Here is the second Father Black story, in which we see a crime of passion perpetrated against the good Satanic Private Investigator himself. When someone steals Father Black’s signed first edition of Joseph Conrad’s Victory at the Monstropolis Bibliophile Society, it could mean mayhem. Where to look, how to retrieve the book, and, most importantly, who should be brutally punished for this unforgivable crime?
Father Black: Black Mail
”The world is a bad dog. It will bite you if you give it a chance; but I think that here we can safely defy the fates.” (Joseph Conrad)
– Thank you, Father Black. I’ll deposit the money later today. You have been of great help.
We stood up and shook hands. The man looked so sad. I couldn’t really blame him. A dark-haired, middle-aged man who had just received a bulging folder of incriminating evidence. I had taken secret pictures of his wife in intimate congress with one of his business partners. I knew immediately that despite his apparent sadness, he was already making plans that would make him feel considerably better: his wife was wealthy beyond imagniation and his partner had been skimming their company for years. It had been easy for me to dig up all the details that would secure this man a ”double whammy”: a profitable divorce and complete control of an already successful company. Digging up that kind of dirt had become my specialty.
For me, it was just work. I didn’t dream of more spectacular cases. Sometimes they fell on my lap anyway, but I wasn’t going to sit around waiting for it to happen. I needed to butter my bread just like everyone else and this guy would provide a substantial amount of buttering. That was it.
I couldn’t help being in a good mood. I deserved something nice. As I walked out on to the street, it was afternoon and the city was already in a state of neon-buzz trepidation. Lights were literally sparking up as I strolled down Mining Street. I thought of treating myself to a dinner some place that I really enjoyed. Or perhaps go see an old movie? Or both?
No matter what, I decided to pick up my mail. I was close to the mailbox-place and nodded to the proprietor as I entered. I opened my box. The latest issue of ”Book Collector’s Digest” was there, something that further increased my sense of well-being. A couple of business-related bills too and then… Then there was an all-black envelope addressed to ”Father Black” c/o my real name, written quite elegantly in golden ink. This intrigued me, as beautiful envelopes and lettering was such a thing of the past.
I carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a black sheet of paper, of exactly the same stock as the envelope. No real greeting or message, just a few of lines of a poem of sorts…
Thank you for your recent gift
It suits me like a hand in glove
Sorry that I had to be so swift
Often the case when one’s in real, true love
XY, 55 and 666
Granted me a joy so strong
Beyond today’s all shallow kicks
I intend to hold on very long
Again, thanks so much for sharing
And please, don’t bare ill will
Trust me, I’ll be caring
Of this volume dressed to kill
This was indeed mysterious! No name, signature, address or any other kind of mark to say who it was from. My first hunch was that it was a practical joke or perhaps a threat from some disgruntled client or someone who’d taken the fall because of me? This would not be unlikely.
I looked at the envelope again. No stamp. So, it had been left here. I walked over to the proprietor. He looked up at me.
– How are you today?, he asked me.
– Slightly mystified, I answered.
– More than usual, you mean?
– That’s right. More than usual. Take a look at this. You remember who left it?
I only handed over the envelope. He looked at it and shook his head.
– Someone must have left it here. I can’t remember though. I would have remembered. Maybe when I wasn’t around.
I got out some money and slid it to him. He looked up at me and smiled.
– Thanks. I mean it though. I didn’t receive this. But I’ll ask around. The other guys might know. No high hopes though. Those guys’ll do anything for money, he laughed as he pocketed the bills I’d just given him.
On my way out, something struck me. Those weird numbers in the letter. The first hunch was some retarded Aleister Crowley-reference put in there by some mysterious occultnik foe. Then it dawned on me: I did in fact recognize that number. It was the number of my cabinet at the Monstropolis’ Bibliophile Society. How the hell could this person know about it? My membership there was one of my most treasured secrets.
I set all my nice plans aside, jumped into a taxi and gave the driver the address. We drove slowly uptown and I was becoming increasingly frustrated. Don’t get me wrong… I love a mystery as much as anyone else – probably more. There is only one thing I really don’t like about them: my own personal involvement.
My membership in that august society was one of my few luxuries. Although most of my books were still in my worn-down apartment downtown, the fine ones were kept in my own cabinet at the premises I was just entering. There was always someone there, an armed caretaker with whom you always had to sign in and out. It was basically a huge old apartment that had been refurbished as an old English gentlemen’s club. Everything was dark, somber, dimly lit, with heavy leather furniture here and there, and a bar where you could help yourself. One room was designed for meetings and socialising, but on the whole the place was a like a bank vault for collectors and lovers of literature, a private and discreet sanctuary.
