The trucker nodded as if Solomon’s answer confirmed what he already knew. ‘Any three questions at all?’
‘Anything.’
The trucker continued to nod. ‘What’s the stake?’
‘If I answer correctly you buy me dinner.’
‘That it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘And what do I get if you don’t?’
Solomon slapped his hand down on the counter. ‘This.’ He took it away to reveal the worn quarter beneath.
The trucker stared at the silver coin and frowned. ‘Twenty-five cents!?’
‘Not exactly. Look at the date.’
The trucker leaned in and peered at the numbers stamped beneath George Washington’s profile. ‘Nineteen seventy-six. So what?’
‘So that’s a bicentennial quarter,’ Solomon kept his voice low as if he was sharing valuable information, ‘minted to commemorate two hundred years of American independence. Much higher silver to nickel ratio than a regular quarter. Feel the weight of it.’
The trucker picked up the coin with fat, oil-cracked fingers then cupped it in the callused ham of his hand. ‘Feels like a regular quarter to me.’
‘Well it’s not. It’s slightly heavier – and a lot more valuable.’
The silver coin shone dully in the rough hand. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘A rare coin dealer will give you two hundred dollars for one in mint condition.’
The trucker let out a low whistle then frowned. ‘Yeah but this ain’t mint. This coin just about worn away to nuthin’.’
Solomon nodded. ‘Which is why you’ll only get a hundred dollars for it.’
‘A hunnert bucks for this?’
‘Maybe more. Certainly not less.’
‘And you’re willing to stake it against a fifteen-dollar meal?’ Solomon nodded. The trucker stared at the coin then shook his head and put it down on the counter. ‘I don’t know. There’s a catch. I cain’t see what it is but I know there is one. Has to be.’
‘I’ll take that bet.’ A skinny man in a rancher’s shirt stepped in front of the trucker and thrust out his hand at Solomon. ‘Name’s Billy-Joe. Billy-Joe Redford.’
Solomon took the hand and shook it. It was work-hardened and strong, hard lines from lanyards worn into the skin. ‘Pleased to meet you, Billy-Joe.’
‘Now hold on,’ the trucker said, standing up from his stool. ‘I never said I weren’t taking the bet.’
‘Sure sounded that way to me,’ Billy-Joe peered down at the coin on the counter. ‘What d’ya say this was?’
‘Bicentennial,’ Solomon replied. ‘Very collectible.’
‘And worth a hunnert bucks to a collector, you say?’
Solomon nodded. ‘Maybe more.’
Billy-Joe smiled. ‘Sure, I’ll buy it. You got yourself a deal, mister. I’ll stand you a steak if you can answer three questions.’
‘Now wait a second,’ the trucker dumped his hand on the cowboy’s shoulder and spun him round. ‘You can’t just muscle in on another man’s deal like that. Man was talking to me first.’
‘And now he’s talkin’ to me.’ The cowboy stepped closer to the trucker and looked up. The trucker was six inches taller and double the weight, though neither fact seemed to faze the cowboy. The silence stretched between them.
A loud bang broke the tension and everybody turned to the source. Rita was standing at the end of the counter, a water jug in her hand slopping ice over the side from the force of being banged on the counter. ‘Far as I recall the gentleman was talking to me first.’
‘Yeah, Rita, but you done passed on the wager,’ Billy-Joe said, still staring up at the trucker. ‘Same way this joker did. Only one that’s shaken the man’s hand on it is me.’ He glanced at Solomon. ‘Ain’t that right, mister …?’
‘Creed,’ Solomon said. ‘Solomon Creed. And you’re right. You are the only one who has accepted my wager. However,’ he looked at Rita. ‘I do not wish to be the cause of any trouble here. It’s your house, your rules. If you want me to move on and drop the whole thing then that’s what I’ll do.’
There was a groan from the crowd and Rita looked around at the assembled group, their expectations hanging in the greasy air like something solid. She looked about ready to kick everyone out but then a new voice piped up from the back of the room.
‘Let these fellas settle it.’
The crowd shifted and turned to look at the new speaker. He was sitting in a booth on the back wall, reading a newspaper like an old timer, though he couldn’t have been more than thirty. He was compact and solid-looking in a way that suggested hours in the gym rather than hard days working the land. He wore a dark blue, check work shirt that had been tailored to fit and his mouse-brown hair was well cut and slicked back to keep it out of his face.
‘He’s right about the law,’ the man said, slowly folding his paper and laying it flat on the table, like he was accustomed to being both listened to and making people wait. ‘Ain’t no crime if folks want to have a wager in a privately owned house, providing that house don’t benefit in any way financial.’ He looked over at Rita. ‘I say let these boys have their wager. Make a change from hearing the same damned twelve songs on the juke at least.’
Rita stood for a moment, her hand clenched tight around the handle of the water jug like she was maybe thinking about throwing it at him. Then she relaxed and let go of the jug. ‘Do what you want,’ she said, heading back into the kitchen. ‘This time tomorrow none of this will be my problem anyway.’
A murmur of approval rippled through the circle of onlookers as almost everybody in the place now abandoned their meals and clustered round the counter.
‘All right then,’ Billy-Joe said, pulling up a stool and rubbing his hands together like a kid about to tuck into a piece of chocolate cake. ‘Looks like we got ourselves a game.’ He waited for the crowd to settle then took a deep breath and fixed Solomon with his best poker stare.
‘OK, Mister Creed,’ he said. ‘Here comes my first question.’
‘So my mom’s favourite singer of all time was Julie London. Man, she loved that gal – way more than any of the dudes she ever brung home. Anyways whenever those dudes up and left again she’d always get drunk and play Love on the Rocks over and over – not the song, you understand, I mean the whole damn album. Consequently I know that damn album way better’n any red-blooded man oughta. So my question to you is,’ Billy-Joe paused for effect and a smile crept across his face. ‘What is the name of the fifth track on side two?’
Another murmur passed through the crowd and heads were shaken. If anybody had any idea what the answer might be they certainly weren’t going to own up to it.
Solomon ran a finger down the side of his empty water glass and sucked the condensation off it, focusing on the torrent of information rushing through his mind in response to the question, a river of facts about Julie London, her life, career and recording history. He had discovered, in the few days he could actually remember, that information came so easily to him that it was as much of an effort to filter out the things that were not relevant as it was to decide what was. But there was also a bitter twist to this almost bottomless gift of knowledge. Because