Read Online Strange Trades by Paul di Filippo - Free Book Online

Manhattan. Apparently the sight of a full orchestra atop the building’s roof, with dancers threatening to fall off the gables and kill themselves, had been too much for the cops. The subsequent dispersal of the revelers had eventually involved two fire companies and a contingent of National Guardsmen.
    Honeyman supposed he was just getting older, but for some reason he didn’t relish the idea of an Outlaw Party as much as he once had. The prospect of confronting the police at this time, when he was already guilty of perpetuating spondulix, rather took the enjoyment out of things.
    Regarding Erlkonig’s open face, with its broad white African nose and translucent eyebrows, Honeyman sought to detect any duplicity in the man’s invitation, but failed. Netsuke, meanwhile, had silently taken a napkin from the counter and was folding it into an origami crane. Honeyman tried to work up a little resentment at Erlkonig for stealing his girl away, but couldn’t do it.
    “Oh, what the hell,” he finally said, “sure, I’ll come.”
    “Great, my moll. I knew we could count on you. And maybe you’d contribute a little something—?”
    “No problem. IH make up a few platters.”
    “It wasn’t sandwiches I was after, Rory. The food angle is pretty well covered. But there’s a few other things we need to purchase, and our treasury is, like, empty.”
    “Earl, you know I’m broke.”
    Erlkonig smiled broadly. “Ah, my moll, that’s where you’re wrong. All you have to do is write out a few more of those spondulix things you’ve been giving Nerfball.”
    In a flash it dawned on Honeyman. Nerf never would have had the initiative or brains to promote spondulix. It must have been all Erlkonig’s doings. The man was crafty. Honeyman had always credited him with brains and guile, but this was beyond belief. To take advantage of Honeyman’s quandary in such a duplicitous manner—
    “Earl, you’re asking me to mortgage my future. Every spondulix I write is like a loan against my potential profits, meager as they might be.”
    Erlkonig became serious. “No, man, that’s wrong. That’s like a worst-case scenario. All the spondulix will never come in. Most are just gonna circulate forever. Take my word for it, I know. It’s money for nothing, Rory. It’s like having a money tree growing in your yard. You just have to overcome your fear and go with it.”
    Honeyman wanted to believe. It would make things so easy. “Do you really think so?”
    “My moll—I know so!”
    At that moment, Netsuke finished her paper bird. She opened her hands and tossed it upward, like a magician releasing a dove. The origami crane clearly flapped its wings a few times, then glided to a landing on the counter in front of Honeyman, where it promptly melted back to the original napkin, now intricately creased.
    Netsuke said nothing. The two men looked at her, then back to each other.
    “I wish I knew how she does that,” said Erlkonig.
    “Me too,” said Honeyman. Then: “Oh, Christ, here’s your spondulix.” Using another magic napkin, he wrote one spondulix for the largest denomination yet: five hundred sandwiches.
    “Thanks, moll,” said Erlkonig, putting the draft away in his shirt pocket. He and Netsuke turned to go.
    “Hey, where’s the party?”
    “Oh, we’re commandeering the campus of the Stevens Institute. Week from tonight. See you there.”
    Then they were gone, leaving Honeyman shaking his head at the audacity of it. The Stevens Institute of Technology occupied a spectacular bluff above the river, and afforded a gorgeous view of nighttime Manhattan. It was bound to be a hell of a bash.
    And when the deliveryman from the bakery came that day, Honeyman had no trouble persuading him to take spondulix in payment.
     
    4.
    Overlooking Sinatra
     
    A Frisbee skimmed low over Honeyman’s Mets cap, nearly knocking the hat from his head. Out of the concentrated dusk beneath a big elm off to his left came the voice of