I was feeling jittery as I went into the room where my cabinet was. I opened its doors and could see right away that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
There is nothing as visible as something missing. My cabinet was packed with books. On the fourth shelf a gap was screaming out its vile existence. I knew immediately what had been there – a signed first edition of Joseph Conrad’s ”Victory”. I was in a state of mild shock. Gradually, it turned into rage. I looked over the shelves. Everything was in perfect order, just as I’d left it all, but that gap was so obvious. The book simply wasn’t there. I took out the letter and re-read it. ”Thanks so much for sharing…” The arrogant tone made me sweat. I needed to cool down, and fast. I closed the cabinet doors and went straight to bar. Noone was there. I poured myself a large vodka and splashed it with some orange juice for old habit’s sake. Once inside my metabolism, I felt a heated anger take over. Good. This was simply too much.
The caretaker looked at me approaching, and rose from his chair in the entrance section by the wardrobe room.
– Everything alright, Sir?
– Far from it, I answered. Could you please give Mr. Laughlin a call?
– Certainly. Trouble?
I nodded. While he dialled I read the letter over and over again. The old man mumbled something into the telephone and then handed me the receiver.
– Father Black? Laughlin here. What can I do for you?
– Sorry to bother you like this. I have a problem though.
– Oh dear… I hope it’s not… Well…
– I’m afraid that’s exactly it, I continued. Theft. I’m missing a book.
– Oh no. Oh no. This is terrible. And you’re certain? Can you wait there for me? I won’t be half an hour.
– Sure. Bye.
I strolled in and out of the rooms, all filled with cabinet-shelves, all packed with exquisite books, rarities, odd volumes or just favourites. I was ready to open all those doors, as none of them were locked and none had transparent glass doors. But I restrained myself. That was one of the ideas with that place. Love of books. Trust. Respect for others’ collections. When that was violated, it was thereby extra heinuous. I needed to see Mr. Laughlin or I would go crazy.
He did arrive soon, which made me slightly more at ease. His presence was always correct and meticulous – a tall, lean, sympathetic man in his early 60’s, with grey hair and vivid blue eyes. The perfect diplomat type. I took him straight to my cabinet. When he saw the gap, he shuddered, as had I.
– This is terrible, he sighed.
– Indeed, I answered bitterly. Joseph Conrad’s ”Victory”, first edition, signed. I mean, it’s not a super-rarity, but for me…
– Here, you never have to motivate or justify your emotions when it comes to books, Laughlin said. This is just terrible. It has nothing to do with what was stolen. Just the mere fact…
– I agree, I said.
– I can certainly understand if you’re upset, Father Black.
– Indeed I am.
– We have to proceed very quietly though. I’m sure you understand. This could be devastating for us. What do you intend to do? Not the police, I hope?
– The police? They would laugh at us, at me, you, this place… No, Mr. Laughlin. I want my book back. And then, more importantly, I want to see some justice. I’m not going to accept this. Trust me.
He looked afraid and nervous, yet I could sense he shared my sentiment, as one book-lover before another.
– We only have serious and devoted members here, he began. I can’t see how anyone could do such a thing.
– Trust me, Laughlin, I’ve been around the block a few times. When the cookie jar is there, some greedy hands are sure to be moving in that direction. It’s a human trait, that’s all.
– A human weakness, you mean. That’s exactly what we’re trying to overcome here, Laughlin replied.
– I know that. But the damage is done. Temptation always brings out the worst in people.
We sat down. I didn’t know what to expect of him. His main concern was to keep his Society untainted. If reports of theft become public knowledge, his collectors would go elsewhere. There were a few other places in town, and yet more in even bigger cities. Places where I knew they offered their clients locks for the cabinets, for instance.
– Now, don’t get me wrong, Father Black, he began. I’m aware of your line of business and of your quite violent experiences…
– Yes?
This disturbed me. As my mind was running away with me, trying to figure out this highly undesirable situation, I stumbled upon the idea that this had perhaps been a set-up to have me thrown out of the Society. An annoyed member? But why? Who? I basically knew noone here on a personal level (that’s how I liked to keep it) and I wasn’t really willing to drool over other people’s items in some kind of shared ”passionate” brotherhood either. I just wanted my books to be safe in a safe environment. One that, on a very general level, shared my appreciation for them.
