The Auctioneer

By J.S. Frankel

Matthew Carter, eighteen and orphaned recently due to the death of his father, continues on the family tradition of auctioneering. It is not his chosen profession, but one that is thrust upon him by circumstance.

Offered a chance to make some money by a man named Baltarus, Matthew reluctantly agrees, and to his surprise, ends up on an alien star-port where he auctions off rare items from all over the galaxy.

Matthew learns his trade and grows into it, but complications arise when he is forced to sell an alien woman named Anarra. He buys her in order to give her the freedom she desires. They become friends, and soon become lovers.

Life is good, but all that changes when he becomes a target of unknown assassins. Additionally, he is forced to sell a planet named Volarus, something that goes against his conscience.

Matthew finds out there’s more to life than making money, and races against time to find a loophole in order to stop Volarus from being next on the bidding block, as well as finding out the faceless killers who will stop at nothing to achieve their goals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Dec 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781487421304

Book preview

Selling used cars and antiquities is nothing new for an auctioneer. When it comes to selling people and planets, that’s another matter altogether.

Matthew Carter, eighteen and orphaned recently due to the death of his father, continues on the family tradition of auctioneering. It is not his chosen profession, but one that is thrust upon him by circumstance.

Offered a chance to make some money by a man named Baltarus, Matthew reluctantly agrees, and to his surprise, ends up on an alien star-port where he auctions off rare items from all over the galaxy.

Matthew learns his trade and grows into it, but complications arise when he is forced to sell an alien woman named Anarra. He buys her in order to give her the freedom she desires. They become friends, and soon become lovers.

Life is good, but all that changes when he becomes a target of unknown assassins. Additionally, he is forced to sell a planet named Volarus, something that goes against his conscience.

Matthew finds out there’s more to life than making money, and races against time to find a loophole in order to stop Volarus from being next on the bidding block, as well as finding out the faceless killers who will stop at nothing to achieve their goals.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Auctioneer

Copyright © 2018 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-2130-4

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

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Smashwords Edition

The Auctioneer

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, and to my sons, Kai and Ray. They make every single day my greatest adventure. And, in no particular order, to Eva Pasco, Lyra Shanti, Mirren Hogan, Joanne Van Leerdam, Sara Beth Linnertz, Leslie Rosanoff Kroll, and too many more fine people to name.

Chapter One: What Am I Bid?

Portland Auction House, 1:30 PM, June 17, Saturday.

As usual, the hall was full, the air stuffy with the scent of stale cigarette smoke, perfume, and body odor. No air-conditioning—the cooler had broken down a while back, so I sweated along with everyone else.

Someone had brought in a couple of fans, and their blades turned in a slow, desultory manner. It didn’t help, and I swiped some sweat away from the back of my neck.

Occasions like this demanded I wear a suit. The last time I’d worn a suit was at my father’s funeral, one year ago. Give me jeans and a t-shirt any day of the week, but here, not happening. Auctioneers usually dressed conservatively. The bigger the house, the better you dressed. That was how it went.

As for everyone else, they’d come in early, met with the dealers, talking about prices and origins of goods and more. I knew these people. I’d been auctioneering at places like this in and around Portland for almost a year, a year after my father died. I’d been almost eighteen at the time...

Are we starting soon, Matthew?

The voice startled me. It was Mr. Simpson, a long-time auction patron. Somewhere in his eighties, retired and wealthy from real-estate investment, he lived alone and spent a lot of time at auctions, primarily to talk to other people and make a few buys. He had the cash. I don’t think he ever cared for the antiques he bought. He simply wanted to meet people.

Dressed in a sharply tailored gray suit, he had a head of sparse white hair, a prominent Adam’s apple, and an even more prominent nose. Whenever he met someone, he was unfailingly polite, knew the auctioneering game as well as I did, and maybe even better. He could spot a fake item or an attempt to rig bids from a mile away.

Pretty soon, sir, I answered, checking the crowd for anyone I didn’t know. Yeah, all the regulars were here. Not all of them were rich, but there were a few standouts.

