cheerful redhead named Doris Jennings and a sallow and mocking blonde named Freddy Ellis. One Lawless daughter was there, introduced as Lynn. She looked familiar, and I suddenly remembered where I had seen her.
"Nice going, tiger," I said to her.
"For what?" she said, looking at me with that apathy they reserve for ancient male strangers.
"For whipping Miss Languid in the salmon dress over at the North Bay Resort courts. She wouldn't shake hands on it, I noticed."
She gave me a quick, warning wink. "Thanks. That was Sandra Ellis. I never beat her before."
Freddy Ellis said, "Hey. You mean my snitty little daughter lost ungraciously?"
"I didn't mind, honest," Lynn said.
"I mind," Freddy said ominously.
Doris Jennings asked me if I would be willing to look at the prices they had put on Hub's possessions and see if they were out of line. She said she had gotten advice from the sporting-goods stores which had sold him a lot of the things. They were arranged on display in the nearest stall of the garage.
I moved slowly and carefully past Hubbard Lawless's golf clubs, golf cart, tennis equipment, bowling ball and bowling shoes, shotguns, rifles, target pistol, fly rods, spinning rods, surf rods, tuna rods, reels and reel cases, boxes of lures, boxes of flies, weights, punching bag, Nikon cameras, lenses, lens cases, strobe lights, tripods, slide boxes, slide projectors, movie cameras, movie projectors, light stands, ten-speed tour bike, binoculars, sheath knives ...
The man liked nice things, and he kept them in good shape. He didn't buy things and put them Page 36
away. They showed signs of wear and signs of care.
A splendid custom shotgun caught my eye. It was in a fitted pigskin case, with an extra set of side-byside barrels. Spanish walnut stock. Initials inlaid in gold. H.R.L. Beavertail forearm.
Single nonselective trigger. Ventilated rib. English scroll engraving on white steel. It was Orvis Custom, built to Hub Lawless's physical dimensions, and I knew it had to represent a minimum three-thousand-dollar investment. A dandy toy for a grown-up boy. It was priced to move at five hundred. I assembled it and tried it. The drop at the comb and the heel was wrong, trigger distance wrong. And the initials were wrong. A man the same size as Hub Lawless could find a great bargain here.
I moved along and then went back to the billfish tackle, and fended off a lust to buy some of it.
The man had good taste in equipment.
"Well?" Julia asked.
"You got good advice. The prices of the things I know about are in line. Fair for the buyer and the seller."
"He never stinted himself," she said flatly. "Good old Hub. The best was just barely good enough."
"Mother!" Lynn said, defending the beloved daddy.
"Sorry, chick," Julia said, reaching to ruffle the girl's hair. "Thanks for easing my mind about the prices. They seemed kind of low. I know what he paid for some of those things."
"I know nothing about golf equipment or bicycles."
"Oh, those prices are okay. I didn't know about the outdoor jock stuff."
The next stall of the garage was filled with standard garage-sale household items, Julia's and also items brought over by Doris Jennings and Freddy Ellis, for a joint effort. It was a predictable array: Cribs and high chairs. Ornate beer steins and souvenir plates. Bonus books from book clubs. Floor lamps and suitcases. Rotisseries and bulletin boards. Tricycles and feather headdresses. End tables and tablecloths. On being pressed, I said it looked as if they had a lot of good stuff there.
Finally, as a reward for my patience and help, and for having known her father, she took me back into the living room for the obligatory conversation.
She sat curled in a corner of a large couch. I sat across from her, with a glass coffee table between us.
"It's so damned depressing," she said. "I've still not tackled his dressing room. I've got to get rid of all that stuff. Goodwill, I guess. Or the Salvation Army or somebody."
"A lot
"Nice going, tiger," I said to her.
"For what?" she said, looking at me with that apathy they reserve for ancient male strangers.
"For whipping Miss Languid in the salmon dress over at the North Bay Resort courts. She wouldn't shake hands on it, I noticed."
She gave me a quick, warning wink. "Thanks. That was Sandra Ellis. I never beat her before."
Freddy Ellis said, "Hey. You mean my snitty little daughter lost ungraciously?"
"I didn't mind, honest," Lynn said.
"I mind," Freddy said ominously.
Doris Jennings asked me if I would be willing to look at the prices they had put on Hub's possessions and see if they were out of line. She said she had gotten advice from the sporting-goods stores which had sold him a lot of the things. They were arranged on display in the nearest stall of the garage.
I moved slowly and carefully past Hubbard Lawless's golf clubs, golf cart, tennis equipment, bowling ball and bowling shoes, shotguns, rifles, target pistol, fly rods, spinning rods, surf rods, tuna rods, reels and reel cases, boxes of lures, boxes of flies, weights, punching bag, Nikon cameras, lenses, lens cases, strobe lights, tripods, slide boxes, slide projectors, movie cameras, movie projectors, light stands, ten-speed tour bike, binoculars, sheath knives ...
The man liked nice things, and he kept them in good shape. He didn't buy things and put them Page 36
away. They showed signs of wear and signs of care.
A splendid custom shotgun caught my eye. It was in a fitted pigskin case, with an extra set of side-byside barrels. Spanish walnut stock. Initials inlaid in gold. H.R.L. Beavertail forearm.
Single nonselective trigger. Ventilated rib. English scroll engraving on white steel. It was Orvis Custom, built to Hub Lawless's physical dimensions, and I knew it had to represent a minimum three-thousand-dollar investment. A dandy toy for a grown-up boy. It was priced to move at five hundred. I assembled it and tried it. The drop at the comb and the heel was wrong, trigger distance wrong. And the initials were wrong. A man the same size as Hub Lawless could find a great bargain here.
I moved along and then went back to the billfish tackle, and fended off a lust to buy some of it.
The man had good taste in equipment.
"Well?" Julia asked.
"You got good advice. The prices of the things I know about are in line. Fair for the buyer and the seller."
"He never stinted himself," she said flatly. "Good old Hub. The best was just barely good enough."
"Mother!" Lynn said, defending the beloved daddy.
"Sorry, chick," Julia said, reaching to ruffle the girl's hair. "Thanks for easing my mind about the prices. They seemed kind of low. I know what he paid for some of those things."
"I know nothing about golf equipment or bicycles."
"Oh, those prices are okay. I didn't know about the outdoor jock stuff."
The next stall of the garage was filled with standard garage-sale household items, Julia's and also items brought over by Doris Jennings and Freddy Ellis, for a joint effort. It was a predictable array: Cribs and high chairs. Ornate beer steins and souvenir plates. Bonus books from book clubs. Floor lamps and suitcases. Rotisseries and bulletin boards. Tricycles and feather headdresses. End tables and tablecloths. On being pressed, I said it looked as if they had a lot of good stuff there.
Finally, as a reward for my patience and help, and for having known her father, she took me back into the living room for the obligatory conversation.
She sat curled in a corner of a large couch. I sat across from her, with a glass coffee table between us.
"It's so damned depressing," she said. "I've still not tackled his dressing room. I've got to get rid of all that stuff. Goodwill, I guess. Or the Salvation Army or somebody."
"A lot
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