Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

“But…” Conner shook his head. He was still in shock. “So if I went back in time, bought twenty cards, found Mr. DiMaggio, and made him sign them all, they’d each be worth a hundred thousand dollars?”

Jerry barked laughter, bits of half-chewed french fry flying halfway across the table. “Jesus, no offense, but that’s a dumb thing to say. You don’t know how this works at all, do you?”

“Maybe you’ll explain it to me.” Asshole.

“Rarity is always a consideration with something like this. If there’s a million of something, then they won’t be worth so much. One of a kind, worth more. It’s just common sense.”

Conner actually did feel a little dumb not realizing this. It was obvious.

“It’s not just the DiMaggio autograph. Lots of those around,” Jerry said. “It’s the other signatures that make it worth so much.”

“What other signatures?”

Jerry rolled his eyes. If he was about to call Conner dumb again, he mercifully changed his mind. “You really are at square one with this card, huh? Marilyn Monroe and Billy Wilder also signed the card. It’s a famous damn card. You didn’t know? It’s like one of the Holy Grails of collectibles. Sports collectors and film buffs would both kill for it. It’s like if you found an ancient autographed picture of Moses, and Charlton Heston and Cecil B. DeMille had signed it too.”

Conner was beginning to understand. It still seemed an outrageous amount of money, but he was getting the idea now that collectors took this kind of thing very seriously. He remembered that DiMaggio and Monroe had been married. Right before she was married to the playwright. Or was that after?

Conner asked Jerry who would buy such a card, how would somebody find them. Jerry told him collectors came from all walks of life. There were trade magazines and Web sites that put collectors in contact with each other. And conventions. Lots of conventions.

“By the way, I brought you this book.” Jerry picked his backpack off the floor, found a thick hardcover book, and slid it across the table to Conner. “If you’re interested in Monroe and DiMaggio, this is the best one. It’s half pop culture analysis and half biography.”

Conner took the book, read the cover. The King and Queen of America by Adam Oppenheimer, Ph.D. “Thanks.”

“It’s thirty bucks.” Jerry held out his hand.

Conner almost threw the book back in the jerk’s face but decided he was curious. He kept the book, gave the money to Jerry.

“I don’t see why you’re this curious,” Jerry said. “It’s pointless now. The card burned up with Folger’s shop. Damn shame.”

“Did you ever see the card?” Conner asked.

“Sure, lots of times. He had it hanging behind the counter in his shop. I’d see it anytime I went over to trade some cards. It was about so big.” Jerry spread his arms up then down to indicate poster size. “It was all framed up along with Monroe ’s letter. Shit, I almost forgot about the letter. He had a personal, handwritten letter from Monroe too. It was all set up just beautiful. Before he put it in the frame, he used to take it out of the safe to show me.”

“Safe?”

“Yeah, Folger had a safe built into the floor, hidden behind a secret panel under the register. I think he thought it was cool or something. But I guess he was too proud of the card to lock it away and liked to have it on display instead.”

Conner only half listened. He thought about Joellen Becker. She either didn’t know the card’s actual worth, or she was taking him for a ride. And Conner Samson was getting a little sick of being pushed around and lied to.

Jerry had demolished his burger and fries. He looked around the table in case he’d missed something. “Say, how about some dessert here?”

Conner stood, dropped a twenty on the table. He didn’t know if that would cover dessert or not. “Thanks, Jerry. You were helpful. I have to get going.” He walked away.

Jerry called after him. “I can get you a signed DiMaggio in mint condition for a good price. It won’t have the other signatures, but it’s a good card.”

Conner didn’t even look back.

As they’d arranged, Conner met Randy at the Geo. Randy had a pair of shopping bags with him and looked pretty pleased with his purchases. They got in the car, headed south.

Conner stared out the window, plans coming together in his mind. It didn’t take him long to decide what he was going to do. It was clear, so very clear and obvious. He wondered if this was what people meant when they talked about inspiration or the muse. As soon as he returned to Pensacola, he’d get started.

His new copy of The King and Queen of America wasn’t an easy read. He flipped to a spot in the middle, had to read it twice to get anything out of it. The author talked about Jacques Lacan and some kind of fake persona Marilyn Monroe put out for the public and how deep inside there was the “real” Marilyn that maybe got lost somehow. Conner wondered which persona DiMaggio loved, if he’d ever caught a glimpse of the girl who’d been Norma Jean. He closed the book, put it away.

He decided he needed to say something to Randy. “You were right.” He cleared his throat. “All that stuff you said about my attitude and everything. You were right. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”

Randy didn’t say anything for long seconds. Finally, a sly smile spread slowly from ear to pointy ear. “You can’t help it. You illogical Earthlings are all governed by your human emotions.”

A dull shred of daylight remained when Randy dropped Conner at his Plymouth. The whole ride back, Conner thought about the Joe DiMaggio card, where it might be. It hadn’t been aboard the Jenny, in the binder with the rest of Folger’s collection.

There were a few things Conner wanted to see for himself.

He drove to Folger’s torched strip mall on Davis Highway. The place was a muddy, scorched mess, halfhearted, yellow police tape draped around the scene. It looked a shambles, but not particularly hazardous. He parked on the side in the shadows, stepped over the police tape.

There was still something of a roof left in places, held up by ash-black beams. Conner couldn’t immediately tell which store was which, but he found a half-burned, life-size cardboard stand-up of Spider-Man and figured he’d found the comic-book shop.

Conner poked through the rubble, but there wasn’t much left to see. Burned and melted shelves and display cases. He estimated where the cash register might have been and started kicking through the ash. It was dirty work, and Conner felt suddenly like he was wasting his time. But he quickly found the outline of a panel in the floor. It was caked with grime and ash, and he had to work it back and forth to slide the panel back.

He had the vague notion that he’d check the safe tonight, simply see if he could find the thing, and if it was undamaged, he would come back the next day with some heavy equipment and drill it out.

Conner felt simultaneously excited and silly. Secret safes were the nonsense of Nancy Drew treasure hunts.

He finally worked the panel all the way back. The safe underneath was unscorched, and presumably whatever might be inside was still undamaged. Conner had mulled the possibilities, thought it possible Folger had left the DiMaggio card in the hidden safe with plans to come back and pick it up later. Conner didn’t know much about safes but figured a good one should survive a fire. He examined its surface, a combination lock and a handle. He reached out, turned the handle.

It was open.

The elation of his good luck quickly segued into discouragement with the realization nothing of value would be within. Otherwise, Folger would have locked it. He might as well have a look. Conner didn’t currently have any better ideas.