The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) by Vin Suprynowicz Page B
Authors: Vin Suprynowicz
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recommend a reasonable budget for an important acquisition, and some ambitious youngster with an eyeshade asks ‘Why so much? We have eager young men who can act boldly and get it for less.’ You try to explain this may work three times out of four, but the fourth time your eager young men will rush in and make a mistake, then panic and make more mistakes. And mistakes can be costly, in addition to attracting so much unwanted attention, leaving more responsible parties to get things . . . untangled.”
“Good help is so hard to find.”
“You understand completely,” said the man in the black cape, gesturing with both hands and possibly quoting Nazorine the baker, from the opening scene of The Godfather .
C HAPTER F IVE
STILL WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Skeezix brought in two — not three — 9 mm brass cartridge cases from his hands-and-knees search of the front lawn, apologizing that the third had not shown up. Both Tabbyhunter and Mr. Cuddles had stayed close to him, helping with the search except when it became necessary to deal with some moth or other bug, which of course took precedence.
“That’s fine, Skeezix. It’s been six days. A piece of brass can roll into a hole, a blue jay can carry it off.” He examined the rims closely. They were stamped “Fiocchi.” “You did fine, Skeezer, I appreciate the help. Chantal?”
“Yes?”
“Fiocchi is Italian ammunition?”
“Italian owned.”
“Sold in this country?”
“Most of what they sell here is made here, in Missouri, except for the .22 rimfire.”
So the brand wasn’t proof of foreign origin. But still suggestive.
Matthew gave Skeezix a smile and a nod. Marian was waiting for him, though.
“Skeezix, have you been sharing the people food with the cats again?”
“Would I do that?”
“You’re welcome to the food in the kitchen. The people food. And you’re welcome to feed the cats their cat food.”
“Out of milk.”
“Well for heaven’s sake, go buy milk. Just add it to your weekly accounting, so we’ll know where the money went. Not that they should really have a lot of milk, it gives them diarrhea. But we use it, too; just buy the stuff without the Bovine Growth Hormone, right? No RBGH. Check the label.”
“And tuna fish?”
“Albacore only for your lunch, Skeezix. The Solid Gold cat food is top notch, nutritionally balanced, not that awful supermarket stuff that’s mostly GMO corn. It’s already a big budget item for us, and they’re doing fine on it, so they do not need to share your fancy white, OK? Skeezix?”
“How about the juice?”
Marian looked skyward, praying for patience. “You can give them the juice. Only the juice.”
“OK.”
A broad brown woman who hadn’t gotten enough protein as a child to properly grow her long bones — one of those dwarf people who it was Politically Incorrect to call “illegal immigrants” precisely because they were illegal immigrants — waddled up to Matthew, ready to pick a fight.
“How much this book?”
“It’s marked in pencil on the front endpaper. See? Twenty-seven fifty.”
“But thass more than he cost when he wass new,” said the hefty dwarf, showing Matthew the price printed on the front flap.
“Yes, ma’am. Back in the 1950s this book sold for $4.95. Now it’s a somewhat hard-to-find first edition in dust jacket in collectible condition that sells for twenty-seven dollars. I’ll also give you a couple of bucks each for any 1955 silver quarter-dollars you can produce. A shame what they’ve done to the dollar, isn’t it?”
“But thass more than when the book wass new.”
“We’ve established that, ma’am, yes, thass more than when he wass new.”
“So I get him for the lower price, right?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not going to take scissors and mutilate every dust jacket in the store to spare you confusion. In 1939, first editions of For Whom the Bell Tolls sold for two dollars and seventy-five cents. I wish grandpa had stocked up, because
“Good help is so hard to find.”
“You understand completely,” said the man in the black cape, gesturing with both hands and possibly quoting Nazorine the baker, from the opening scene of The Godfather .
C HAPTER F IVE
STILL WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Skeezix brought in two — not three — 9 mm brass cartridge cases from his hands-and-knees search of the front lawn, apologizing that the third had not shown up. Both Tabbyhunter and Mr. Cuddles had stayed close to him, helping with the search except when it became necessary to deal with some moth or other bug, which of course took precedence.
“That’s fine, Skeezix. It’s been six days. A piece of brass can roll into a hole, a blue jay can carry it off.” He examined the rims closely. They were stamped “Fiocchi.” “You did fine, Skeezer, I appreciate the help. Chantal?”
“Yes?”
“Fiocchi is Italian ammunition?”
“Italian owned.”
“Sold in this country?”
“Most of what they sell here is made here, in Missouri, except for the .22 rimfire.”
So the brand wasn’t proof of foreign origin. But still suggestive.
Matthew gave Skeezix a smile and a nod. Marian was waiting for him, though.
“Skeezix, have you been sharing the people food with the cats again?”
“Would I do that?”
“You’re welcome to the food in the kitchen. The people food. And you’re welcome to feed the cats their cat food.”
“Out of milk.”
“Well for heaven’s sake, go buy milk. Just add it to your weekly accounting, so we’ll know where the money went. Not that they should really have a lot of milk, it gives them diarrhea. But we use it, too; just buy the stuff without the Bovine Growth Hormone, right? No RBGH. Check the label.”
“And tuna fish?”
“Albacore only for your lunch, Skeezix. The Solid Gold cat food is top notch, nutritionally balanced, not that awful supermarket stuff that’s mostly GMO corn. It’s already a big budget item for us, and they’re doing fine on it, so they do not need to share your fancy white, OK? Skeezix?”
“How about the juice?”
Marian looked skyward, praying for patience. “You can give them the juice. Only the juice.”
“OK.”
A broad brown woman who hadn’t gotten enough protein as a child to properly grow her long bones — one of those dwarf people who it was Politically Incorrect to call “illegal immigrants” precisely because they were illegal immigrants — waddled up to Matthew, ready to pick a fight.
“How much this book?”
“It’s marked in pencil on the front endpaper. See? Twenty-seven fifty.”
“But thass more than he cost when he wass new,” said the hefty dwarf, showing Matthew the price printed on the front flap.
“Yes, ma’am. Back in the 1950s this book sold for $4.95. Now it’s a somewhat hard-to-find first edition in dust jacket in collectible condition that sells for twenty-seven dollars. I’ll also give you a couple of bucks each for any 1955 silver quarter-dollars you can produce. A shame what they’ve done to the dollar, isn’t it?”
“But thass more than when the book wass new.”
“We’ve established that, ma’am, yes, thass more than when he wass new.”
“So I get him for the lower price, right?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not going to take scissors and mutilate every dust jacket in the store to spare you confusion. In 1939, first editions of For Whom the Bell Tolls sold for two dollars and seventy-five cents. I wish grandpa had stocked up, because
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