converted into “Hucksters’ Hall,” and Jon, like all the scruffy fans wandering through the room in search of pulp-paper dreams, was dropping money like a reckless Monopoly player: in his first twenty minutes, Jon passed GO, spent his $200. This is what he purchased: three Big Little Books, two Flash Gordon, one Buck Rogers; one Weird Fantasy comic with a story by Wood; and two Famous Funnies comics with old Buck Rogers strips inside and covers by Frazetta. All of it was the comic book version of science fiction; that is, pirates in outer space: Killer Kane hijacking Buck’s rocket ship; Ming the Merciless holding Dale Arden captive to lure Flash into a trap; pirates flying the skull-and-crossbones in the sea of outer space. Great stuff.
So why was he so damn unhappy?
Not about the prices he’d had to pay—he’d done all right on the items he picked up so far, by shrewd if halfhearted haggling—and not in disappointment at the size of this convention, though it really didn’t compare to the New York Cons, whose Huckster rooms were breathtaking, both in scope and prices. This convention was not, after all, totally devoted to comics, being the Detroit Three-Way Fan-Fare, a joint gathering of comics freaks, science-fiction enthusiasts and old-movie buffs. Since Jon fell into each category, he naturally was more than pleased with the arrangement.
But right now he was feeling low, an exceptional state of affairs considering he was now in the middle of the atmosphere that most nearly fit his conception of heaven: namely, a room full of comic books. Not unhappy exactly, more like unnerved. Moody. Jumpy. Ill at ease.
Tonight—the prospect of tonight—was scaring the bejesus out of him.
When Nolan had suggested going to Detroit and ripping off old man Comfort, the convention came immediately to Jon’s mind; but he decided to wait for the right moment to spring the idea on Nolan. When Jon did ask if it was okay if they stayed at this particular hotel, Nolan’s left eyebrow had raised and he’d said, “Comic books. It has something to do with comic books . . . I don’t know how in hell it can, but it does.”
Jon admitted as much, pointing out, “The convention’ll get my mind off the job—I won’t get all fumble-ass nervous about the thing. You can do your setup work, getting the car and the other stuff, and I can spend the afternoon looking at old comic books. It’ll keep my mind from dwelling too much on tonight.”
They’d been sitting on the plane at the time, having driven to the Quad City Airport in Moline for a Friday morning flight to Detroit. They hadn’t phoned ahead any hotel reservations, as it was Nolan’s intention to find a cheap motel once they got there. He’d made the intention known to Jon, who hadn’t been surprised by it, considering that right then they’d been sitting in the plane’s tourist section, another of Nolan’s money-saving tactics. Their conversation had to be couched in euphemisms, as they took up only two of three adjoining seats, the window seat being occupied by a conservatively dressed businessman who might be offended by discussion of the armed robbery pending.
Jon had discovered, through experience, that Nolan was something of a cheapskate. While Nolan had earned some half-million dollars in his fifteen years as a professional thief, he’d kept the bulk of it salted away in banks, while living a painfully spartan existence. Nolan had been satisfied with modest apartments and second-hand Fords because he lived for tomorrow—that is, had planned an early retirement from the heist game, a retirement that would include a nightclub Nolan wanted to own and operate through his “twilight years.”
But now that Nolan had been wiped out of his half-million nest egg, not once but twice (Jon’s along with it, the second time) you’d think the guy would’ve learned you might as well enjoy yourself today since a safe’s liable to fall on you tomorrow.
But no.
So why was he so damn unhappy?
Not about the prices he’d had to pay—he’d done all right on the items he picked up so far, by shrewd if halfhearted haggling—and not in disappointment at the size of this convention, though it really didn’t compare to the New York Cons, whose Huckster rooms were breathtaking, both in scope and prices. This convention was not, after all, totally devoted to comics, being the Detroit Three-Way Fan-Fare, a joint gathering of comics freaks, science-fiction enthusiasts and old-movie buffs. Since Jon fell into each category, he naturally was more than pleased with the arrangement.
But right now he was feeling low, an exceptional state of affairs considering he was now in the middle of the atmosphere that most nearly fit his conception of heaven: namely, a room full of comic books. Not unhappy exactly, more like unnerved. Moody. Jumpy. Ill at ease.
Tonight—the prospect of tonight—was scaring the bejesus out of him.
When Nolan had suggested going to Detroit and ripping off old man Comfort, the convention came immediately to Jon’s mind; but he decided to wait for the right moment to spring the idea on Nolan. When Jon did ask if it was okay if they stayed at this particular hotel, Nolan’s left eyebrow had raised and he’d said, “Comic books. It has something to do with comic books . . . I don’t know how in hell it can, but it does.”
Jon admitted as much, pointing out, “The convention’ll get my mind off the job—I won’t get all fumble-ass nervous about the thing. You can do your setup work, getting the car and the other stuff, and I can spend the afternoon looking at old comic books. It’ll keep my mind from dwelling too much on tonight.”
They’d been sitting on the plane at the time, having driven to the Quad City Airport in Moline for a Friday morning flight to Detroit. They hadn’t phoned ahead any hotel reservations, as it was Nolan’s intention to find a cheap motel once they got there. He’d made the intention known to Jon, who hadn’t been surprised by it, considering that right then they’d been sitting in the plane’s tourist section, another of Nolan’s money-saving tactics. Their conversation had to be couched in euphemisms, as they took up only two of three adjoining seats, the window seat being occupied by a conservatively dressed businessman who might be offended by discussion of the armed robbery pending.
Jon had discovered, through experience, that Nolan was something of a cheapskate. While Nolan had earned some half-million dollars in his fifteen years as a professional thief, he’d kept the bulk of it salted away in banks, while living a painfully spartan existence. Nolan had been satisfied with modest apartments and second-hand Fords because he lived for tomorrow—that is, had planned an early retirement from the heist game, a retirement that would include a nightclub Nolan wanted to own and operate through his “twilight years.”
But now that Nolan had been wiped out of his half-million nest egg, not once but twice (Jon’s along with it, the second time) you’d think the guy would’ve learned you might as well enjoy yourself today since a safe’s liable to fall on you tomorrow.
But no.
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