– But I hope you’re aware of our statutes and policies?, he continued.
– Indeed I am, I replied.
– Very well. Then I would appreciate if you would allow me some days to ponder. Perhaps we can help you out? But this would require a certain attitude from you as well.
– What would that be?, I asked.
– Well, to begin with… No hell-raising before we’re absolutely certain of more facts.
I had to laugh. He joined me. We shook hands and agreed to talk on the phone soon. I was still mad about it, but at least I felt somewhat re-assured that Laughlin was an OK fellow. He had more at stake than me.
I went home, determined not to let this get to me. I cleaned up some of the mess, went through some boring paperwork. Then I had dinner at a small place nearby. Not how I had originally envisioned my evening, but what could I do? I was frustrated, upset, willing to take action but didn’t really know where to begin. When I got back home, I got out a paperback edition of ”Victory” and went to bed. It really was a masterful tale, one of Conrad’s best. A Swedish Count confronting his inner demons in the guise of vicious foes on some remote Malaysian isle had always been one of my favourites, and I could fondly recall when I found that beautiful signed first edition, and then… I fell asleep and dreamt of cruel, brutal violence.
The next morning, I was still determined not to let this get to me. I had breakfast at home and then called my bank. The deposit from my client was all in order, which made me slightly happier. I thought of calling Mr. Laughlin too, but couldn’t get around to it before he actually called me. It was a bit of a surprise.
– I trust you’ve slept well, he began.
– Not as well as I had wished. But, then again, how often is that the case?
– How true, he continued. Now listen, I have some information that might be of use to you.
– All ears.
– I just noticed there are a couple of recently added items at the auction tomorrow evening in Urbanus. It’s at the Global Hotel & Conference tomorrow at eight. There is a signed ”Victory” up for grabs there, and it was just added to the list.
– Thanks. That is indeed valuable information. Will you be there?
– Eh, no… I have some other matters I need to attend to. But do let me know if you find out something of importance. I’ll let you know if something comes to mind here. Good luck.
– Thanks, I replied and hung up.
My professional mind became suspicious. I knew the auction in question. It was good. I had been there before and so had Laughlin. It must surely be some pressing matters for him to miss that, I thought. Anyway, I needed to go there, no question about it. It was about a day’s trip away, so I packed some essentials and hurried to the train station to get a ticket.
I hated Urbanus. It was bigger than Monstropolis and just as decayed. Someone had sugarcoated it better though, which meant that a lot of international business went on there – along with all the seedy greasing of international business: girls, boys, drugs, gambling, etc. Whenever I returned, I almost felt happy to call my rotting city ”home”. At least I could find my way around here.
Train tickets secured, I went back home and continued reading Conrad. Not only did I enjoy it, but I also consciously made it a ritual of re-connection. Not so much with the material in itself, although it was highly inspirational stuff, but more with its specific presentation in the lamented and now gone first edition.
On the following day, I arrived in the early afternoon at Urbanus Central. I hurried to the Global, a place I knew well, in pouring rain. I got my ticket for the show and auction and then waded through exhibitors’ and titles’ lists. Everything was on display but, of course, nothing sold over the counter. I recognised many dealers and collectors but had no energy to chit-chat. There were some fellows there from my Society too. We nodded in silent acknowledgment. I was unsure whether they’d heard about my predicament, or whether – even worse – some one of them had actually been the culprit. If so, I would surely let him have a taste of my wrath. But only after I was certain. Only then. In a strange way, I felt as if I’d given Laughlin a promise not to be too tough. I was unsure if I could handle that kind of altruistic anticipation too long though.
It took me about 20 minutes on the floor of that huge expo-space to find the dealer in question. His name was Marcelo Lieberman and was apparently from Monstropolis too. Strange that I’d never heard of him before. As soon as I knew I was in the right place, I approached him.
– I’d like to see that signed Conrad you have, I started.
– Are you a serious collector? A bidder?, Lieberman replied.
– I am and I might be.
He looked me over. My wet trenchcoat and hat must have given me a weird, frenzied look among all the orderly gentlemen (and some ladies) at the convention-cum-auction.
– Are you in a hurry, Sir?, he continued.
– Always in a hurry for a signed Conrad, I said and took off my hat.
– Well, alright then. That makes two of us, he smiled.
