Night Relics Read Free Page B

investment.”
    “I’ve never been able to think of my home as an investment,” Ackroyd said. “That’s probably a personal failing of mine.”
    “Hey,” Pomeroy said, shrugging. “Some people haveno head for business. But then the right kind of money comes along and they learn fast. Crash course. That’s the best kind
    of education a man can get. You won’t find it in any of these books.” He gestured at the rows of books, dismissing them all.
    Then he waited a moment, giving the old man a chance to chew the idea over along with his sandwich. “What do you say?”
    “Pardon me?” He was staring at the photos that hung on the wall above the bookshelves. “I’m afraid my mind wandered.”
    “Name your price.”
    “My
price
? Somehow what you’re suggesting sounds so exotic that I think we’re speaking different languages.”
    He sounded almost testy. Pomeroy nearly laughed out loud. The old man was shrewd as hell; you had to give him that. Pomeroy
    winked at him, one salesman to another. Clearly he’d underestimated the old man, sold him short. “Money’s the universal language,”
    he said. “But I don’t have to tell
you
that. You’re good.” He shook his head in admiration. “Scotchman in the woodpile somewhere, eh?”
    “In the
wood
pile?”
    “Look, I’m serious. Quote me a figure. See if you can make me laugh out loud. What? Fifty K? Sixty?”
    Ackroyd stood up without saying another word and walked into the kitchen. He was probably thinking about the money now, putting
    together a counter offer. Pomeroy would pretend to be shocked at the figure when the old man finally spit it out. The thing
    was that old boys like Ackroyd had been out of things for so long that they didn’t know what a dollar was worth when it came
    to real estate. You flatter them with the idea that they’re driving a hell of a hard bargain, and when you knuckle under and
    pay them off, they think they took you to the cleaners. Car sales was like that:
well, there goes my commission
…. Pomeroy pulled that old chestnut out of the fire every night of the year.
    Ackroyd returned, carrying a paper lunch sack.
    “All right,” Pomeroy said, “what would it take?”
    Ackroyd picked up Pomeroy’s uneaten sandwich and put it into the sack along with the bag of chips. “I’m awfully tired all
    of a sudden,” he said, gesturing at the front door.
    “What?”
    “I’m afraid I need fairly regular naps. I’ve got to leave in a half hour, and I’d like to lie down for a moment first. If
    you’d like to take the iced tea with you, I can put it into a jar.”
    “No, thanks.” Pomeroy was momentarily confused. The old man ushered him toward the door, showing him out. “Go ahead and sleep
    on it, then….”
    “Please, Mr. Adams,” Ackroyd said, calling Pomeroy by his current business alias, “I’m not interested in selling my house.
    I’ve lived here for upwards of fifty years, and I mean to die here. There are things connecting me to this canyon that would
    bore you utterly if I tried to explain them to you, but I’ll guarantee that they’re sufficient to keep me here despite the
    lack of amenities, as you put it.”
    He smiled briefly as the door swung shut. Pomeroy found himself standing alone on the porch. The old man was serious! He was
    apparently a nut. Pomeroy hadn’t pegged him for a nut. He got into his rented Thunderbird and turned out onto the road, pitching
    the lunch bag out the window when he was out of sight of the house. Nut or no nut, it was cat-skinning time. If he couldn’t
    take out an old fool like Ackroyd, then it was past time to retire.

4
    T HE WIND WAS STILL BLOWING AS P ETER DROVE ALONG Chapman Avenue, over Orange Hill and down into the suburbs. He turned on the radio, punched through the buttons without listening
    to anything, and then turned the radio off again. There was something familiar and comforting this morning about the billboards
    and telephone poles and housing tracts,