Plucking Pigeons (standard:humor, 2548 words)
Author: Walt	Added: Apr 17 2012	Views/Reads: 3107/2052	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An old scoudrel meets a young girl who becomes his partner in crime

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“I'm fixing this chair.” 

“Why? I didn't look broke to me.” 

“How long have you be standing there?” 

“A little while. Are you ‘antiquing' the chair?” 

“What do you know about antiquing?” I asked. 

“My Daddy says that is what you do. You antique things and then make a
big mark-up. What's a mark-up, Mr Jenkins?” 

“Profit.” 

“Is that like you were telling me about my lemonade?” 

“Exactly. Profit makes the world go around.” 

“My Sunday School teacher says ‘Love makes the world go around'.” 

“She's wrong,” I said tapping the dowel into the hole and adding the
glue. I put the legs back on the seat and wiped away any trace of 
excess glue. What the hell did her Sunday School teacher know about 
love? I had tried that once and it certainly was not what made the 
world go around. I was only married for two years when I came home 
early one day and found my wife in bed with a stranger. I kicked the 
crap out of both of them and spent three months in jail for assault but 
it was worth it. Ever since, and it has been thirty years, I stayed 
away from the marriage thing. No kids – my nieces and nephews are all I 
want to see of kids. Mostly brats, I think. Well, this little kid – 
Victoria – seems okay. 

“How much do you weigh?” I asked her. 

“Twenty-eight,” she says. I figure that is close to sixty pounds in the
way I measure and weigh. She should be heavy enough. 

“Here – make yourself useful and sit on this chair until the glue
dries,” I said. “Don't squirm,” I added, not that it mattered but I 
hate squirming kids. You would think most of them have ants in their 
pants. I had a picture frame that needed a bit of antiquing with a tack 
hammer –a few dints to give it some character before I gave it a coat 
of darkening varnish. 

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Victoria said. 

“I know what day of the week it is.” 

“Do you go to church, Mr Jenkins?” 

“No,” I said. 

“Why not?” 

“I don't believe in all that -” I almost said crap “- stuff and
nonsense.” 

“You don't believe in God and angels and saints?”	she asked as if I was
some kind of heretic. Maybe I was. 

“No, I don't. I don't believe in ghosts, dragons, fairies or unicorns,
either.” 

“I do,” she said. 

“Fine,” I said. I was not about to get into a philosophical discussion
on religion with a six-year old who was sitting on a fake antique chair 
while the glue dried. Who puts these ideas in kids' heads?  I know my 
parents did not stuff any of that nonsense into our heads. And we are 
all successful business people. Jacob in an investment consultant and 
Tom is a criminal lawyer. Donald has had a couple of run-ins with the 
law but he's doing okay now down in Mexico. We all make good money and 
pay our taxes. I vote every election and keep my nose out of other 
people's business. I say hello to my neighbours but I don't really talk 
to them. They may think I am Jewish or some other untouchable, but I 
don't care what they think. Leave me alone and I'll leave them alone. 
Hell, I've talked more to this little girl than I have to my 
neighbours. Which reminds me, I don't even know her last name. 

“Does your mother know where you are, Victoria?” I ask. 

“I left her a note on the kitchen table saying I was playing outside. I
think they are sleeping in this morning. They probably have a 
hangover.” What does a six-year old know about hangovers? Maybe too 
much. 

“Did they have a party last night?” 

“Yes, over at the South's house. I had a sitter but she fell asleep. I
watched some cartoons that I had recorded with the PVR until eleven 
o'clock.” 

“Perhaps we should call your mother and tell her where you are – it's
almost lunch time.” 

“Okay. Can I use your cell phone?” I handed her my cell and watched as
she punched the number. There was no answer and the voice mail message 
came on. Victoria held the phone out so I could hear the recording: 
“Hi, you've reach Irene and Jack Andrews – we can't take your call 
right now so please leave a message at the beep.” 

“I guess I'll have to have lunch with you, Mr Jenkins,” Victoria said. 

“Uh, I suppose so. Do you like knackwurst?” 

“Uh huh,” she said, “I really like it.” and then, “What's knackwurst?” 

“Sort of like salami.” 

“I love salami. And dill pickles and cheese and rye bread.” At least
they were feeding the kid right. 

I placed the picture frame on the bench and after selecting an
appropriate spot, gave the wood a solid tap with the little hammer. 

“Why are you doing that, Mr Jenkins?” 

“To make it look older.” 

“Why do you want it to look older?” 

“So it will be worth more money,” I said. 

“But if you damage it, people won't pay as much for it, will they?” 

