luther approached driving a yellow fork lift. “I got it used,” Quinton explained. “It sure beats trying to muscle one of those things into the workshop.”
Palmer nodded in agreement as Luther slipped the forks under the crate, lifted it off the floor of the van, and started to back away. The Clubwagon gave a sigh of relief as it rose on its springs.
The work shop had been improved since Palmer’s last visit and looked very professional. A custom-made heavy-duty steel table occupied the center of the well organized space. The top measured 4 X 4 feet and stood 3 feet off the concrete floor. Industrial strength castors supported each leg allowing the ex-diplomat to move the heavily loaded stand wherever he chose. Four fully adjustable lights hung from the ceiling above. “That table can support up to 2,000 pounds,” Quinton said proudly. “Which should be more than sufficient for the task at hand.”
Palmer had to agree as the motor whirred, the forklift’s tires squeaked on the concrete floor, and Luther lowered the crate into place.
“Now for the fun part,” Quinton said, as he placed his cane on the steel table. Palmer hurried to help as the older man limped over to a roll-around tool chest but was rebuffed as Quinton opened a drawer and selected a hammer plus crow bar. “First Florence…now
you.
I can still walk across the shop thank god.”
Palmer waited while the older man used the hammer to drive the pry bar into a joint, pried a piece of wood free, and
All three of the men waited for Florence to sit before taking their own seats and bowed their heads while she said grace. Then, at her urging, platters of food started to make the rounds. Palmer made note of the fact that there weren’t any wine glasses and knew it was because of him. He felt a strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment as Quinton raised his coffee cup. “To an old friend just returned… It’s good to have him back.”
The others raised their cups as well and the meal began in earnest. The food was excellent, Quinton told some of his well rehearsed stories, Luther shared a hilarious fishing adventure, and Florence reported on the latest shenanigans at her church. Time passed quickly. Finally, as Florence attempted to serve him a
second
piece of key lime pie, Palmer held up his hands in surrender. “Stop! I’ll explode.”
Florence sniffed disapprovingly, took what remained of the pie, and disappeared into the kitchen. Quinton grinned and made use of a linen napkin to dab at his lips. “Alex? Luther? Shall we retire to the shop?”
The men showered Florence with compliments as they passed through the kitchen and out into the coolness of the night. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Muted
reggae
could be heard from next door—and a plane roared over on its way to the airport. “So,” the ex-diplomat said, as he put his glasses on. “Let’s have a look at her.”
Palmer opened the back of the van, an interior light came on, and Quinton peered inside. The wooden crate was a three-foot square cube. “It looks like we’ll need the fork lift Luther…that sucker’s got to be heavy.”
“About 986 pounds,” Palmer confirmed, “give or take a few ounces. I spent $10,000 just to get it here.”
“But well worth the effort,” Quinton replied contentedly as he placed both hands on his cane. “Even after taxes, expenses, and my exorbitant fee you should clear $250,000. Not bad for a few weeks work.”
The geologist flashed back to the loud whup, whup, whup of the EC 135’s rotors as Jann tried to close with him before he could fire the missile. Had it been worth it? He wasn’t sure. But the money would be nice. Even after he paid Guiscard for the loss of the Volvo, damage to the Mog, and the finder’s fee he had promised.
There was a loud whir as Luther approached driving a yellow fork lift. “I got it used,” Quinton explained. “It sure beats trying to muscle one of those things into the workshop.”
Palmer nodded in agreement as Luther slipped the forks under the crate, lifted it off the floor of the van, and started to back away. The Clubwagon gave a sigh of relief as it rose on its springs.
The work shop had been improved since Palmer’s last visit and looked very professional. A custom-made heavy-duty steel table occupied the center of the well organized space. The top measured 4 X 4 feet and stood 3 feet off the concrete floor. Industrial strength castors supported each leg allowing the ex-diplomat to move the heavily loaded stand wherever he chose. Four fully adjustable lights hung from the ceiling above. “That table can support up to 2,000 pounds,” Quinton said proudly. “Which should be more than sufficient for the task at hand.”
Palmer had to agree as the motor whirred, the forklift’s tires squeaked on the concrete floor, and Luther lowered the crate into place.
“Now for the fun part,” Quinton said, as he placed his cane on the steel table. Palmer hurried to help as the older man limped over to a roll-around tool chest but was rebuffed as Quinton opened a drawer and selected a hammer plus crow bar. “First Florence…now
you.
I can still walk across the shop thank god.”
Palmer waited while the older man used the hammer to drive the pry bar into a joint, pried a piece of wood free, and
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