Read Online New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird by Kim Newman, Neil Gaiman, China Miéville, Charles Stross, Cherie Priest, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Sarah Monette, Michael Marshall Smith, Paula Guran - Free Book Online
Authors: Kim Newman, Neil Gaiman, China Miéville, Charles Stross, Cherie Priest, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Sarah Monette, Michael Marshall Smith, Paula Guran
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Short Stories, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Genre Fiction, Short-Story, Anthologies, Anthology, Anthologies & Short Stories, Metaphysical & Visionary, cthulhu, weird
Ads: Link
there’s a problem with something we’ve sold him, he’s had the old Bill knocking on his door. But now I’m not sure. If it was grief, he wouldn’t be buying us a pint. He’d be in a hurry, and pissed off. “Have to wait and see.”
Eventually Mr. Pzlowsky gets back to us with our drinks on a little tray. He sits down at our table, his back to the rest of the pub, and I start to relax. Whatever he’s here for, he’s playing by the rules. He’s drinking neat gin, no ice. Ugh.
“Cheers,” I say. “So: what’s up?”
He lights one of his weird little cigarettes, coughs. “I have something for you.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say. “What?”
He reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a brown envelope. Puts it on the table, pushes it across. I pick it up, look inside.
Fifties. Ten of them. Five hundred quid. A “monkey,” as they say on television, though no fucker I know does.
“Fuck’s this?”
“A bonus,” he says, and I can hear Baz’s brain fizzing. I can actually hear his thoughts. A bonus from the Pole, he’s thinking: What the fuck is going on?
“A bonus, from the Pole?” I say, on his behalf. “What the fuck is going on?”
“This is what it is,” he says, speaking quietly and drawing in close, I won’t do his accent, but trust me—you have to concentrate. “It is from that jewelry you bring me last week. The silver. The American silver. I have one of my clients in this afternoon, he is the one sometimes buys unusual things, and I decide I will show this silver to him. So I get one of these things out—I always show just one first, you understand, because it can be more expensive that way. He looks at it, and suddenly I am on high alert. This is because I am experienced, see, I know what is what in my trade. I see it in his eyes when he sees the piece: he really wants this thing, yes? I was going to say two hundred to him, maybe two hundred fifty, this is what I think it was worth. But when I see his face, I think a moment, and I say seven hundred fifty! Is a joke, a little bit, but also I think maybe I see what is in his eyes again, and we’ll see.”
“And?”
“He says ‘done,’ just like that, and he asks me if I have some more. I almost fall off my stool, I tell you truthfully.”
I nearly fell off my own stool, right there in the pub. Seven hundred and fifty fucking notes! Fuck me!
The Pole, sees my face, laughs. “Yes! And this is just the smallest one, you understand? So I say yes, I have some more, and his eyes are like saucers immediately. In all the time I do this thing, only a very few times do I see this look in a man’s face which says ‘I will pay whatever you want.’ So I bring them out, one by one. You bring me five of them, you remember. He buys them all.”
Baz gapes. “All of them? For seven fifty each?”
The Pole goes all sly, and winks. “At least,” he says, and I knew there and then that one or two of them went for a lot more than that. There’s quiet for a moment, as we all sip our drinks. I know Baz is trying to do the sums in his head, and not having much luck. I’ve already done them, and I’m a bit pissed off we didn’t realize what we had. Fuck knows what the Pole is thinking.
He finishes his gin in a quick swallow and gets up. “So, thank you, boys. Is a good find. He tell me is turn of the century American silver, from East Coast somewhere, he tell me the name, I forget it, something like Portsmouth, I think. And . . . well, the man says to me that if I find any more of this thing, he will buy it. Straight away. So . . . think of me, okay?”
And he winked again, and shuffled his way out through the crowd until we couldn’t see him any more.
“Fuck me,” Baz says, when he’s gone.
“Fuck me is right,” I say. I open the envelope, take out four of the fifties, and give them to him. “There’s your half.”
“Cheers. Mind you,” Baz says, over his beer, “he’s still a fucker. How much did all
Eventually Mr. Pzlowsky gets back to us with our drinks on a little tray. He sits down at our table, his back to the rest of the pub, and I start to relax. Whatever he’s here for, he’s playing by the rules. He’s drinking neat gin, no ice. Ugh.
“Cheers,” I say. “So: what’s up?”
He lights one of his weird little cigarettes, coughs. “I have something for you.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say. “What?”
He reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a brown envelope. Puts it on the table, pushes it across. I pick it up, look inside.
Fifties. Ten of them. Five hundred quid. A “monkey,” as they say on television, though no fucker I know does.
“Fuck’s this?”
“A bonus,” he says, and I can hear Baz’s brain fizzing. I can actually hear his thoughts. A bonus from the Pole, he’s thinking: What the fuck is going on?
“A bonus, from the Pole?” I say, on his behalf. “What the fuck is going on?”
“This is what it is,” he says, speaking quietly and drawing in close, I won’t do his accent, but trust me—you have to concentrate. “It is from that jewelry you bring me last week. The silver. The American silver. I have one of my clients in this afternoon, he is the one sometimes buys unusual things, and I decide I will show this silver to him. So I get one of these things out—I always show just one first, you understand, because it can be more expensive that way. He looks at it, and suddenly I am on high alert. This is because I am experienced, see, I know what is what in my trade. I see it in his eyes when he sees the piece: he really wants this thing, yes? I was going to say two hundred to him, maybe two hundred fifty, this is what I think it was worth. But when I see his face, I think a moment, and I say seven hundred fifty! Is a joke, a little bit, but also I think maybe I see what is in his eyes again, and we’ll see.”
“And?”
“He says ‘done,’ just like that, and he asks me if I have some more. I almost fall off my stool, I tell you truthfully.”
I nearly fell off my own stool, right there in the pub. Seven hundred and fifty fucking notes! Fuck me!
The Pole, sees my face, laughs. “Yes! And this is just the smallest one, you understand? So I say yes, I have some more, and his eyes are like saucers immediately. In all the time I do this thing, only a very few times do I see this look in a man’s face which says ‘I will pay whatever you want.’ So I bring them out, one by one. You bring me five of them, you remember. He buys them all.”
Baz gapes. “All of them? For seven fifty each?”
The Pole goes all sly, and winks. “At least,” he says, and I knew there and then that one or two of them went for a lot more than that. There’s quiet for a moment, as we all sip our drinks. I know Baz is trying to do the sums in his head, and not having much luck. I’ve already done them, and I’m a bit pissed off we didn’t realize what we had. Fuck knows what the Pole is thinking.
He finishes his gin in a quick swallow and gets up. “So, thank you, boys. Is a good find. He tell me is turn of the century American silver, from East Coast somewhere, he tell me the name, I forget it, something like Portsmouth, I think. And . . . well, the man says to me that if I find any more of this thing, he will buy it. Straight away. So . . . think of me, okay?”
And he winked again, and shuffled his way out through the crowd until we couldn’t see him any more.
“Fuck me,” Baz says, when he’s gone.
“Fuck me is right,” I say. I open the envelope, take out four of the fifties, and give them to him. “There’s your half.”
“Cheers. Mind you,” Baz says, over his beer, “he’s still a fucker. How much did all
Similar Books
