at what I’ve got in here,” she said, “and I’ll blow you afterward?”
He looked up from his book, startled.
“Really?” he said.
“No,” Gina said, “but I’ll give you permission to imagine it after I leave.”
She smiled sweetly at him. He scowled at her, but then snapped open the case and looked inside.
“Tell me how much these stamps are worth,” Gina said. “Don’t lie to me,’ cause I’ll know it.”
He didn’t answer. He sucked in his breath and stared down at the stamps. Gina waited for him to exhale, but he didn’t. Curious, she watched as the top of his bald head started to splotch with a pinkish archipelago.
“You okay?” she said. It would be just her luck if the guy had a cardiac event before she could find a buyer for the stamps.
He exhaled finally, then looked up at her again. His bug eyes seemed like they wanted to bulge with excitement, but they were already at maximum bulge and had nowhere to go.
“These aren’t stamps,” he whispered.
GINA FOLLOWED MARVIN OATES to the back of the shop, which was even dustier than the front and cluttered with books, boxes, bags. And a NordicTrack treadmill in the corner that, Gina guessed, hadn’t seen much action.
Marvin Oates put the briefcase on a table and bent over it with a jeweler’s loupe.
“Perfect condition,” he muttered. “Astounding. I’d read about relics like this, rumors and vague conjectures and whatnot, but of course—”
“A relic?”
“A historical object of great religious significance,” he said. He gave Gina a testy glance, then quickly turned his attention back to the . . . whatever it was under glass in the briefcase. “Collected, preserved, venerated. The remains of a saint, a nail from the true cross, cloth from a burial shroud.”
“Like The Da Vinci Code ?”
He didn’t even bother with a testy glance this time. He just rolled his bug eyes, which was something to see once and then never, Gina hoped, again.
“Relics were important to the early Chris tians,” he said. “But then, during the Middle Ages, with the crusades, the acquisition and exhibition of relics turned into an all-out frenzy. They were the ultimate status symbol for the church’s elite, the bishops and cardinals and whatnot. Whose cathedral had the oldest relics? Which collection represented the most important religious figures? Who had the most fabulously bejeweled philatories?”
“Philatories?”
“A transparent reliquary.”
Gina sighed. She really didn’t have time for this. “So, excellent, they’re relics.”
She peered over his shoulder at the small squares of parchment lined up in ten neat rows of ten each. She guessed maybe they were pieces of paper torn from an old Bible or scroll. Or possibly some kind of ancient dried-out fabric sample. Whatevers. Gina’s interest in the question was close to total nada. The real question . . .
“What are the little fuckers worth?” she asked.
“Don’t you want to know what they are?”
She looked up from the briefcase to find Marvin Oates grinning at her.
Fine. If it would move things along.
“Okay.” She sighed again. “What are they?”
“Guess.”
She lifted her fist to punch him. He squeaked, cringed, and covered his face with his pudgy forearms.
“They’re foreskins!” he said.
Gina was too surprised to lower her fist. She must not have heard him correctly.
“Did you just say—”
“One hundred foreskins. Yes.”
“As in—”
“Have a look.” He angled the case toward her and handed her the loupe.
Gina debated. Mild curiosity triumphed over mild disgust. She took the loupe, wiped off any potential bug-eye juice, and pressed it to the top of the glass case.
Now that you mentioned it, the little stamp-size squares did kind of look like skin. Like the skin you peeled off your nose when you had a sunburn?
“Foreskins from babies?” she asked. “Like from a circumcision?”
“Oh, ho, ho, ho, no,” Marvin said. He seemed to be
He looked up from his book, startled.
“Really?” he said.
“No,” Gina said, “but I’ll give you permission to imagine it after I leave.”
She smiled sweetly at him. He scowled at her, but then snapped open the case and looked inside.
“Tell me how much these stamps are worth,” Gina said. “Don’t lie to me,’ cause I’ll know it.”
He didn’t answer. He sucked in his breath and stared down at the stamps. Gina waited for him to exhale, but he didn’t. Curious, she watched as the top of his bald head started to splotch with a pinkish archipelago.
“You okay?” she said. It would be just her luck if the guy had a cardiac event before she could find a buyer for the stamps.
He exhaled finally, then looked up at her again. His bug eyes seemed like they wanted to bulge with excitement, but they were already at maximum bulge and had nowhere to go.
“These aren’t stamps,” he whispered.
GINA FOLLOWED MARVIN OATES to the back of the shop, which was even dustier than the front and cluttered with books, boxes, bags. And a NordicTrack treadmill in the corner that, Gina guessed, hadn’t seen much action.
Marvin Oates put the briefcase on a table and bent over it with a jeweler’s loupe.
“Perfect condition,” he muttered. “Astounding. I’d read about relics like this, rumors and vague conjectures and whatnot, but of course—”
“A relic?”
“A historical object of great religious significance,” he said. He gave Gina a testy glance, then quickly turned his attention back to the . . . whatever it was under glass in the briefcase. “Collected, preserved, venerated. The remains of a saint, a nail from the true cross, cloth from a burial shroud.”
“Like The Da Vinci Code ?”
He didn’t even bother with a testy glance this time. He just rolled his bug eyes, which was something to see once and then never, Gina hoped, again.
“Relics were important to the early Chris tians,” he said. “But then, during the Middle Ages, with the crusades, the acquisition and exhibition of relics turned into an all-out frenzy. They were the ultimate status symbol for the church’s elite, the bishops and cardinals and whatnot. Whose cathedral had the oldest relics? Which collection represented the most important religious figures? Who had the most fabulously bejeweled philatories?”
“Philatories?”
“A transparent reliquary.”
Gina sighed. She really didn’t have time for this. “So, excellent, they’re relics.”
She peered over his shoulder at the small squares of parchment lined up in ten neat rows of ten each. She guessed maybe they were pieces of paper torn from an old Bible or scroll. Or possibly some kind of ancient dried-out fabric sample. Whatevers. Gina’s interest in the question was close to total nada. The real question . . .
“What are the little fuckers worth?” she asked.
“Don’t you want to know what they are?”
She looked up from the briefcase to find Marvin Oates grinning at her.
Fine. If it would move things along.
“Okay.” She sighed again. “What are they?”
“Guess.”
She lifted her fist to punch him. He squeaked, cringed, and covered his face with his pudgy forearms.
“They’re foreskins!” he said.
Gina was too surprised to lower her fist. She must not have heard him correctly.
“Did you just say—”
“One hundred foreskins. Yes.”
“As in—”
“Have a look.” He angled the case toward her and handed her the loupe.
Gina debated. Mild curiosity triumphed over mild disgust. She took the loupe, wiped off any potential bug-eye juice, and pressed it to the top of the glass case.
Now that you mentioned it, the little stamp-size squares did kind of look like skin. Like the skin you peeled off your nose when you had a sunburn?
“Foreskins from babies?” she asked. “Like from a circumcision?”
“Oh, ho, ho, ho, no,” Marvin said. He seemed to be
Similar Books
