Curioddity by Paul Jenkins Read Free Book Online Page A

only served to tick him off even further. The little man looked at the fallen notations, aghast, and hurriedly reached down to scoop them up.
    â€œLook, Mr. Dinsdale—or whatever your name is—this has been a particularly rough morning for me,” said Wil. “I’m not sure why you’ve decided that today would be a good day to test your new comedy routine on a perfect stranger but I have bills to pay and debt collectors to make excuses to. If you have an actual point, I’d be most grateful if you’d get to it. And if you are in fact trying out new material for your routine, I’d appreciate a royalty check for my trouble.”
    Wil glared at Dinsdale, feeling slightly foolish for having been suckered into whatever scam the old man had going. It seemed mildly idiotic to think this strange-looking person stood a remote chance of being an actual client. Mr. Dinsdale, for his part, stared at the papers, taking just a little extra time to sort them while he apparently considered what he might do next. He furrowed his brow and scratched his chin in a contemplative manner. Then, he furrowed his chin and scratched his brow, which Wil was grudgingly forced to admit seemed a neat trick. Finally, Mr. Dinsdale nodded his head, having arrived at the business end of some kind of conclusion or other.
    â€œYou know, I think I understand your skepticism, Mr. Morgan,” said Mr. Dinsdale. “How silly of me. Of course, you’d have to actually hear the music first before you could accept it as the genuine article.”
    â€œWhat? Wait—”
    â€œYes, I realize my mistake now. You’re not the sort to just take something this magnificent at face value. You’re going to need proof of its authenticity. That’s what makes you a renowned detective. I should have expected no less, considering your reputation.”
    Wil flushed, feeling slightly embarrassed to have been so gruff with an eccentric old man who—on the face of it—had been nothing but pleasant company. He was unaware that at any time during his career as a private investigator he had garnered any kind of renown or reputation beyond that of someone who habitually paid his bills late, or not at all.
    â€œLook … Mr. Dinsdale, you seem like a nice enough guy: weirder than a bobcat on a skateboard but harmless enough. If this is just something you do to fill up your mornings, that’s fine. But unless you’re willing to give me an actual job or tell me what you really want, I’m going to have to get back to work.”
    Mr. Dinsdale suddenly sprang to his feet in an animated fashion, startling a couple of the patrons nearby who were sharing something that looked suspiciously like a gravel milkshake. “That’s the Wil Morgan I expected!” the little man shouted, enthusiastically. “Then it’s settled. Let’s get to work at once! Come on!”
    And with that, Mr. Dinsdale abruptly turned and headed for the front door of the coffee shop, leaving his bubbling Tiger concoction to pump out a heavy gas that cascaded off the edge of the table like a waterfall. “Wait!” cried Wil. But it was no use: the old man was already at the door and heading out into the street at an alarming rate for one so old. Wil scooped up his Regular Oversized and gave chase.
    As Wil rushed to the exit, he passed the teenaged server, who for some inexplicable reason was now simply standing by the door holding a large carton of heavy cream. They made eye contact for a brief moment.
    â€œBe careful out there,” said the teenager.
    As he rushed outside, Wil admitted to himself he had absolutely no idea of the significance of that statement.
    *   *   *
    B Y THE time Wil got out to the street, he could see that Mr. Dinsdale was already some thirty or forty yards ahead, obscured partly by the freezing fog. It seemed to Wil that unless the little man was an Olympic sprinter of