Chapter 24: The Sale

The auction house on Wabash had a plate-glass front and a room full of folding chairs, and on Saturday morning it was standing room only.

Nadine had saved me a seat on the aisle.

"Look at them," she whispered, delighted. "Half of Chicago is here for a man's golf clubs."

The Gaines estate sale was listed in the catalogue as Assets of a Defaulted Principal, Lots 1 through 40.

That was the polite way to put it.

Winslow stood against the back wall with his arms folded.

He had refused a chair, as he refuses all chairs in rooms with exits.

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, a thin man with a silver gavel and the voice of a cathedral.

"Lot one. A men's steel wristwatch, automatic, with a presentation inscription."

A young clerk in white gloves held it up on a velvet pad.

It caught the light from the glass front, plain and handsome.

I had chosen it myself, on a Tuesday, for a man I thought was working too hard.

"The inscription reads," the auctioneer said, squinting, "'Every hour counts. R.'"

A little ripple went through the room.

It was not quite a laugh.

It was the sound people make when they know a story.

"Shall we say two thousand?"

Paddles rose.

Two-five, three, three-five.

I did not bid.

Winslow had not moved from the wall, but I felt him look at me across the whole room.

I shook my head once.

A watch is only a watch, and I already owned all of the hours.

"Four thousand two hundred," the auctioneer said. "Sold, to the gentleman in the third row."

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