When he could see that my hands were dry and clean, he handed me the copy. It was indeed a signed first edition. But it wasn’t mine. I knew my copy well enough to realise this wasn’t it. Lieberman must have noticed my disappointment. His dark eyes were monitoring my reactions, I could sense that.
– Too expensive for you?
– Actually, I already have one.
– I see, he continued. But you’re looking for another one?
– Sort of.
– Sort of what?
– Sort of exactly what I’m saying: I have one but it’s still the one I’m looking for.
– Ah, a lost sheep in your flock? Strange things happen. Well, welcome back another time…
I didn’t like this guy one bit. He was arrogant, pushy, and I could visualise his chubby fingers all over my copy. The only problem was that it wasn’t my copy and that I was over-reacting like crazy.
– If another copy came up on the market, would you hear of it?, I asked him in a slightly more polite manner.
He nodded as he put the copy back on display for others to see and covet.
– Conrad is Lieberman-territory and everyone knows it, buyers as well as sellers.
– Would you buy regardless of who sold it or where it came from?
– That’s really none of your business, now is it?, he replied.
– I could make it my business, I whispered to him as I grabbed his ugly, polkadotted tie and pulled his obese body close to mine.
– My business could become putting you out of business. My business could be turning your face into pulp suitable for printing nothing more than tabloids…
– But would you only because you could?, he whispered back at me.
People were looking at us and I let him go. He straightened his tie and repeated his question.
– Would you because you could?
– No. I’m sorry. I had no right to…
– It’s never a question of right or wrong when it comes to lost books. Am I right?
I nodded in agreement. He was looking at me in a weird way, and talking to me even weirder.
– Take my card. I might be able to help you in the future if you’re looking for something. Conrad, whatever. But this copy is mine and it’s thereby not the one you’re looking for.
– I know. I’m painfully aware of it. Again, I’m sorry.
– Who knows? I might have reacted in the same way, had I been in the same terrible situation you seem to be in. For now, take this…
He wrote something down on a piece of paper, which he then handed to me. ”Rudolf Schwanger” and a phone number. I recognised that name from somewhere.
– He’s the second biggest dealer in Conrad. Good stuff, bad guy. That’s all I can do. I appreciate you didn’t beat me up, Father Black.
– So you know me?
– Who doesn’t? I’ve seen you in the papers. Didn’t know you were interested in books though.
– Life’s little secrets, I replied. Thanks for the number. By the way, is he here?
– No. Confined to his home in a wheelchair. A great place though. Call him and say I sent you. He’ll see you.
I decided not to stay for the auction. It would be torture. Partly because I couldn’t afford to buy all the books I knew I would want. Partly because of my inner turmoil. I knew there was a night train going back to Monstropolis, and I wanted to be on it.
I slept well on the train, considering. After a hot shower and some breakfast at home, I was ready to roll again. I called the number Lieberman had given me. A young woman’s voice answered.
– I’d like to speak with Mr. Schwanger, please.
– Who’s calling?
– Father Black?
– The Father Black?
– None other.
– What shall I say this is about?
– Anything you like, sister. But try Joseph Conrad first.
– Alright. One moment. And, by the way, I’m not your sister.
She disappeared before I could reply. A moment later, a man coughed loudly into the receiver.
– Yes?
– My name is Father Black. I’m looking for a book.
– Aren’t we all?, the man replied. You’ve certainly come to the right place. Anything in particular?
– As a matter of fact, yes. Joseph Conrad. First editions.
– Oh… May I ask, do you know Mr. Lieberman?
– I wouldn’t say I know him but, yes, he gave me your number.
– And he said I had Conrad first editions?
– Yes.
– Any particular one you’re looking for?
– ”Victory”.
– Ah, we’re all on the lookout for that one, aren’t we?
– Are we?, I replied.
– Well, it’s his best book, isn’t it?
– That’s a matter of opinion more than anything else, I’d say. Do you have one or don’t you?
– Temper, temper, young man. As a matter of fact I just got a very fine copy yesterday. I’m sad to say it’s already been set aside though.
– I see. But you wouldn’t mind if I came by and perhaps looked at some other books? And maybe just had a look at that one?
– If your intention is to buy, then you’re always welcome. Oh, by the way, are you perhaps a member of a book society?
– I am a member of the Monstroplis’ Bibliophile Society.
– Oh, wonderful. We might have some friends in common. Who do you know there?
– I’m not at liberty to discuss the identities of other members, Sir.
