Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,48
really wanted that mantel we was talking about today.”
“Well, Mr Gradie, I’d sure as hell like to buy it, but it’s a little too rich for my pocketbook.”
“Jon, you’re a good old boy. I’ll sell it to you for a hundred even.”
“Well now, sir—that’s a fair enough price, but a hundred dollars is just too much money for a fellow who has maybe ten bucks a week left to buy groceries.”
“If you really want that mantel—and I’d sure like for you to have it—I’d take seventy-five for it right now tonight.”
“Seventy-five?”
“I got to have it right now tonight. Cash.”
Mercer tried to think. He hadn’t paid rent this month. “Mr Gradie, it’s one in the morning. I don’t have seventy-five bucks in my pocket.”
“How much can you raise, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifty.”
“You bring me fifty dollars cash tonight, and take that mantel home.”
“Tonight?”
“You bring it tonight. I got to have it right now.”
“All right, Mr Gradie. See you in an hour.”
“You hurry now,” Gradie advised him. There was a clattering fumble, and on the third try he managed to hang up.
“Who was that?”
Mercer was going through his billfold. “Gradie. Drunk as a skunk. He needs liquor money, I guess. Says he’ll sell me the mantel for fifty bucks.”
“Is that a bargain?” She towelled her hair petulantly.
“He’s been asking one-fifty. I got to give him the money tonight. How much money do you have on you?”
“Jesus, you’re not going down to that place tonight?”
“By morning he may have sobered up, forgotten the whole deal.”
“Oh Jesus. You’re not going to go down there.”
Mercer was digging through the litter of his dresser for loose change. “Thirty-eight is all I’ve got on me. Can you loan me twelve?”
“All I’ve got is a ten and some change.”
“How much change? There’s a bunch of bottles in the kitchen—I can return them for the deposit. Who’s still open?”
“Hugh’s is until two Jon, we’ll be broke for the weekend. How will we get to the mountains?”
“ Ron owes us twenty for his half of the ounce. I’ll get it from him when I borrow his truck to haul the mantel. Monday I’ll dip into the rent money—we can stall.”
“You can’t get his truck until morning. Ron’s working graveyard tonight.”
“He’s off in six hours. I’ll pay Gradie now and get a receipt. I’ll pick up the mantel first thing.”
Linda rummaged through her shoulder bag. “Just don’t forget.”
“It’s probably going to rain anyway.”
•V•
The storm was holding off as Mercer loped toward Gradie’s house, but heat lightning fretted behind reefs of cloud. It was a dark night between the filtered flares of lightning, and he was very conscious that this was a bad neighborhood to be out walking in with fifty dollars in your pocket. He kept one hand shoved into his jeans pocket, closed over the double-barrelled derringer, and walked on the edge of the street, well away from the concealing mounds of kudzu. Once something scrambled noisily through the vines; startled, Mercer almost shot his foot off.
“Who’s there!” The voice was cracked with drunken fear.
“Jon Mercer, Mr Gradie! Jon Mercer!”
“Come on into the light. You bring the money?”
“Right here .” Mercer dug a crumpled wad of bills and coins from his pocket. The derringer flashed in his fist.
“Two shots, huh?” Gradie observed. “Not enough to do you much good. There’s too many of them.”
“Just having it to show has pulled me out of a couple bad moments,” Mercer explained. He dumped the money onto Gradie’s shaky palm. “That’s fifty. Better count it, and give me a receipt. I’ll be back in the morning for the mantel.”
“Take it now. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
Mercer glanced sharply at the other man. Gradie had never been known to leave his yard unattended for longer than a quick trip to the store. “I’ll need a truck. I can’t borrow the truck until in the morning.”
Gradie carelessly shoved the money into a pocket, bent over a lamplit end table to scribble out a receipt. In the dusty glare, his face was haggard with shadowy lines. DT’s, Mercer guessed: he needs money bad to buy more booze.
“This is travelling money—I’m leaving tonight.” Gradie insisted. His breath was stale with wine. “Talked to an old boy who says he’ll give me a good price for my stock. He’s coming by in the morning. You’re a good old boy, Jon—and I wanted you to have the mantel if you wanted it.”
“It’s two a.m.,” Mercer suggested carefully. “I can be here just after seven.”