Free Two-Gun & Sun by June Hutton

As I said, he is one of the reasons I’m here.
    Tell me, I said again, is there any way you could arrange, that is to say, see to it, somehow, that I could meet him as well?
    My lovely, he said. You’d have to make it worth my while.
    I sat back as though he’d slapped me.
    My dear, he said. I hope you don’t think there was anything untoward in my statement.
    Well, I said, I have nothing to give you to make it worth your while, whatever you meant by it.
    He spread his fingers into a fan on the table and leaned on them. His blackened eyes had faded to a light green-brown bruising, as though he hadn’t had any sleep. I could see, now, that his nose was large of its own accord.
    What about your paper? he asked.
    My paper?
    I don’t mean all of it, just a percentage.
    How do you mean?
    I mean I could invest in it. You get the money and the introduction, and I get partial interest. Trust me, I know finances. I used to work in real estate.
    How much money are we talking about and what percentage, exactly?
    I knew that by even asking I was letting him know I needed money. I didn’t like being in that position but it couldn’t be helped. How was I supposed to pay for a printer when there was no paper yet to earn the money to cover his wages? The bank money was intended for the cost of supplies to help produce the paper, but the loan had not factored in the added expense of an employee and machine repairs.
    Fifty-fifty, he replied.
    No.
    Ah, I should have known you’d have a business head. Sixty-forty, then.
    Seventy-thirty. The seventy being my share.
    Dear girl. That gives me less than a third while you would have the clear majority. And on top of that you get to meet our leader.
    Precisely. It’s my paper.
    Neither of us had yet said how much. I didn’t recall the bank or the lawyer mentioning what the business itself was worth, just what the operating costs were. I didn’t want to open my mouth and quote a ridiculous sum. But I didn’t want him naming the sum, either.
    My aunt sold her house on one acre for eighteen hundred dollars, I said. A business would be twice that.
    Thirty-six hundred, he said, with such delight I knew I had hit too low.
    But there’s the press, I added, which is an expensive piece of equipment. Four thousand, two hundred.
    Why don’t we say current value four thousand as it is not yet producing a newspaper?
    He had me there.
    We can renegotiate, he said, once you’re up and running. Partner, he added.
    All right, thirty percent of four thousand is—wait a minute.
    I scribbled in my notebook, crossing out numbers. I have never been good at percentages. I had to go at it in a roundabout way. Ten per cent was 400. Times three.
    One thousand, two hundred dollars, I said.
    I don’t have that sum on me at the moment. But as a show of good faith why don’t I give you—he dug into his jacket pocket, then through his billfold, and produced a couple of wrinkled bills. Shall we shake on it? he asked. We can have the papers drawn up later.
    We can, I began, when the rest of the money is delivered.
    We shook hands.
    As long as it’s understood, I added, that I get an introduction to the leader. Good. For now, I said, I’ll give you a receipt.
    I tore a page from my notebook and scribbled:
    I hereby accept twenty dollars as a down payment from Mr. Morris Cohen toward a thirty percent interesttotalling one thousand, two hundred dollars in The Black Mountain Bullet.
    I signed it, dated it and handed it to him. I held my breath as I did so, and hoped that would stop my hand from shaking. It was a bold thing to do, and I was both excited and nervous.
    Then he pushed his chair back, stood, tipped his hat, again, and shambled over to greet my reeling competition from
The
Bugle
. I watched as Morris leaned his back against the wooden rail that ran the length of the wall, foot perched on the brass bar below, and began chatting with the man.