– Oh, what a shame. Anyway, wait and Lena will give you some directions. It’s a private residence. Come at two o’clock. Remember to bring cash.
– Alright. Cash is king, right?
– Not at all. The book is king here. Cash is merely a useable prerequisite. Good-bye.
At two sharp I rang the bell of the address in question, a huge mansion on the outskirts of town. I was buzzed in and pushed the gate open. I walked through a garden, well-tended as expected, and saw a young woman open the front door.
– Lena Schwanger. Nice to meet you.
– Father Black. Did we speak on the phone?
The woman said nothing but led me through the entrance hall. It was apparent that this family had more money than they could spend. Very soon I realised what a big chunk of it had been used for though: books. We entered a big room where the walls were covered with shelves from the floor to the roof, and I could see the situation was the same in some adjoining rooms. This was obviously more a collector’s den than a proper book-dealing business. As always when I was in the presence of so many books, I became dizzy.
– Have a seat. My father will be right with you.
I sat down and waited. I looked at the walls. Thousands of books, all beautiful editions with dustjackets calling my name in alluring, attractive colours.
– Father Black, I presume.
I stood up. The woman pushed an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair to a big desk. We shook hands.
– Mr. Schwanger, I replied.
– Joseph Conrad, you say. I’m sorry to say that the book you’re looking for was just sold. A first of ”Victory”, right?
– What?
– The few who buy, usually buy quickly.
– Who bought it?
– Come, come, Father Black. I have my discretions, just as you have yours. Remember, your society of collectors?
– You mean one of them bought it?
– No such luck. Same thing here. I wouldn’t disclose that and I won’t. Privacy, you know. Discretion. Who knows, there might be thieves at large?
– Tell me about it, I replied and sat down again.
The woman offered me some coffee, but I said no. She shrugged her shoulders in a demonstrative manner and looked at Schwanger. I couldn’t decide whether to just leave in utter resignation or become furious. Some part of me wanted to smack that arrogant bitch in front of her father. And I wanted to pull him out of his wheelchair and make him give me a name. I was certain that he had just sold my copy of the book.
– A book always finds its truthful owner sooner or later, he chuckled.
– Is that so? What about ”rightful” owner?
– It’s a complicated business. So many devoted people involved, he continued.
– You’re right about that.
– So, except for Conrad, what are you looking for?
– Justice, I said and stood up. I approached his desk. He looked at me nervously, and then at his daughter.
– I’m afraid I can’t help you there today. If there’s nothing else, then Lena will show you out.
As I turned around to leave with her, I noticed black paper and some envelopes tucked under a pile of magazines. I could swear it was exactly the same as had been used for my poem. It was just so unusual these days and so eye-catching among all that white paper on top of it.
– You fond of writing poetry, Mr. Schwanger?
– Everyone dabbles now and then, I guess. Do you agree that the pen can be mightier than the sword, Father Black?
– In a certain sense, yes. But I also believe the sword can break the pen, no matter how golden its ink.
– It’s been wonderful talking to you. Good day to you.
His daughter waved me over to the door. I couldn’t make anything out of this. Restrained anger pulled me towards the door. How could I find out who had actually bought the copy? The daughter perhaps. Maybe she would tell me? Maybe she would tell me if her father had written that ”poem”?
– Wait, Father Black. Just one more thing.
I turned around. The old man was looking at me with a gleeful smile.
– Would you?, he asked.
– Would I what?
– Would you break the pen with your sword, no matter how golden its ink?
– It’s been wonderful talking to you. Good day to you too, I replied.
At the door, I shook the woman’s hand. I could have had better results here, I knew that. Maybe I had a soft spot for her? She was indeed a beautiful young woman, with long blonde hair and clear blue eyes. Or was it the books that had made me unusually laid-back? I was very happy I hadn’t accepted any coffee from these sinister individuals.
– Do come by again, she smiled.
– I doubt it, sister.
– Good things come to those that wait.
– That’s not my experience at all. Good things usually come to those who take them, or…
– Or?
– Or are ready for them in some way, I guess.
– You’re not as stupid as you seem, she replied.
– Thank you. Good-bye.
– And by the way…
– I know. You’re not my sister.
