Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

“In other words, junk, Harry,” the second man said affably. He wore a Glen Plaid suit that was cut too tight across the shoulders and a green felt hat with a small red feather in the band. His nose had been broken at one time and improperly set, and his ears were large and distended.

“Now, Alex,” Harry said in a mild voice, “that’s no way to talk.”

“Sure,” Alex said. He looked at Raleigh. “What’s your name, pal?”

Raleigh did not care for the man’s tone, but he said, “James Raleigh. Really, gentlemen, if there is something I can—”

The man called Harry continued to study the Seated Scribe, frowning thoughtfully. Finally he glanced at the other man. “What do you think?”

Alex shrugged.

“How much is it, Mr. Raleigh?”

“Forty-nine ninety-five.”

“Alex?”

“Too damned expensive.”

“I believe you’re right,” Harry said. He turned toward the display shelves, and then seemed to spread his hands, allowing the sculpture to fall at his feet. It shattered with a dull hollow sound on the hardwood floor.

Raleigh stared down at the shards, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. It became quiet in the shop. At length he raised his head and looked at the two men; they returned his gaze steadily, expressionlessly.

“Why did you do that?” Raleigh asked.

“An accident,” Harry answered. “It just slipped out of my hands.”

“I don’t think so,” Raleigh told him evenly.

“You don’t?”

“No. I think you dropped it deliberately.”

“Now why would I do a thing like that?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. ”

Harry turned to the second man, Alex, and shook his head sadly. Then he produced a wallet from the inside pocket of his sharkskin suit and took a small white business card from it. He handed the card to Raleigh. On it were the words Sentinel Protective Association in black script. Below the words was an embossed drawing of a uniformed soldier with a rifle, standing at attention.

Harry said, “Accidents happen all the time to small businessmen such as yourself, Mr. Raleigh. There’s nothing you can do to prevent them. But there is something you can do to prevent a lot of other costly business hazards — vandalism, burglary, wanton looting. This is a very bad neighborhood, you know — out of the way, poorly policed. The Sentinel Protective Association eliminates all such hazards here — all except, of course, simple accidents.”

Raleigh smiled faintly. “And how much does the Sentinel Protective Association charge for this service?”

“There is a membership fee of one hundred dollars,” Harry said. “The weekly dues are twenty-five dollars, payable on Fridays.”

“Suppose I choose not to become a member?”

“Well, as I told you, this is a very bad neighborhood.”

“Very bad,” Alex agreed. “Why, just last week poor Mr. Holtzmeier — he owns the delicatessen on the next block — poor Mr. Holtzmeier had his store all but destroyed by vandals in the middle of the night.”

“I suppose Mr. Holtzmeier wasn’t one of Sentinel’s clients.”

“He was,” Harry said. “But he had decided to discontinue our services only three days before the incident. An unfortunate decision on his part.”

Raleigh moistened his lips. “They call this kind of thing ‘juice,’ don’t they?”

“Beg pardon?”

“These protective association shakedown rackets, like the one you’re working here.”

“I really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Raleigh. The Sentinel Protective Association was formed on behalf of the small businessmen in this neighborhood and it operates solely with their interests in mind.”

“Of course it does,” Raleigh said.

“May we put you down on our membership list?”

Raleigh did not answer at once. He glanced around the little shop; it was a comfortable old place, one that suited him perfectly, and the rent was moderate. The thought of being forced out of it was not an appealing one.

After a time he turned back to the two men. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I haven’t any choice, have I?”

Harry’s expression was guileless. “I knew you were a reasonable man,” he said.

“I suppose you’ll want the money in cash?”

“Naturally.”

“I can have it for you by noon tomorrow.”

Harry shook his head. “We’re sorry, Mr. Raleigh, but we couldn’t possibly offer you any protection until we receive at least a down payment on the membership fee.”

Alex reached out to the display shelf and began to tilt to and fro a sculptured replica of the Eleventh Century head of Divinity. “A lot of things can happen before noon tomorrow,” he added meaningfully.

Raleigh sighed. “How much do you want now?”

“I think fifty dollars would be an equitable sum,” Harry said. “A guarantee of your good faith.”

Raleigh worried his lower lip for a long moment. Then he sighed again, in a resigned way, and said, “Perhaps it would be better if I paid one month’s dues in advance, along with the membership fee. I wouldn’t want anything to happen unexpectedly.”

The two men exchanged glances. Harry raised his eyebrows. “Why, that’s very wise of you, Mr. Raleigh,” he said. “Most prudent.”

“Yes,” Raleigh said. “I have some money in my safe. If you’ll excuse me for a moment?”

“Certainly.” The two men smiled.

Raleigh turned and disappeared through a door leading into a storage room at the rear of the shop. After several moments he emerged and stepped to the small check-out counter, where he placed ten twenty-dollar bills on the vinyl top. “Well, there you are,” he said. “Two hundred dollars.”

Alex came forward and counted the currency. Then he nodded in satisfaction, put the bills into a leather executive wallet, and removed a receipt book and a ballpoint pen from his coat. Laboriously he wrote out a slip and presented it to Raleigh.

“Congratulations on becoming one of Sentinel’s clients, Mr. Raleigh,” Harry said. “You can rest assured that your cooperation is appreciated, and that you won’t have any trouble whatsoever.”

Raleigh nodded.

“Goodbye for now, then,” Harry said in a pleasant voice, and the two callers walked out leisurely.

As soon as they had vanished from sight, Raleigh hurried to the front door, locked it, and drew down the shade. Then he went quickly into the storage room.

He sighed a third time, wistfully now, as he set to work. It really was a very nice location — but then, he was reasonably certain, he would have little difficulty finding another quiet, side-street spot, perhaps in another state, where he could set up his Facsimile Shop — and the Old Heidelberg printing press that he was now beginning to dismantle.

He smiled only once during the lengthy task, and that was when he thought of the inferior-quality throwaways he had run off for testing purposes that morning; and of what would happen when the Sentinel Protective Association tried passing those particular genuine imitation twenty-dollar bills.

“And don’t forget the boiler,” said Mrs. Cotton. “I opened it up so that we can have a nice bath. It’ll need two scuttles of coke.”

Sam Cotton groaned.

When they had moved into the Old Rectory at Marlhammer, he had felt in his bones that he was making his last move. He was only forty-nine. But the time comes in every man’s life when he will settle down to enjoy the fruits of his toil.

Starting as an unskilled, untrained, almost unpaid assistant to an assistant in a shaky firm of chartered accountants, he had worked. How he had worked! Twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day — in his spare time, at night, during the weekend. Now he was a qualified accountant, a partner, a director of four companies, and a rich man.