Antiques Con - 8 by Barbara Allan

Author:Barbara Allan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2014-04-29T04:00:00+00:00

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Before buying a valuable comic book, examine it carefully for damage, removing it from its Mylar bag to do so; be on the lookout for missing pages, scribbling, tears, and wear on the spine. But always do this with the permission (and under the supervision) of a booth (or comic book shop) employee. Comics dealers do their best to pick up their wares at trash prices, but then view them as the pop-culture treasures they are.

Chapter Eight

Con Game

I have very good news for you! You need not distress yourself wondering what misfortunes may have befallen Vivian Borne on her New Jersey adventure, because Vivian Borne herself survived to tell the tale. And I am she (or is that her?), here to tell you.

I mean, it’s heartwarming knowing that Brandy was concerned about my welfare and whereabouts, but let’s not kid ourselves, shall we? Neither Brandy nor I am likely to meet any fate worse than injury or imprisonment in a book that we are writing ourselves, after the fact. I mean, really. Think about it.

Still, that’s not to say that things weren’t touch and go on the second half of my Joisey adventure. I was, after all, on foreign turf, wading into strange waters—or is that a mixed metaphor? Surely not—you have to have turf so that waters have a place to run through, strangely or otherwise, and, after all, there’s such a thing as surf and turf, isn’t there?

But I digress.

That lovely Johnny Contralto summoned a cab for me, and it arrived promptly, no longer than it took for me to throw down a drink at the bar with the boys. Let me tell you, they make a mean Shirley Temple at the Boom. A different dancer was on, a blonde with no surgical enhancements but several unfortunate tattoos. I had hoped on her break that I might counsel her to resist the urge for additional “body art,” as they call it, but she was still climbing her pole when my ride arrived.

Getting in back of the cab with my Coppola’s leftovers, I addressed the driver, a hobbity-looking fellow in an Ivy League cap who did not appear to be an immigrant (at least not a recent one).

“Good evening!” I said. “What’s the most exclusive nursing home in Teaneck?”

I deduced that someone as important as a Mafia Don would almost certainly spend his declining years at the best.

But the cabbie gave me a look as if I’d posed a strange question.

I explained in more detail: “What I call a nursing home, you may call an assisted living facility or perhaps a convalescent hospital. I suppose some people still use ‘old folks home,’ or perhaps ‘rest home,’ even possibly ‘retirement home,’ but you know, when you get right down to it, political correctness aside, ‘nursing home’ is still the most accurate, because there are nurses on duty twenty-four/seven, in case you need help getting to the bathroom.”

The squat middle-aged cabbie, Frodo with a crewcut and prizefighter’s nose, shrugged.

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