The Ghost of a Model T and Other Stories Read Free Page A

where it’s from.”
    â€œWell, that is fine,” said Tony. “Keep on having fun. You’ll outlive us all.”
    â€œSure, I will,” said Packer testily. “What is it that you want?”
    â€œNot a thing, Unk. Just dropped in to say hello and to remind you you’re coming up to Hudson’s to spend the week-end with us. Ann insisted that I drop around and nudge you. The kids have been counting the days –”
    â€œI would have remembered it,” lied Packer, who had quite forgotten it.
    â€œI could drop around and pick you up. Three this afternoon?”
    â€œNo, Tony, don’t bother. I’ll catch a stratocab. I couldn’t leave that early. I have things to do.”
    â€œI bet you have,” said Tony.
    He moved toward the door.
    â€œYou won’t forget,” he cautioned.
    â€œNo, of course I won’t,” snapped Packer.
    â€œAnn would be plenty sore if you did. She’s fixing everything you like.”
    Packer grunted at him.
    â€œDinner at seven,” said Tony cheerfully.
    â€œSure, Tony. I’ll be there.”
    â€œSee you, Unk,” said Tony, and was gone.
    Young whippersnapper, Packer told himself. Wonder what he’s up to now. Always got a new deal cooking, never quite making out on it. Just keeps scraping along.
    He stumped back to the desk.
    Figures he’ll be getting my money when I die, he thought. The little that I have. Well, I’ll fool him. I’ll spend every cent of it. I’ll manage to live long enough for that.
    He sat down and picked up one of the letters, slit it open with his pocketknife and dumped out its contents on the one small bare spot on the desk in front of him.
    He snapped on the desk lamp and pulled it close. He bent above the stamps.
    Pretty fair lot, he thought. That one there from Rho Geminorum XII, or was it XVI, was a fine example of the modern classic—designed with delicacy and imagination, engraved with loving care and exactitude, laid on paper of the highest quality, printed with the highest technical precision.
    He hunted for his stamp tongs and failed to find them. He opened the desk drawer and rummaged through the tangled rat’s-nest he found inside it. He got down on his hands and knees and searched beneath the desk.
    He didn’t find the tongs.
    He got back, puffing, into his chair, and sat there angrily.
    Always losing tongs, he thought. I bet this is the twentieth pair I’ve lost. Just can’t keep track of them, damn ’em!
    The door chimed.
    â€œWell, come on in!” Packer yelled in wrath.
    A mouselike little man came in and closed the door gently behind him. He stood timidly just inside, twirling his hat between his hands.
    â€œYou Mr. Packer, sir?”
    â€œYes, sure I am,” yelled Packer. “Who did you expect to find here?”
    â€œWell, sir,” said the man, advancing a few careful steps into the room, “I am Jason Pickering. You may have heard of me.”
    â€œPickering?” said Packer. “Pickering? Oh, sure, I’ve heard of you. You’re the one who specializes in Polaris.”
    â€œThat is right,” admitted Pickering, mincing just a little. “I am gratified that you –”
    â€œNot at all,” said Packer, getting up to shake his hand. “I’m the one who’s honored.”
    He bent and swept two albums and three shoe boxes off a chair. One of the shoe boxes tipped over and a mound of stamps poured out.
    â€œPlease have a chair, Mr. Pickering,” Packer said majestically.
    Pickering, his eyes popping slightly, sat down gingerly on the edge of the swept-clean chair.
    â€œMy, my,” he said, his eyes taking in the litter that filled the apartment, “you seem to have a lot of stuff here. Undoubtedly, however, you can lay your hands on anything you want.”
    â€œNot a chance,” said Packer, sitting down again. “I have no idea whatsoever what I