See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
—William Shakespeare
BRAINERT AND I exchanged surprised glances at Seymour’s sudden declaration, but nothing astonished us more than the mailman’s next words—
“You said everything was for sale. Well, Walt, more than anything, I want to take Harriet home. You name the price.”
Seymour Tarnish, long known as a headstrong haggler and the terror of the dealers’ room at the annual New England Pulp Convention, was now practically inviting Walt Waverly to fleece him!
Stranger still, the man who’d been hard selling me for the past twenty minutes suddenly seemed reluctant to close a deal.
“Son, I’m sorry to tell you, this painting may be sold already.”
Seymour blinked. “Excuse me? What do you mean may?”
“I put it online a few weeks ago, and a buyer contacted me with an offer. Seven hundred dollars—with one caveat. The buyer insisted on coming here first to examine the painting, just to make sure it’s genuine.”
“I see,” Seymour said. “So where is this mysterious buyer?”
Walt scratched his head. “I was expecting a visit this week but haven’t heard back.”
Seymour’s eyes narrowed. “Look, Walt, you don’t have to play me.” He flashed him the I-am-wise-to-your-cheap-ploy smirk. “Even if this mysterious buyer existed, I’m the one who’s here tonight. And I’ll take this painting off your hands right now for one thousand bucks.”
Old Walt frowned uncertainly.
“Your bird in the hand is right in front of you,” Seymour pressed. “Snatch it while you have the chance!”
Walt stroked his beard. “I don’t know. I already said yes to the other buyer. Some people can get very upset when they lose a done deal.”
“It isn’t done if you’re not paid and the painting’s still in your possession,” Seymour fired back. “I’ll give you twelve hundred!”
Walt shot Seymour a funny look. “Why do you want it so bad?”
With heart-tugging awe, the mailman locked his gaze on the portrait again. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered.
Walt went quiet a moment. “Okay, Mr. Tarnish, make it thirteen hundred and you got a deal. You obviously appreciate Harriet’s work. That may make a difference.”
“Difference?” I said. “What do you mean? Difference how?”
Walt shrugged. “With the curse thing and that bad luck and all . . .”
“Don’t try to scare me out of it,” Seymour said. “I want this painting, and I’ll count myself lucky to get it. Will you take a check?”
“How about a digital bank transfer?”
Walt raised his smartphone. It was nestled in a sky blue phone case displaying tiny World War I biplanes.
When he saw it, Seymour grinned for two reasons. He recognized the phone case art as a reproduction of a cover from the Dare-Devil Aces pulp series (one of his favorites). And he had just enough money in his checking account to fund his purchase.
After their high-tech transaction, Walt handed Seymour a low-tech pen and steered him to a dark blue notebook on the cookie table.
“Just write your name, address, phone number, and today’s date in my record book here. I always keep track of what I sell, who I sell it to, and what I sold it for.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t digitized your archives,” Seymour remarked, taking the pen.
Walt shrugged. “Some of us old dogs get tired of learning new tricks.”