I knew a collector who would pay thirty in an eye-blink,
and from then on, as far as I was concerned, Scott/Billy was a fellow craphound.
"You going to the auction tomorrow night?" I asked him at the checkout line.
"Wouldn't miss it," he said. He'd barely been able to contain his excitement
when I told him about the Thursday night auctions and the bargains to be had
there. He sure had the bug.
"Want to get together for dinner beforehand? The Rotterdam's got a good patio."
He did, and we did, and I had a glass of framboise that packed a hell of a kick
and tasted like fizzy raspberry lemonade; and doorstopper fries and a club
sandwich.
I had my nose in my glass when he kicked my ankle under the table. "Look at
that!"
It was Craphound in his van, cruising for a parking spot. The Lego village had
been joined by a whole postmodern spaceport on the roof, with a red-and-blue
castle, a football-sized flying saucer, and a clown's head with blinking eyes.
I went back to my drink and tried to get my appetite back.
"Was that an extee driving?"
"Yeah. Used to be a friend of mine.
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