Night Relics Read Free Page A

customers.
    That kind of attention to cleanliness and detail was why the place was in the shape it was in. That would be a selling point.
    “I’d miss a television if I lived out here,” he said, watching Ackroyd prepare sandwiches in the kitchen. The old man moved
    slowly and methodically. Surprisingly, he had offered Pomeroy something to eat, for no reason at all—a sandwich, even though
    it was only eight-thirty, more like time for breakfast. Still, that was real hospitality, and Pomeroy made a mental note to
    that effect. Recalling it later in conversation could be impressive. Hewas a man who appreciated a good deed, regardless of the time of day….
    “Don’t you miss television sometimes? On a rainy afternoon with nothing to do, say?”
    “Never had a television,” Ackroyd said. “I don’t have anything against them, I just never got the habit, living out here.”
    “It’s the old movies I’d miss—Judy Garland, Maureen O’Sullivan, Laurel and Hardy. I saw a great one just last night—
Going My Way,
with Bing Crosby. Have you seen it?”
    “At the old Gem Theatre in Garden Grove. That must have been upwards of forty years ago now.”
    “How about when the old lady comes in at the end? If that didn’t bring tears to your eyes …”
    “Shameless,” Ackroyd said, “but effective.”
    “Der Bingle,” Pomeroy said, sighing.
    “Yes indeed.”
    “That’s what they called Bing, people who knew him.”
    “Ah,” Ackroyd said.
    “Der Bingle. It’s German, I guess.”
    “Sounds distinctly German, doesn’t it? Lettuce?”
    “You don’t mind washing it pretty well, do you? I’m not tolerant of insecticides.”
    Pomeroy looked around the living room, calculating the square footage. “Ever think of moving the hot-water heater out of the
    kitchen?” he asked. “That would be a selling point, moving it outside.”
    “Is that right?” Ackroyd said, running the lettuce under the tap. “You wouldn’t think something that simple …”
    “No, I’m serious. Just a couple of changes would make all the difference in the world. I’m talking a few hundred bucks. Wall-to-wall
    carpeting, maybe, and white paint on the woodwork. This place wouldn’t last on the market a week with upgrades like that.”
    A coughing noise came from the faucet, as if there wereair in the lines. Pomeroy grimaced. “Where do you get your water?” he asked.
    “Spring up the hill, mostly. Late in the season or in drought years I draft it from the creek.”
    “From the
creek
?”
Pomeroy could see through the window that the property behind the house rose steeply up the hillside. It was green with undergrowth,
    most of it shaded by live oak and sycamore and maple. A water tank, maybe a thousand gallons, sat at the end of a dirt path
    a hundred feet up the hill. “Must be tough out here—pretty primitive for year-round living.”
    “It’s all I know.”
    “I’d like a place like this for a weekend getaway. Bottled water all the way. What do you think you’d need out of it?”
    “I’ve always gotten what I need out of it.”
    “I mean seriously. What kind of offer would I have to make?”
    “I wouldn’t sell it.” Ackroyd laid the sandwiches on plates along with two variety-pack bags of potato chips. He poured iced
    tea out of a big jar into glasses and carried all of it out to the dining room table.
    “Well, like I said out on the porch before we got to talking,” Pomeroy said, “I’d like to make you an offer.”
    “I’m afraid it’s a waste of time. Napkin?”
    “Thanks.” Pomeroy took a paper napkin from a holder and unfolded it on his lap. “I mean a
serious
offer. What I’d give you on this place would make a healthy down payment on one of those new condos out in Tustin Ranch.
    All the amenities right there—stores, jacuzzi, pool. You wouldn’t have to drink water that’s had fish swimming in it. Or worse.”
    He opened the sandwich and looked at the lettuce inside. “A condo’s a sound