“They will pay more because they believe it is old and worth more.” 

“So you are trying to fool them?” she asked with the innocence of a
child. 

“Just Plucking Pigeons, my dear, just Plucking Pigeons.” My Dad always
used that term and it has stuck with all of us boys. 

“Why would anyone want to pluck a pigeon?” 

“It is just an expression, Victoria. It means,” I paused trying to think
of a politically correct way of telling a child that you were deceiving 
people, by artifice, maybe even robbing them. “It means fooling people 
who are easy to fool. Someone who is easy to fool can be called a 
pigeon. Plucking them is another way of saying taking their money.” 

The child looked confused. I said, “To pluck is to pull the feathers
out. Or it can mean to take the money from someone.” 

Victoria looked thoughtful. “Don't you like pigeons?” 

“Well, no, I mean, I suppose pigeons are all right. They are a bit of a
nuisance sometimes, but I've got nothing against pigeons,” I said. They 
kid still looked thoughtful, worrying I assumed, about naked pigeons. 
Or did she get my metaphor? Was she asking if I liked people? Did I? As 
I selected a few more places to add some authentic dints to the frame, 
I considered the question. Did I like people? Probably not. What is 
there to like? People commit all sorts of atrocities – like murder, 
rape, war. Kidnapping, slavery, extortion, bullying, beatings, child 
pornography – the list just goes on and on. You can't trust people. 
What was there to like?  I gave the frame a coat of varnish and 
announced that it was lunchtime. I did a redial on my cell phone and 
this time Mrs Andrews answered. 

“Mrs Andrews, this is Joshua Jenkins, two doors down. Victoria is here
helping me in the workshop and we are just going to have lunch. Would 
you like to speak to her?” I handed the cell to Victoria. 

“Hi Mom. I am helping Mr Jenkins. Can I have lunch with him?” she asked.
“Knackwurst and beer.” She giggled and handed me the phone. 

“No, it is not a problem. I'll send her home right after we eat.” 

Over lunch, I learned that Grandma Andrews was moving out of the old
family home into a nursing home and that Grandma had a lot of antiques. 
I gave Victoria one of my business cards in case her father and mother 
might want me to give them an appraisal. An appraisal, I explained to 
Victoria, was an estimate of the value of the antiques. The child 
looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Does that mean you buy 
the antiques from Grandma and then mark them up for a profit?” 

“Yes, that's what I do – that's how I make my money,” I replied. 

“What is your margin?” the kid was catching on too quickly. 

“33%,” I said when I never work on less than 50%. 

“Are you going to pluck Grandma?” 

I laughed, “No, Victoria, I won't pluck your Grandma,” knowing full well
that is exactly what I would do given half a chance. 

That afternoon Jack Andrews appeared at my door. I assured him that
Victoria had not been bothering me and yes, I would be happy to 
accompany the family to his mother's home and do an appraisal on the 
next Sunday, right after church. It must be a coincidence that 
occasionally after I do an appraisal and do not get the bid lot, there 
is a break-in and some of the articles disappear before the other 
dealer can take delivery. Jimmy ‘the Crowbar' Kelly understands about 
plucking pigeons. 

Grandma Andrews owned a substantial collection of old stuff, some of it
of real antique value. I made a detailed list and beside each item, I 
marked what I thought I could pay for it. I caught myself a couple of 
times writing too high a figure and had to erase it and recalculate. 
Victoria was helping me, putting a small chalk mark on each item as I 
noted it in my book. The kid was making suggestions about what needed 
gluing and cleaning as if she was an experienced buyer. I did not know 
how much she had told her parents of our workshop conversation but I 
hoped she had not mentioned the word pigeons because I could see over 
$200,000 worth of material at the farm, which was ready for antiquing. 
All the Andrews had to do was coo and I could turn a nice profit. 

The problem was Victoria. The damn kid had gotten inside my defences. I
resolved my small conflict by telling Andrews to make sure he had at 
least $200,000 insurance on his mother's contents at the farm. He ought 
to contact Arnold Polson first thing tomorrow morning and get a policy 
in place. It would be a shame to have the contents go up in smoke. Or, 
I did not mention, have someone slip into the farm with a large truck 
one dark night and remove the contents. Polson would give me a cut on 
the insurance premium, as usual. 

The whole affair turned out well for all of us. I got the business of
selling Grandma's things with a commission based on my lowball 
estimate. Andrews seemed happy with the price. Victoria comes over to 
the shop each Saturday to help me with my pigeon plucking – a term that 
her mother finds unusual. However, who knows where kids pick up these 
strange sayings? 


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