T-shirt flexes his biceps. “You and me got some fighting to do.”
“Hell, no,” I say. “I already have my computer.”
“My computer,” T-shirt growls. I hug the Victor more tightly. My back is aching. T-shirt laughs at my discomfort. “My computer,” he repeats. “Gimme!” The auction staffer watches calmly. I don’t. That’s $6,000 worth of machinery we’re fighting over. Suppose I drop—
T-shirt rushes in. The computer’s plastic case smacks against the floor and shatters. Simultaneously, one of us brushes against the monitor. It, too, falls; and the CRT makes a horrible sound as the air rushes into the vacuum. The Victor, however well built, isn’t a machine to be fought over, barroom-brawl fashion. On the floor I see tiny computer chips and spaghettilike clumps of wire. God knows how, but the hard disk has spilled out of the Victor and is rolling down the aisle of the store.
The auction staffer makes clucking noises. I glare at T-shirt. “You saw it all,” I tell the staffer. “He’s the one who’s going to have to make good.”
“Hey, boss,” the staffer yells toward the counter, “we got ourselves a little accident here.”
The chief auctioneer rushes over and looks over the Victor’s remains.
“He smashed it,” I say, frowning again at T-shirt.
“But you let it drop,” T-shirt snaps.
“The price was only $1,200 on the last day,” I remind everyone. A lump is forming in my throat. Inflation notwithstanding, I’ll never feel right putting “only” in front of “$1,200.”