Black Market

21

By the evening of December 12, the letters, all stuffed inside nine-by-twelve manila envelopes, had finally arrived. More than three thousand bulky letters had been mailed to every region across the United States.

The letters had come to the strangest and most unlikely places: Sedona, Arizona; Dohren, Alabama; Totowa, New Jersey; Buena Vista, California; Iowa City, Iowa; Stowe, Vermont; Cambridge, Massachusetts; Boulder, Colorado.

Kenny Sherwood in Eire, Pennsylvania, turned out to be one of the chosen few.

Sherwood stayed home from work that day because if he went to the mill, he'd just say something dumb and either get his ass royally chewed out or be fired. For nine years he'd been a machine operator with Hammond Tool and Die.

He made almost twenty-four thousand now, thirty-five hundred of which went for shrink sessions with a psychologist in Pittsburgh -little goateed fellow who treated him for his recurrent war dreams.

There was a neatly typed cover letter inside the envelope; it looked government official, a little scary, even.

Dear Mr. Sherwood:

During the years 1968 to 1972, you served your country proudly as a specialist in the U.S. Army. You were a POW from January 1970 to June of 1972. You received two Purple Hearts in Vietnam.

Please consider the enclosed a token of our appreciation for your services, a chance for your country to serve you.

Kenny Sherwood cautiously slid a peculiar piece of parchment out of the envelope. Now what the hell was this?

There was some kind of chained woman holding a globe of the world at the top of the paper. Farther down, the certificate clearly read “General Motors common stock.”

The legend went on: “This certifies Kenneth H. Sherwood is the owner of five thousand shares.” It was tied with a shiny green ribbon, a green band.