I winked my eyes open almost at the ends of what must have been a long racing vertical dive, and there I was, looking at the street again.
“Go any place up the Heaviside Layer, go down as deep as any hole, anywhere, any time.”
A blur, and the street changed into a glade of sparse pines.
“Buried treasure.
Sure.
Find it, with what?”
The trees disappeared and I reached back for the light switch as he dropped the lid of the radio and sat down.
“How are you going to make any money when you haven’t got it to start?”
No answer to that from me.
“I ran an ad in the paper offering to recover lost articles; my first customer was the Law wanting to see my private detective’s license.
I’ve seen every big speculator in the country sit in his office buying and selling and making plans; what do you think would happen if I tried to peddle advance market information?
I’ve watched the stock market get shoved up and down while I had barely the money to buy the paper that told me about it.
I watched a bunch of Peruvian Indians bury the second ransom of Atuahalpa; I haven’t the fare to get to Peru, or the money to buy the tools to dig.”
He got up and brought two more bottles. He went on.
By that time I was getting a few ideas.
“I’ve watched scribes indite the books that burnt at Alexandria; who would buy, or who would believe me, if I copied one?
What would happen if I went over to the Library and told them to rewrite their histories?
How many would fight to tie a rope around my neck if they knew I’d watched them steal and murder and take a bath?
What sort of a padded cell would I get if I showed up with a photograph of Washington, or Caesar? or Christ?”
I agreed that it was all probably true, but—
“Why do you think I’m here now?
You saw the picture I showed for a dime.
A dime’s worth, and that’s all, because I didn’t have the money to buy film or to make the picture as I knew I should.”
His tongue began to get tangled. He was excited.
“I’m doing this because I haven’t the money to get the things I need to get the money I’ll need— He was so disgusted he booted a chair halfway across the room.
It was easy to see that if I had been around a little later, Phillips Radio would have profited.
Maybe I’d have been better off, too.
Now, although always I’ve been told that I’d never be worth a hoot, no one has ever accused me of being slow for a dollar.
Especially an easy one.
I saw money in front of me, easy money, the easiest and the quickest in the world.
I saw, for a minute, so far in the future with me on top of the heap, that my head reeled and it was hard to breathe.
“Mike,” I said, “let’s finish that beer and go where we can get some more, and maybe something to eat.
We’ve got a lot of talking to do.”
So we did.
Beer is a mighty fine lubricant; I have always been a pretty smooth talker, and by the time we left the gin mill I had a pretty good idea of just what Mike had on his mind.
By the time we’d shacked up for the night behind that beaverboard screen in the store, we were full-fledged partners.
I don’t recall our even shaking hands on the deal, but that partnership still holds good.
Mike is ace high with me, and I guess it’s the other way around, too.
That was six years ago; it only took me a year or so to discard some of the corners I used to cut.
Seven days after that, on a Tuesday, I was riding a bus to Grosse Pointe with a full briefcase.
Two days after that I was riding back from Grosse Pointe in a shiny taxi, with an empty briefcase and a pocketful of folding money.
It was easy.
“Mr. Jones—or Smith—or Brown—I’m with Aristocrat Studios, Personal and Candid Portraits.
We thought you might like this picture of you and … no, this is just a test proof. The negative is in our files… Now, if you’re really interested, I’ll be back the day after tomorrow with our files… I’m sure you will, Mr. Jones.
Thank you, Mr. Jones…”
Dirty?
Sure.
Blackmail is always dirty.
But if I had a wife and family and a good reputation, I’d stick to the roast beef and forget the Roquefort. Very smelly Roquefort, at that.
Mike liked it less than I did.