“The next item on the block is a grandfather clock previously owned by Al Capone. Rumor states there’s a secret compartment in the clock. This affidavit attests that the current owner hasn’t found one. Please bid on the clock, not the rumor. Bidding starts at $12,500.”
Rita raised her paddle.
“I have twelve-five. Do I have thirtee—” Fields nodded.
“Thirteen, do I have fourteen?”
A man beside Rita raised his paddle, but Rita interrupted: “Sixteen.”
“I’ve sixteen, do I—” Fields said “Twenty.”
“I’m out,” Rita’s neighbor said.
Rita was authorized to bid twenty-five. She did.
Allegedly, Capone had hidden a map to some sort of cache. Theories abounded regarding its contents—some said guns, others moonshine, but the most prevalent theory held it was a cash cache. Rita disliked cutesy homophones; she subscribed to the moonshine theory.
“I have twenty-five. Twenty-six, anyone?”
Fields scowled at Rita. She smiled back victoriously. Fields raised his paddle.
Rita calculated her savings and credit limit: six grand. She texted her client; they OK’d up to a 20% share. She debated raising five again or something lower, allowing her to rebid if Fields countered. If she went with five, however, and Fields raised, she’d be out.
“Twenty-six once. Twenty-six twi—”
“Thirty-two,” Rita said to audience gasps.
Fields dropped his paddle.
As the auctioneer wrapped up, Rita hoped the rumor was true. Moreso, that her bias against cutesy-ness wouldn’t jinx things.
