Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

“I don’t have time for that.”

“The other way, Planet X buys the cards from you outright, but only at half the Price Guide value.”

“That’s good.” Conner tapped the binder. “Let’s do it.”

“Are you sure?” Randy asked. “You lose a lot of the value that way.”

“Start adding them up.”

Randy shrugged, went around the other side of the counter, and pulled out the Price Guide. Randy went through the binder, finding the prices in the guide, writing the numbers in a long column on a legal pad.

Selling Folger’s old cards wouldn’t be enough to get out of town, but it might carry him awhile. Conner thought he might have to sell the Plymouth Fury. It was in good shape, mostly original parts. One of the custom shops could probably turn it into a classic show car. But Conner knew he wouldn’t get good money. As with the cards, he would want to unload the Plymouth in a hurry.

What he really needed was the ten grand from the DiMaggio card, but he didn’t know where it was. Maybe Randy knew something that could point Conner in the right direction. After seeing the prices on the cards here at Planet X, it was difficult to believe a card could be worth so much, even to a rabid collector. A few hundred bucks was a lot, sure. Twenty thousand was a whole different ballpark.

“How much more valuable is a card if it’s autographed?”

Randy looked up from the Price Guide. “Depends on the card, I guess.”

“As much as twenty thousand dollars?”

Randy wasn’t shocked by the number. “Sure. Still depends on who the player is, though.”

“How about Joe DiMaggio?” Conner said.

“Oh, you’re talking about Teddy Folger’s card, huh? Yeah, that’s an expensive one for sure.”

“You know about it?”

“Everyone knows about it. Everyone in the business anyway. I heard it burned up with Folger’s shop. Too bad. Jerry was bummed out for a week when he heard.”

“Who’s Jerry?”

“He’s the card guy here at Planet X. I’m more of a comics guy, but Jerry knows cards like it was his religion. He could tell you every detail about the DiMaggio card, what it’s worth, all that.”

“When does he come in?”

“He’s at the Other Worlds Sci-Fi, Comics & Collectibles Convention in Montgomery and won’t be back until next week.”

Hell.

Randy said, “I tallied up all the cards. Looks like $810. Half of that is $405. That okay?”

“Yeah,” Conner said. “Is there anyone else I can ask about the DiMaggio card? I’m curious.”

“You could ask Teddy Folger about it, I guess.”

I could ask. I wouldn’t get any answers.

Randy went to the register and came back with $405, handed it to Conner. “I’m going up to the convention tomorrow with a load of comics. I’m trying to sell a set of Frank Miller Daredevil s in mint condition. I’m talking totally original, not one of the Marvel reprints.”

When Randy said this, Conner heard, blah blah blah blah blah . “Uh-huh.”

“If you still want to talk to Jerry, you can ride up with me.”

Conner would rather hit himself in the face with a hammer, but he wanted to know about the DiMaggio card, its value, any small scrap of information that might help. This Jerry might know what sort of person would pay so much for a card, maybe even provide a list of buyers should Conner actually get his hands on the card. “When?”

“In the morning about nine A.M. We’ll have fun. I usually pack a cooler full of sodas and sandwiches for the trip.”

“How much does this cost?”

Randy said, “If you pay ahead of time, it’s cheaper. At the door, it’s going to be twenty dollars to get in, I think.”

Twenty bucks. Possibly worth the investment.

Randy interpreted the hesitation on Conner’s face as reluctance. He snapped his fingers. “I know how to get you in for free.”

“Yeah?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Okay.” Why not?

“One more thing. I should really warn you about Jerry. Some people think he’s a bit strange. He’s really an okay guy, but he’s kind of a nerd,” Randy said.

Murder.

It was the thought uppermost in Conner Samson’s mind, that he would murder Randy Frankowski if he didn’t shut the hell up. Conner kept these thoughts to himself as they sped up Interstate 65 toward Montgomery in Randy’s 1998 Geo sardine can, Randy pinballing from lane to lane, Conner gripping the armrest. The kid really didn’t seem to notice that he drove like shit, didn’t signal when he changed lanes, sped up or slowed down for no discernible reason, and veered onto the shoulder whenever he leaned down to slide a new CD into the stereo.

And all the way, the nonstop chatter. Mostly about comics, but the topics ranged all along the big nerd spectrum. For the last twenty minutes, Randy had railed against the new Star Trek series Enterprise, claiming it had not been what the show’s producers had advertised and was merely a watered-down version of Next Generation and Voyager and wasn’t really new or innovative at all.

“I could give a shit,” Conner mumbled.

“What?” Randy shouted over the music. They Might Be Giants blasted full throttle out of the stereo’s tinny, crackling speakers.

Conner raised his voice. “I said let’s pull over. I have to take a leak.”

“No problem.”

They took the next exit, pulled into a Shell station right next to a McDonald’s. Randy went next door to load up on McStuff. Conner relieved himself in the service station’s restroom. He purchased a Pepsi and a Fortune magazine.

He stood next to Randy’s Geo, waited for the kid to return from Mickey-D’s.

Conner spotted a shiny black Land Rover parked across the lot. It was new, tinted windows, gleaming rims. He felt suddenly angry that there were people in the world with lots of money, nice cars, big houses while he was riding in a chubby kid’s Geo on the way to a sci-fi convention. It wasn’t that Conner had any particularly strong political convictions about the redistribution of wealth. If he could be one of the rich people that others hated, then that would be just hunky-dory with Conner. Someday.

Randy returned with a bag of food and a chocolate milk shake. “We’re only about forty-five minutes from Montgomery. You want to go ahead and get changed now?”

“Changed for what?”

“Oh, I forgot to show you,” Randy said. “I told you I could get us in for free, remember? Today’s costume day. Wear a costume, and you don’t have to pay the entrance fee.”

“Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say,” Conner said.

Randy set his food on the Geo’s roof and popped the hatchback. He pulled out a tote bag, unzipped it. Within were two sets of clothes: a blue shirt and a pea-green shirt, two pairs of pants. The legs on the pants were short, ending just below the knees. Boots.

“These are modeled on the exact Federation uniforms from the original series,” Randy said. He beamed. “The green shirt is for you. It fastens around the front. I thought you’d be Captain Kirk. I’ll be Spock in the blue shirt.”

“And you really think I’m going to wear that?”

“It’ll fit. The material’s real stretchy.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” Conner said. “But there’s no way in hell I’m putting that on.”

“You’ll have to pay to get in then.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Hey, whatever, man.” Randy grabbed the blue shirt and the pants. “I’m going to change.”

He went into the Shell station, came back a few minutes later. The shirt was at least a size too small. He wore sneakers instead of the boots.