Mrs. Hersh, who owned a high-end fashion boutique, Mr. Oliver, who owned three hotels in and around the state, and uh-huh, over there, Horace Waddle, a local businessman whose company made the best peanut butter on the local market.

All of them were in their sixties, fashionable to the max. While everyone else was well-dressed, they stood out, mainly due to their attitude and an aura of wealth they gave off. They were deep in conversation, but Mrs. Hersh picked her head up long enough to turn in my direction and offer a haughty stare. Thanks for your kindness, Mrs. Hersh. Instead of returning the stare, I waved back.

If you want to get ready, I’ll get moving, Mr. Simpson said. And I know you’ll be watching the unholy trinity.

He flicked his eyes in their direction. At times, those three—and others I’d known through various auctions—would bid-rig together.

Bid-rigging was against the rules—if a person could prove it. There were many ways to do it. One of the most common ways was for each person to outbid the other seconds after the auctioneer had intoned the price.

Mr. Simpson never had to. He had enough money to buy all three of them, but he never lorded it over anyone, least of all me.

That’s okay, sir. Stick around for a while. We still have time.

Truthfully, I didn’t want him to go. My nerves were eating away at my gut. Being in front of a crowd of people wasn’t for me.

You’re still learning, Matthew, he said as if sensing my uncertainty and then patting me on the shoulder. It’s okay to have someone mentor you. Your father did a wonderful job. Now, all you have to do is gain more experience.

My father had been an auctioneer, one of the best in the state. His father had done the same job. In fact, it went all the way down the line, or so I’d heard. Auctioneers were considered by some to be a rare breed, due to the internet taking away the personal touch, but I didn’t believe it.

People liked to be in contact with each other, and more than that, they wanted to see the goods up close and personal. A picture could be digitally enhanced. The real thing couldn’t, and the only way to make sure was to go and see it for yourself.

That’s where I came in—sort of. Call me the black sheep of the family. I had my heart set on going to university. Make something of myself, broaden my horizons... all that jazz.

You can be whatever you want to be, my mother had once told me. She’d died when I was six, and my father had never really recovered. He started drinking, got moody and bitter, but he never hit me or yelled at me.

Maybe it would have been better if he’d let it out once in a while. Instead, he became withdrawn, drank some more, and the only good thing about his boozing was that he never got wasted before doing his thing at the podium.

And what a sight he was up there! Your father was one of the best, said Mr. Simpson, taking a sudden trip down nostalgia lane. He practically teared up, reminiscing about how things used to be. The way he worked an audience, it was magic.

Old man Simpson happened to be right about that. Working an audience full of potential big-spenders was an art. No matter how big or small the auction or where it was held, my father always wore a neatly pressed suit and tie, never sweated, never seemed out of control, and raised and lowered his voice to capture the attention of the audience.

Speed was also a factor. Some auctioneers spoke so quickly that only the best-trained ear could catch what they were saying.

In contrast, my father was fast, but not overwhelmingly so. Here’s another bid, another bid, three hundred... what do I hear from the man in the checkered shirt? Four hundred? You can do more. You can go higher...

Invariably, someone would raise their hand or their number, and the bids would mount. It soon got fast and furious, and my father was very good at what he did. Everyone called him Mr. Incorruptible, unlike some other auctioneers.

It’s a scam. That’s what it is, my father had said to me once.

He meant that some auctioneers worked with professional bid-riggers in order to rope in the naïve or the ignorant. My father would never allow it, and he knew who did what. For him, he let the business with other auctioneers go, but when it came to his business, the cheaters knew better than to mess around.

Finance-wise, we’d always been strictly lower-middle class. His annual salary was a bit over fifty thousand, not great, but enough so that we didn’t go hungry. It’s a decent life, he’d often say to me when I was small. I travel a lot, but people appreciate what I do. When you start, you’ll know.

Like I had a choice? When I was fifteen, I started training under him. To be an auctioneer involved an apprenticeship, but in our case, that kind of training was more or less left alone. In a way, it paid to have family ties. My apprenticeship lasted a year, and in the end, I got my certificate.

