and my fingers know her so well I could play an air upon her in the dark. Where will I find another that sounds so fine? A thousand dollars is good money, but this is my livelihood. Not a thousand dollars, not for five thousand.”
“Mine host sees his profits shrinking, but this is business, and you must spend money to make money. ‘Eight thousand dollars,’ he says. ‘It’s not worth that, but I’ve taken a fancy to it, and I do love and indulge my niece.’
“Abraham is almost in tears at the thought of losing his beloved fiddle, but how can he say no to eight thousand dollars?—especially when mine host goes to the wall safe, and removes not eight but nine thousand dollars, all neatly banded and ready to be slipped into the fiddle player’s threadbare pocket. ‘You’re a good man,’ he tells his host. ‘You’re a saint! But you must swear to take care of my girl!’ and, reluctantly, he hands over his violin.”
“But what if mine host simply hands over Barrington’s card and tells Abraham that he’s come into some good fortune?” asked Shadow.
“Then we’re out the cost of two dinners,” said Wednesday. He wiped the remaining gravy and leftovers from his plate with a slice of bread, which he ate with lip-smacking relish.
“Let me see if I’ve got it straight,” said Shadow. “So Abraham leaves, nine thousand dollars the richer, and in the parking lot by the train station he and Barrington meet up. They split the money, get into Barrington’s Model A Ford and head for the next town. I guess in the trunk of that car they must have a box filled with hundred-dollar violins.”
“I personally made it a point of honor never to pay more than five dollars for any of them,” said Wednesday. Then he turned to the hovering waitress. “Now, my dear, regale us with your description of the sumptuous desserts available to us on this, our Lord’s natal day.” He stared at her—it was almost a leer—as if nothing that she could offer him would be as toothsome a morsel as herself. Shadow felt deeply uncomfortable: it was like watching an old wolf stalking a fawn too young to know that if it did not run, and run now, it would wind up in a distant glade with its bones picked clean by the ravens.
The girl blushed once more and told them that dessert was apple pie, apple pie à la mode—“That’s with a scoop of vanilla ice cream”—Christmas Cake, Christmas Cake à la mode, or a red and green whipped pudding. Wednesday stared into her eyes and told her that he would try the Christmas Cake à la mode. Shadow passed.
“Now, as grifts go,” said Wednesday, “the Fiddle Game goes back three hundred years or more. And if you pick your chicken correctly you could still play it tomorrow anywhere in America.”
“I thought you said that your favorite grift was no longer practical,” said Shadow.
“I did indeed. However, that is not my favorite. It was fine and enjoyable, but not my favorite. No, my favorite was one they called the Bishop Game. It had everything: excitement, subterfuge, portability, surprise. Perhaps, I think from time to time, perhaps with a little modification, it might…” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Its time has passed. It is, let us say, 1920, in a city of medium to large size—Chicago, perhaps, or New York, or Philadelphia. We are in a jeweler’s emporium. A man dressed as a clergyman—and not just any clergyman, but a bishop, in his purple—enters and picks out a necklace, a gorgeous and glorious confection of diamonds and pearls, and pays for it with a dozen of the crispest hundred-dollar bills.
“There’s a smudge of green ink on the topmost bill and the store owner, apologetically but firmly, sends the stack of bills to the bank on the corner to be checked. Soon enough, the store clerk returns with the bills. The bank says they are none of them counterfeit. The owner apologizes again, and the bishop is most gracious, he well understands the problem, there are such lawless and ungodly types in the world today, such immorality and lewdness abroad in the world—and shameless women, and now that the underworld has crawled out of the gutter and come to live on the screens of the picture palaces what more could anyone expect? And the necklace is placed in its case, and the store owner does