The Auctioneer

“Well this trouble’s laid up seven months now under all kinds of happenings as look all right. It was April-”

“April! And you’re just reporting it now?”

“Like I say, ma’am,” said John. “It was overlaid with sweet talk and I didn’t know as it would get so bad.”

“Oh, I see. It’s still going on, is it?” said the woman briskly. “What is it, extortion or something?”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

There was a pause and a sigh, then the woman said, “Look, let’s start with your district, then I can connect you with the right supervisor. Now. Where are you?”

“In Concord, ma’am.”

“Concord has its own police force, sir,” she said. “I suggest you call them. Then if they feel we should be called in, they’ll call us.” I called them already, ma’am, and what they say is since the trouble’s up to Harlowe—”

Harlowe? she said. “Well, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say so? I’ll connect you with—um, let’s see-that’s Captain Sullivan.”

There was a long, long pause and again John had to deposit money.

Finally a crisp man’s voice said, “Sullivan speaking. Understand you’re worrying over Harlowe.”

“Right,” John said, relieved.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“There’s this auctioneer come in, sir. A stranger. First he come round to half the town and collected up their life’s belongin’s to sell at his auctions. And then there was all these accidents, all to them as didn’t see things his way. And now he’s after land and livin’ children.”

“Whose land and children?” asked the man.

“Everybody’s, sir. Everybody who ain’t a deputy. Or the doctor or the storekeeper or some others.”

“That doesn’t sound like quite everybody. You personally are on hard times? That what you’re trying to tell me?”

“No, sir. I mean yes, maybe...”

“You talked to Bob Gore about this?” he asked. “I should think he’d understand your situation better than I can. I was talking to him just last Tuesday, and he was telling me how Harlowe is just bustin’ out all over. Construction, and new people, and money coming in hand over fist. If times are hard for you, maybe the town can help you out some, tide you over the winter. You ablebodied?”

“Course I’m able-bodied.”

“Well then...”

“That ain’t the point. The point bein’ that this here auctioneer who’s gobblin’ up the townsfolk—”

“If you mean Perly Dunsmore,” said the voice, laughing, “I’d best tell you he’s the luckiest thing ever happened to Harlowe. Now there’s a man knows which end is up. But I understand some of the old families like the old ways and don’t want to move with the times. These big developers always have their enemies. You got to get with it though, mister. We’re in the twentieth century. There’s no stopping progress. As for that fellow Dunsmore, he’s three lengths smarter than most. A real winner. You should count your blessings.”

“I got no grudge with the twentieth century,” John said. “What Perly’s up to’s got nothin’ to do with any century.”

“You’re wrong about that, of course, but listen. What did you say your name was? Maybe you could come in here and we could talk this over.”

Moore held the receiver to his ear. “Whatever you do, don’t breathe the name of Moore,” Mim had said. And Ma had said. “Its a sorry day when you’re ashamed to say you’re a Moore.” John took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. The telephone booth was so steamed up now that he couldn’t see out at all.

“Hello?” said Captain Sullivan.

John hung up.

He opened the door and breathed the cold air. He doodled in the steam on the inside of the glass with his fingernail, thinking about Captain Sullivan knowing he meant Perly right off the bat like that.

Finally he closed the door and dialed the operator again. “Give me the State House, please,” he said.

When the woman with the licorice voice answered, he said, “I talked to the police and the state police like you said and they won’t help at all. You got to let me through to the governor.”

“I don’t ‘got to’ anything, sir. Didn’t I speak to you before?”

“I said so, ma’am,” John said, feeling the sweat start beneath the collar of his wool jacket.

“What was your problem again?”

“Where I come from, there’s a man takin’ people’s children, their own flesh and blood. He’s shootin’ people and knockin’ greenhouses down and jimmyin’ up the steerin’ so’s—”

“Who is doing what?”

“The auctioneer—”

“Didn’t you call me last week too?”

“No, ma’am. No. Not me.”

“I think you did. This sounds familiar.”

“No, no,” John said, his spirits rising. “But there’s plenty on the receivin’ end along with me. Stands to reason. Must be others called.”

“Listen. Crackpots call in here all the time. You wouldn’t believe the calls we get. Obscene phone calls. People wanting him to come to their grandmother’s birthday party. People will say anything on the phone. You know some guy called in here the other day, thought I was the governor’s wife.” The voice laughed heartily.