It should have gratified me, except that I had a different plan in mind. After I’d gotten my certification, I asked my father for a heart-to-heart chat. Since my mother had died, he’d gone and done his own thing, and I’d done the scholastic thing and never did the twain meet. Dad, can we talk?

He was in the living room, sitting in front of the boob tube and in the middle of knocking back a drink. At my question, though, he put his glass down on the coffee table, got up, and beckoned me into the kitchen. He wasn’t angry, only curious when I told him of my decision.

What’s wrong with you, Matt? You know, my father did this, and so did your grandfather. It’s an honorable tradition. Nothing wrong with being an auctioneer.

No, there was nothing wrong with it, but all the same, it wasn’t for me. I’d received my license, and I’d assisted my father when high school let out.

But I felt that my style could never match his, and working an audience wasn’t as easy as it looked. I tried, but I also never felt any connection. Most of all, I didn’t want to be locked in, running from place to place and auction to auction.

His drink now forgotten, my father put on the coffee maker and flicked the switch. While we waited, I glanced around. The paint was peeling from the wall, there was a faint smell of mold in the air, and the furniture was rickety, from the chairs we sat on to the table we ate our meals at.

Silence ruled for a few minutes until a faint beep from the coffee maker and the smell of freshly brewed coffee told me things were ready.

I’ll get this, he muttered, and proceeded to heave himself out of the chair. You want sugar in this?

Black.

He helped himself to two heaping spoons of the sweet stuff, and then he carried both cups over, setting one down in front of me.

As I sat across from him, inwardly I smiled. People said we looked alike. True that—we both stood around five-ten, had gray eyes, and sported a shock of dirty blond hair. Average features with aquiline noses completed the bill.

However, on the subject of physiques, mine was slender. Due to the drinking, my father had developed a sizeable gut. He also had high blood pressure and smoked, although never on the day of an auction.

Now, though, he lit a cigarette, wheezed out the smoke, and then coughed. He took a few more drags and then stubbed it out. The rattling in his lungs sounded like marbles. So, you want to tell me why?

How to answer him? Dad, I just want to go my own way. Nothing’s wrong with being an auctioneer. You work hard. I know. You worked harder after Mom went. But I thought I’d try something different.

Such as?

Good question. I wasn’t much of a scholar. History was really the only thing I happened to be halfway decent at. Everything else, though... nope. I’ll figure it out, but getting a university degree should help.

My father sighed, shook out another cigarette, lit it, and then puffed away for a few seconds before having a hacking fit and stubbing it out. Rotten habit, he wheezed. Your mother, if she were around, would tell me to cut out the butts.

He ruminated over his loss—my loss as well—mumbling something incomprehensible for a few seconds before picking up his head to lock gazes with me. All right, here’s the deal. Finish high school, see if you can pass the university entrance exams. If you can, I’ll pay your way through school. Deal?

Deal.

At that time, I thought it would work out.

Someone once said that life never worked out the way it should have or something along those lines. My father dropped dead of a heart attack the day after I graduated high school. High blood pressure, cirrhosis of the liver—he was a fatality waiting to happen.

As bad as I felt about his passage, after the funeral, I found out that the money he’d earned had to be used to pay off the inheritance tax, as my father had never made a will. Probate court took most of the cash, so, now I was here, picking up where my father had left off—and I didn’t like it one bit...

I came back to reality when Mr. Simpson tapped me on the shoulder. I’ll go take my seat, Matthew. Looking forward to listening to you.

He left, and the organizer of the auction came over to ask if I was ready. Mr. Collins, a short, stout man in his fifties, had already set up the chairs with his crew. Can I assume you’re ready? he asked.

I’d already done my research on what was being sold—urns, jewelry, some furniture, and a few paintings. All I needed was the confidence—good luck with that. Still, I had to give it my best shot. Let’s get this party started.

Everyone took their seats, held their number in their hot little hands, and waited. The computer was ready, the bids already flowing in, so I quickly typed in, Wait, and they complied.

