Page 24 of Hang on St. Christopher

Crabbie stared into his teacup. I could tell he’d missed this quality banter.

“You see those drawing things above the fireplace?” I asked.

“The wee ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Picassos.”

Even Crabbie knew who Picasso was. He almost choked on his tea.

“Originals?”

“I think so.”

“They must be worth millions!”

I shook my head. “Nah. They’re etchings. He printed thousands of the things in his lifetime. They’ve got to be worth some serious coin, though... but not millions.”

“So Mr. Townes hadsomemoney.”

“Oh, yes. He’s driving a brand-new Jag. He’s renting a big four-bedroom house overlooking the water in the nicest part of Carrickfergus. He’s wearing handmade suits and he’s got two Picasso etchings. Our boy had some change.”

We sipped our tea and thought.

“I’ve got one for you. From our Johnnie. He said try this out on Uncle Sean.”

“Go on, then.”

“Which trombonist has the highest IQ?”

“J. J. Johnson?” I said immediately, as J. J. was known to be a genius on bone.

“Glenn Miller,” Crabbie said with a twinkle in his eye, which meant that we were about to receive that rarest of things, a Sergeant John McCrabban joke.

“Why Glenn Miller?” I said, playing my part.

“Because Glenn Miller came up with the big band theory,” Crabbie said, and like an ancient ship breaking up on a reef, his face cracked into a smile.

You couldn’t help but smile back.

“That’s very good. Tell Johnnie he got me.”

“I will.”

“There’s the phone.”

I picked it up, and it was yet more negation from the station.

“No sign of Quentin Townes in any database known to man,” I told Crabbie.

“What about the car?”

“Still nothing.”

“Maybe’s he’s a forger,” Crabbie said, looking at the living room paintings.

I ran with the idea. “Hmmm, I like that. He forges some masterpiece; the dealer takes the picture and then hires a hit man to rub him out so that no rumors about the provenance ever leak out.”

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