Her Perfect Hero

There wasn’t a thing she could do. It was probably illegal for a group of people to get together and refuse to bid against each other, but who was she going to call? The cops? They’d arrived early and gotten in line, ensuring they would fill in all the low-numbered slots, and the fire marshal had done the rest of the work to keep out legitimate collectors and antiques dealers.

The auction was over in less than two hours, and she watched dejectedly as items from Brady’s went out the door—the neon lights, the rickety tables and chairs, the dartboards and pool tables, the TVs, even the liquor. A bottle of aged scotch was the one thing that had elicited spirited bidding.

Clem, the auctioneer, approached Julie with a sheepish look. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Polk. I don’t know what happened. I gave it my best shot, but these folks just weren’t in a bidding mood.”

She patted his arm. “It’s okay, Clem. I know you did your best. Just bad luck.” And some conniving firefighters.

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