Read Online The Puzzle King by Betsy Carter - Free Book Online
Authors: Betsy Carter
Tags: General Fiction
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this one got used. There’s no getting around that.”
With his right hand, Arthur Wade grabbed Simon under his jaw and squeezed hard. He tried to say something, but his words came out as coughs and hollow honking sounds. He loosened his grip on Simon and finally found his voice.
“Stupid, money-grubbing kike,” he said.
Then he said it again.
The advertisement shook in Simon’s hand. He tried to hold his mind steady. He was searching for something, something specific in his memory. He took mental inventory of all the sketches he’d done, the characters he’d created.
Oh wait, there it was.
The chalk lines from the breaks in the pavement were as vivid as when he drew them more than three years ago on the day of the Corbett-Fitzsimmons fight—the drawing that Arthur Wade had bought for five dollars to turn into a poster.
A penny for every poster sold, that’s what he had promised him then.
Simon’s intention was to throw a left jab under Arthur Wade’s heart just as Bob Fitzsimmons had done when he knocked out Jim Corbett in the fourteenth round. As Simon was taking his swing, Arthur Wade leaned over to try and catch his breath.
“What the hell?” he cried as his words collided with Simon’s fist.
Arthur Wade heard a snap in his head, felt a sharp pain in his mouth. It tore up through his nose and into his eyes. The bloodwas warm and salty in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the place where his front teeth used to be. It felt like broken glass. When he spat out blood, it was flecked with pieces of enamel. One drop spattered on the newspaper clipping that Simon had dropped to the floor.
You’re fired!
He tried to shout, but nothing came except the honking noises he had made earlier.
He sat down and sucked in some air. Finally, he caught his breath enough to try again. “You’re fired!” The words sounded feeble and full of air. And by that time Simon was well on his way down Lexington Avenue.
New York City: 1905
For her first trip into New York City, Flora Grossman brought two leather valises and one hatbox containing her latest purchase, a pink silk hat with a black velvet trim. She threw her bags on the seat across from her and pressed her face against the glass window when an unfamiliar voice startled her out of her daydreams.
“Excuse me, miss, I certainly don’t mean to impose on your time or give cause for alarm, but I cannot help but notice your hands. My trade being the reading and interpretation of the human palm, I am in a position to recognize a strong and richly detailed hand when I see it. And, if I may say, even though you are so young, I can see a worldliness about you and a life experience that is far beyond your imagining at present. May I?” he asked, making a slight bow while extending his arm to the vacant seat next to hers.
Flora was fifteen and had been in America for nearly four years, long enough for her to have practically lost her accent. “Sure, be my guest. Sorry about all my stuff,” she said, pushingher bags to one side. “I’m visiting my big sister for a couple of days, and I couldn’t decide what to bring, so I brought everything.”
“I can see that is so,” he said, plopping his lanky six-foot frame into the seat. “Ah, these bones get weary.” He leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes for a few moments, all the while rubbing his temples. Then he opened his eyes, stretched forward, put his elbows on his knees, and stared at her for a few moments. “Your accent. I can’t quite place it. You’re not from around here.”
“Germany,” she said, “I came over with my older sister. I live in Mount Kisco with my aunt and uncle, who aren’t really my aunt and uncle—she’s my mother’s second cousin, but we’re very close. My sister is the one I’m going to visit. She just moved to the city.”
He nodded, folding his hands in front of him. “I don’t mean to trouble you any further, but I wonder if you would you be
With his right hand, Arthur Wade grabbed Simon under his jaw and squeezed hard. He tried to say something, but his words came out as coughs and hollow honking sounds. He loosened his grip on Simon and finally found his voice.
“Stupid, money-grubbing kike,” he said.
Then he said it again.
The advertisement shook in Simon’s hand. He tried to hold his mind steady. He was searching for something, something specific in his memory. He took mental inventory of all the sketches he’d done, the characters he’d created.
Oh wait, there it was.
The chalk lines from the breaks in the pavement were as vivid as when he drew them more than three years ago on the day of the Corbett-Fitzsimmons fight—the drawing that Arthur Wade had bought for five dollars to turn into a poster.
A penny for every poster sold, that’s what he had promised him then.
Simon’s intention was to throw a left jab under Arthur Wade’s heart just as Bob Fitzsimmons had done when he knocked out Jim Corbett in the fourteenth round. As Simon was taking his swing, Arthur Wade leaned over to try and catch his breath.
“What the hell?” he cried as his words collided with Simon’s fist.
Arthur Wade heard a snap in his head, felt a sharp pain in his mouth. It tore up through his nose and into his eyes. The bloodwas warm and salty in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the place where his front teeth used to be. It felt like broken glass. When he spat out blood, it was flecked with pieces of enamel. One drop spattered on the newspaper clipping that Simon had dropped to the floor.
You’re fired!
He tried to shout, but nothing came except the honking noises he had made earlier.
He sat down and sucked in some air. Finally, he caught his breath enough to try again. “You’re fired!” The words sounded feeble and full of air. And by that time Simon was well on his way down Lexington Avenue.
New York City: 1905
For her first trip into New York City, Flora Grossman brought two leather valises and one hatbox containing her latest purchase, a pink silk hat with a black velvet trim. She threw her bags on the seat across from her and pressed her face against the glass window when an unfamiliar voice startled her out of her daydreams.
“Excuse me, miss, I certainly don’t mean to impose on your time or give cause for alarm, but I cannot help but notice your hands. My trade being the reading and interpretation of the human palm, I am in a position to recognize a strong and richly detailed hand when I see it. And, if I may say, even though you are so young, I can see a worldliness about you and a life experience that is far beyond your imagining at present. May I?” he asked, making a slight bow while extending his arm to the vacant seat next to hers.
Flora was fifteen and had been in America for nearly four years, long enough for her to have practically lost her accent. “Sure, be my guest. Sorry about all my stuff,” she said, pushingher bags to one side. “I’m visiting my big sister for a couple of days, and I couldn’t decide what to bring, so I brought everything.”
“I can see that is so,” he said, plopping his lanky six-foot frame into the seat. “Ah, these bones get weary.” He leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes for a few moments, all the while rubbing his temples. Then he opened his eyes, stretched forward, put his elbows on his knees, and stared at her for a few moments. “Your accent. I can’t quite place it. You’re not from around here.”
“Germany,” she said, “I came over with my older sister. I live in Mount Kisco with my aunt and uncle, who aren’t really my aunt and uncle—she’s my mother’s second cousin, but we’re very close. My sister is the one I’m going to visit. She just moved to the city.”
He nodded, folding his hands in front of him. “I don’t mean to trouble you any further, but I wonder if you would you be
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