The Book of Masks (Abridged)

A Slippery Sale

"MY DAD ALREADY HAS A JOB lined up for me," you reply. Actually, there's a position at his company that he is trying to get you to apply for, and which you've been resisting. So, you're not technically lying ...

Blackwell smiles tightly. "Of course. And fathers can be very insistent, can't they? Now, about your payment." He presses five twenties into your hand. "I can get you the other four hundred now, but I am also late for a faculty meeting. If you will let me, I'd like to ask you to stop by my house this evening, any time after six, to pick up the rest of what I owe you. In such a case, I will give you a fifty-dollar bonus."

You don't like him, but for something like the retail price of an Xbox game on launch day you're willing to set up a subsequent meeting.

"Excellent. Here is my card." He sets it on the book, which you are still holding, and writes on its back. "This is my cell phone and my private email address." The card itself reads "Aubrey Blackwell, Professor of Archaeology, Keyserling School of Mining and Technology." He circles the name "Blackwell" and scribbles an ornate symbol beside it. Must be his trademark.

He beams in his odious way, thanks you again, and departs after giving you another clammy handshake. You're left with the card, and it takes you several dazed seconds to register that he has walked off with the book under his arm.

Ted Arnholm rolls his eyes. "Butterfingers," he mutters.