I was utterly depressed. What had I been up to? I wasn’t my old self at all. I would have gotten the truth out of those assholes even if I knew it’d be stinky. But I hadn’t. When I got back downtown, I decided to give Laughlin a call from a phone booth, in a desperate attempt to see if maybe he had come up with something. No such luck. He would, on the other hand, like to see me at the Society tomorrow evening, he told me. Just a small matter of my membership. I knew it. I was going to be kicked out because someone had stolen from me… This was not right, and I was going to let him know that. I felt bad about it, because I liked the place. I wanted to have my books there. For some strange reason, I did trust Laughlin.
In pouring rain, I headed home. I had a drink. And then some more. No Joseph Conrad for me tonight, I thought as I slid into a depressed haze.
I signed in with the caretaker. He informed me that Mr. Laughlin was waiting for me at the bar. We greeted quite formally. He wondered how things had gone. I shook my head.
– I haven’t been quite myself, I said.
– Or maybe you’ve just been another part of you? One that doesn’t strike first and asks the questions later?
– That sounds like a simplification, I’m afraid. No matter what, I haven’t found the book and, to be frank, it pisses me off. I just want my books to be in peace and quiet here, and that order and justice should reign at least here. If not here, then where?
– That sounds like an entire philosophy, he replied.
– Call it what you like. It’s in the small we create the great, right? Who was it that said the universe is a kind of library? We need to take care of that.
– Borges, I believe, Laughlin answered. Believe me, Father Black, I understand perfectly what you’re saying. Please, come with me.
I followed him to a door at the end of the hall that was always closed. I had noticed it before but never given it any thought. He opened the door slowly. When we entered and he lit the lights, I was surpised to see several people in there, ten in all. Mostly unknowns, but Lieberman and Schwanger were there, as was Schwanger’s daughter.
– What the…?, I exclaimed.
– No need for foul language, Father Black, Laughlin said and turned to me. We owe you an explanation, perhaps?
– That would be great. I don’t…
– Have a seat. Well, to begin with, I have to say I’m happy to have you here. We all are. You have been a good member for quite some years now. Like us, you love your books. While we have read of your escapades among the lowlives of our once so great city, some of us – they shall remain anonymous – have expressed concern. Concern that perhaps you are one of them rather than… How should I put it? Rather than one of us.
– My work has nothing to do with anything and it’s certainly nobody’s business here, I replied.
– That’s it! That’s exactly it, Father Black. You of all people know this so well. You know the statutes and you’ve proved it over and over again. This makes us very, very happy.
– I have a feeling I’ve been set up and I don’t know if I like it. Am I right?
– Be that as it may, you’ve proven that you won’t resort to violence unless there’s a need for it. And you’ve proven that you respect the statutes of this worthy Society of book collectors. Not once but several times. We cherish the privacy of our members, which is something you obviously respect too. To indulge in our passion without having to look over our backs means that there needs to be trust inbetween all involved.
– And I wasn’t trusted?, I asked.
– You were. You have been and you are. Now more than ever actually. That’s why… Mr. Lieberman, if you please…
Lieberman opened one of the cabinets. It was bigger than mine. I got up. I could see that they’d moved all of my books there and arranged everything in exact order. There was still plenty of room for more volumes in there too.
– That’s why we took the liberty to move you in here. I hope you don’t mind. As you can see, this is a bit more secluded and privileged. Room for more books. Speaking of which…
Laughlin handed me my copy of ”Victory”. I inserted it into its rightful place, inbetween ”Nostromo” and ”Lord Jim”. The other people spontaneously applauded. I was dumbfounded and felt like a complete fool.
– Not only that… Here, Laughlin continued.
He handed me a package. I carefully opened it, almost with trembling hands. Inside was a first edition of John Milton’s ”Paradise Lost”, which must have been worth an absolute fortune. I looked up at the group. Schwanger blinked his eye at me.
– Please regard it as a token of our respect, Laughlin continued. We know that you’ll appreciate it and we think it suits you very well.
– I don’t know what to say, I answered. I really don’t.
– You don’t have to say anything. We appreciate your membership, that’s all. Not only of this society of dusty kooks (the assembled laughed) but also of society in general. Sometimes we wonder, as citizens, what we’d do if there weren’t a few figures like yourself who are willing to show that a real, tangible sense of justice still exists. We only have one wish, Father Black.
– What would that be?
– That in here, Father Black, you always keep a low and non-violent profile.
– I have no problem with that, Laughlin. As long as you guys don’t give me a reason not to, I laughed.
– I can guarantee that will never happen – even if it just did. Now, a drink anyone?
Copyright © 2012 Carl Abrahamsson
