Free The Paper Grail by James P. Blaylock

solvent. I think you two will hit it off, though.”
    Howard couldn’t remember a time when Uncle Roy
wasn’t
down on his luck. He was a
businessman
—something that he would tell you proudly, making the word sound less generic than it really was. But as a businessman he was a spectacular failure. He had done moderately well as a salesman when he was younger, then managed to force a living out of the pet store trade for a few years. But then he had sold the business and borrowed heavily to open the spirit museum, which had cooked his goose financially.
    “I want to help out,” Howard said. “I haven’t done anything for the last two years but squirrel money away.”
    “Father isn’t fond of charity,” Sylvia said flatly. “I wouldn’t bring it up to him.”
    “I didn’t mean that. I meant that I don’t want to mooch off him or anything.”
    Mr. Jimmers appeared to be uncomfortable listening to the two of them talk. He edged toward the door, as if to hurry things along. It was checkout time for Howard.
    Sylvia beamed her smile at him again and fingered the quartz crystal that hung around her neck on a copper chain. “Duty calls,” she said, turning to leave. “Can you find the house all right?”
    “Sure,” Howard said. “No problem. I’ve got the address.” Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be out of there—outof the attic and out of the house. He wanted elbowroom and space to think, to rearrange what he knew about the world. He realized that his shirt was half untucked, so he shoved it back in, excusing himself and heading for the door of the bathroom. Mr. Jimmers went out, following Sylvia, and when Howard appeared downstairs a few moments later, Mr. Jimmers asked him if he wanted breakfast. “My hospitality hasn’t been worth much so far,” he said, looking abruptly downcast. “I’m a scientist, in my way, an inventor, and I’m afraid that I overlook the niceties sometimes. I live rough, you see, with no one to care for but myself …”
    This was a new Mr. Jimmers. Howard hadn’t thought of that. It must be terribly lonely, living out on the deserted bluffs like this. And now with Graham dead, maybe murdered, Mr. Jimmers was alone and pretty clearly frightened of strangers, and rightfully so.
    “I’m afraid that all I’ve got are these cans of chop suey,” Mr. Jimmers said, hauling one of them out of the cupboard. “You can scramble them up with eggs. It’s not bad, actually, on toast. Pity we don’t have any toast. The sandwiches last night were the end of the bread. I’ve got salt, though. I don’t eat breakfast myself. It runs my metabolism ragged, breakfast does. I take a cup of Postum, actually, with hot water out of the tap in order to flush the system.”
    “Thanks,” said Howard, trying to sound sincere. “I’ve got to get up to Fort Bragg, though. I’m not a breakfast man, either.”
    Jimmers put the chop suey away. “Cup of Postum, then?”
    Howard held up a restraining hand. “System’s fine. I’ll just run, I think. The ham sandwich last night was tip-top, though.”
    “You’re too kind,” said Jimmers, ushering him through the room with the fireplace and out toward the front door, where Howard fetched his shoes back. Having sat outside through the foggy night, they felt damp and sticky to the touch. The truck heater would dry them. “Goodbye, then,” said Mr. Jimmers, starting to close the door as soon as Howard stepped out onto the front stoop. “Nice of you to drop by.”
    The sky was clear and blue and the air was cold. Out over the ocean the fog lay like a gray blanket, but it was a long way off. The day would be a warm one, and Howard was almost cheerful, anticipating breakfast in Fort Bragg. He went around to the camper door, thinking to throw his jacket into the back. On the window, dead center, was the pelican decal. These were
gluers
, all right, just like Jimmers had said. They’dstolen the damned decal and then stuck it onto the first