8 Antiques Con Read Online Free Page A

that.”
    She was right. About the me being a grouch part, anyway.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, nodding, sighing. “I’ll try to be better.”
    Mother patted my knee. “There’s my sweet, good girl.”
    So I washed my face, combed my hair, reapplied makeup, and put on a Max and Cleo geometric-print dress, little Juicy Couture cardigan, and short tan Frye boots.
    Mother had once again locked herself to the briefcase and, after we’d pinned on our convention badges for the reception, we headed out.
    The reception, held in one of the smaller ballrooms—PennTop North on the eighteenth floor, with a spectacular view of the city—was in full swing as we arrived, the guest professionals and staff talking and laughing, competing with a disc jockey in one corner who was playing loud dance music. That disco beat never seemed to go out of style in NYC.
    I was both disappointed and kind of relieved that there was nary a costumed superhero in sight—they were lined up in the lower lobby, outside the huge Globetrotter Ballroom where the booths were set up, waiting to get in. And their presence would increase on the day of the costume ball and contest.
    While Mother stood in the doorway—whether expecting to be noticed, planning her next move, or choosing a new victim to befriend—I made a beeline for the buffet, where I filled up my small plate to overflowing.
    How to be a one-trip salad bar cheat—a.k.a. salad bar hacking: First, fill a bowl with food, then lay carrot sticks on top as a second “floor.” Next, build a circular wall of cucumbers, tomato slices, and/or oranges. Finally, fill the tower in with other salad bar goodies. (Be careful your tower isn’t the leaning Pisa kind, because more than one of mine has toppled all over a restaurant floor.)
    Balancing my plate, utensils, napkin, and bottled water, I surveyed the tables, looking for an empty chair, but found none. Then I remembered passing by a little alcove outside the ballroom, with end tables and two overstuffed chairs, and decided to go there.
    Mother was across the room, flitting from person to person, inserting herself into one conversation or another, showing off her briefcase bracelet. I wanted to get her attention, to motion I would be out in the hall, but had no free hand to do it.
    Which didn’t matter; I wouldn’t be missed.
    Finding the alcove empty, I settled into one of the comfy chairs. The food on my plate looked yummy, but admittedly at this stage of my long day, I would have found cardboard a feast. I was in the process of removing juicy bits of meat and vegetable from a skewer when an altercation between two men outside the alcove interrupted.
    One of the pair I immediately recognized: our host, Tommy Bufford. The other was tall, slender, with wavy dark hair and an angular face; he wore a yellow polo shirt and tan slacks, a preppie alternative to train-wreck Tommy.
    “You signed an exclusivity clause, remember?” the wavy-haired guy said angrily, poking Tommy in the chest with a hard forefinger. “You weren’t supposed to operate a competing convention for five years , and I’m gonna sue your stinky ass.”
    “So sue me,” Tommy said, and shrugged. “But you’ll be wasting your time and money, Gino. I’m just a hired hand here.”
    The wavy-haired guy snorted. “That won’t wash. You’re running things—your name is being used.”
    Another shrug. “Just because we cofounded the Manhattan comic convention doesn’t mean you have any claim to my name. Or do I need to sue you over that ?”
    Now Tommy poked the other man’s chest.
    “And that goes double for the Buff Awards,” he added. “Buff is short for Bufford, you know. If you wanted to keep presenting those at the old con, then you should’ve included that in the contract.”
    As Tommy walked away, the guy yelled, “Sometimes I could just kill you, you bleeper !” Fill in the bleep yourself.
    Then he was gone, too.
    I had meant to tell Mother about the scrap, but when