Before things started, I scanned the audience to see if the triumvirate was seated together. No, they weren’t. In fact, Mrs. Hersh had already left, and Mr. Oliver had also vacated the premises. Only Waddle had stuck around, and he stared straight ahead, nodding his head expectantly. Good, things looked normal...

Except for two men. The first guy was a midget, perhaps four feet in height, wearing an ill-fitting brown suit that looked like he’d picked it up at a bargain basement sale. With a square face and beady black eyes, he reminded me of snake eyes on dice.

His friend was the polar opposite. Maybe six-six and reed-thin, he had washed-out brown eyes and an absurdly small, twisted nose, almost like a pig’s tail. His suit, a garish red, had diamonds and other gems that festooned his collar and cuffs, and he sat alongside Mr. Midget in the front row, ignoring the heat.

While the other people in attendance sweated freely and fanned themselves, both men seemed impervious to the summer weather. Some of the patrons stared at them, but they ignored the looks and focused their attention on me.

Mr. Collins got the ball rolling, stepping up to the microphone and tapping it twice. A hollow sound echoed, and he introduced me. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. Mr. Matthew Carter will be our auctioneer today. You may remember his father, Harold Carter. He’s not with us, anymore, but Matthew is every bit as good an auctioneer, and I expect you to follow the rules. Now, let’s get the bidding started.

The people in attendance gave me a round of polite applause, and I stepped up to the podium. A glance at the computer told me that the online bidders were ready, and one helper brought out the first item on the block. It was an urn, circa nineteen-hundred, manufactured in Great Britain.

My heart beat fast, and I tried not to stammer. We have, uh, an urn, manufactured by the British maker—I looked at the underside—Holmes & Son at the turn of the twentieth century. Um... the opening bid is for three hundred dollars. What am I bid?

People looked at one another, not saying a word. Had I screwed up that badly? Then Mr. Simpson held up his number. We have three hundred, do I hear three-fifty?

Waddle raised his card. The computer beeped. A message had come through. Someone had made an online bid of five hundred dollars. I have five hundred from an internet buyer. Do I hear five-fifty?

Six hundred, a man from the back said.

The bidding continued from there, with everyone holding up numbers and me stumbling over my words. The sweat ran in my eyes, and I’d forgotten every fact. Incompetent—that word came to mind. Jesus, talk about incompetent!

Still, the crowd seemed in a forgiving mood, as most of the people hung on to my every word, messed up or not. More bidders raised their hands, but once we reached a thousand dollars, the newcomer held up his hand and said in what I took to be a European accent, I will pay five thousand of your dollars.

A gasp went around the room. The top price of this item was expected to fetch only three thousand at most, and no one, least of all me, had expected him to up and pay that amount of coin.

Still, the bidding had to go on, and an assistant typed the bid into the computer. No responses—too rich for their blood. I have five thousand, er, yeah, five thousand. Do I hear fifty-five-hundred?

Silence. After repeating the offer, more silence greeted me. The computer’s bidders had signaled their reluctance to pay that much. Going once, going twice... sold, to the man in the red suit.

The other patrons didn’t clap at first. Instead, a murmur ran through the crowd. Paying that much for an urn like that? They must have thought him incredibly naïve or incredibly rich. Or maybe stupid, I wasn’t sure. He didn’t sound stupid, though. So either he knew more than he said, or he didn’t care about the money. Odd, but whatever. A customer was a customer.

One of the handlers carefully took the urn from the stand and said they’d keep it safe. The red-suited man offered a brief nod. Well, item number one went off the list, and then another handler brought out a painting by Robert Coulter, an American impressionist from the nineteen-thirties. Our next item up for auction is...

An hour later, all the items had been sold. After the first sale, things started to go better, although the sweat had soaked my suit and a squishy feeling came from my shoes. Suckage had never been so terrible.

How my father had been able to do it was beyond me. I had no feeling for this, didn’t want to be here... but I had no choice. Auctioneering may have been a lousy line of work to get involved in, but being broke was even lousier.

As for the strangers, neither of them made another bid. Instead, they sat quietly,