"I don't know. For how much?"
"A thousand dollars."
But for my banking experience, I might have started and shouted "What?" A thousand is a nice, round sum, even in these inflated days, especially when the statue had cost me one dollar. But experience has made me cautious.
"Really?" I said. "Is it worth that to the Museum?"
O'Neill seemed to go through an internal struggle. "It's not the Museum," he said at last. "It's a private party, who came to us a few days ago for help in tracing his statue. He says it was stolen from him. He traced it to Solola and learned that one of your group had bought it last March. He didn't know which, but he posted this reward and promised the Museum a donation if we'd help him locate his idol."
"Who is this man?"
"Agustín Flores Valera, a Guatemalan."
"Where is he now?"
"Back in Guatemala, but he left word for us to cable him."
"Why does he want it so badly?"
"He's a professional gambler; says it's his good-luck charm. Silly of him, but I don't see why we shouldn't help him out at that price."
"I'll think about it," I said, putting the statue back in my brief case.
I took Armando home and thought. I had nothing against Senor Flores, although his occupation was not one that our bank would consider a good credit risk. He had doubtless figured out how to butter up Armando so as to make the cards shuffle, the dice roll, and the roulette ball drop just right. It was hardly fair to his opponents, but I have never had much sympathy for the victims of gambling sharks. If they were not trying to get something for nothing, they would not expose themselves to being taken.
If I kept Armando, I should have to give him his promised sacrifice. Otherwise he would keep on sending us bad luck. If I yielded to him, he might throw some good luck my way; but he would also want more of the same. I could imagine what it would do to the Harrison Trust Company if the story got out that the vice-president was performing pagan blood sacrifices in the dark of the moon. Before the war, when I was a young engineering graduate, desperately job-hunting, I would have taken Armando to my bosom, sacrifices and all. Now, however, things were different.
I was still pondering the problem a week later when, one rainy Sunday afternoon, my doorbell rang. Stephen called: "Man to see you, Dad."
The man, small and dark, introduced himself as Agustín Flores Valera. I showed him into my home office and seated him.
"It is a great pleasure, a great honor, to meet you, sir," he said, bouncing in his chair. "You have a beautiful place, a beautiful wife, beautiful children. I am overwhelmed. I am enchanted."
"Very kind of you," I said. "I suppose you've come about that statue?"
"Ah, yes indeed. I see him there on your desk. The good Doctor O'Neill tells me that he has explained the circumstances to you? A great scientist, a great man, Doctor O'Neill."
"Well, Señor Flores?"
"You know my offer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you prepared to accept?"
"Not yet. I want more time to think it over."
"Oh, please, Mister, I need my esstatue now. In my-business, one needs all the luck one can get. I am on my way to the casinos at Puerto Rico ... Look. I tell you. I have here another esstatue of the same kind. Genuine antique, not a modern fake."
Flores whisked out an idol much like mine. When he set it beside Armando, it took a second look to tell them apart.
"There you are, Mister," he said. He was standing at my desk and leaning over me. He had the Latin American habit of getting within inches of the person one is talking to, and he had a breath that would knock over a buffalo.
"You will never miss the one you have now," he went on. "Besides, I have here one thousand in cash." From another pocket, he produced a wad of hundreds and flapped them in my face. "Come! It is a deal, no?"
Although he had not done anything really offensive, I disliked Serior Flores more and more. Before he arrived, I had almost decided to let him have Armando; but the hard sell always gets my back up. I run into that sort of thing all the time from promoters and developers who want to try out some grand scheme on our depositors' money. I said:
"No, sorry. I want more time to think this over."
"How about fifteen hundred? I can go that high."
"No, Serior, I meant what I said. I am not yet prepared to sell. Mas tarde, puede ser."
"Oh, you esspeak the Esspanish! Excellent! One can see that you are a man of great culture. But now really, Mr. Newbury, I must have that esstatue, now. Do not make it difficult for us. I will even offer two thousand."
I sighed. "Señor Flores, I have said my say, and that's that. When I've had time to think it over, if you will write me, I'll give you an answer."
He stood for a minute with tight lips. I could see a vein in his temple throb and thought he was about to burst into a tirade. He controlled himself, however, put away the money and the substitute statue, and said:
"Bery well, Mr. Newbury, I will not take more of your time. Perhaps we will be in touch again soon. Pray convey my compliments to the beautiful Mrs. Newbury and the beautiful Newbury children. A pleasant good day to you, Mister."
He bowed formally and went. As he disappeared into the waiting taxi, Priscille called from inside:
"Hey, Daddy, the TV's working again!"
So it was. Struck by a thought, I went back to my office and picked up Armando. Only it was not Armando. It was the near-duplicate that Flores had placed beside my statue.
This one, as I soon ascertained by digging through the black paint, was made of gray clay, not red sandstone. Moreover, it had been cast in a mold—one could see the parting lines—and finished by filing, instead of being sculptured from solid stone. Flores had shuffled the two on my desk and coolly picked up mine. I should have known better than to let a professional gambler work his sleight-of-hand on me.
What hurt the most was the two thousand, which, had I not let a petty personal dislike sway my actions, I could have had for the asking.
I never heard of Flores Valera again, nor did the Museum receive his promised donation. I have often wondered: was Armando so eager to get someone to make a blood sacrifice to him that he engineered his own abduction? Did his new possessor submit to his demands? If the gambler balked, Armando was in a position to ruin him by a few bum steers.
I sometimes miss the ugly face of my little Quiche godlet, but perhaps it is just as well he is gone. In financial transactions and human relationships, I find it hard enough to estimate the most favorable probabilities, without having also to take into account the whims of a bloodthirsty and temperamental deity!
Priapus
I like my brother-in-law but, after what has happened each time I have visited him, I am wary of going there again. The first time, when I was in California on business, I was almost roasted alive in a burning bank building. The second time ...
The winter our son Stephen was a sophomore, I came down with the flu, which left me as limp as a wet noodle. The president of the Harrison Trust, Esau Drexel, said:
"Willy, take the rest of the month off and go somewhere warm. Business is slow, and we can handle it. Take Denise with you."
"And leave those three kids alone in the house?"
"Oh, forget about being the heavy father! They're old enough to manage, and they're about as well-behaved as you can expect of kids nowadays. Why, when I was your boy's age ..."
Having wangled an invitation from Avery and Stella Hopkins, Denise and I flew to San Romano and the Californian sunshine. True, we arrived in the middle of a two-day winter downpour, but then things cleared up to let us get some tan and tennis.