Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

"But I lost the ticket," the guy protested, color rising into his pale face. He had horrible breath; the blind woman, Agnes, had mentioned that. He kept his hand loosely over his mouth, half covering a set of the worst teeth Boldt had ever seen. "I suppose I'm the first fucking guy to lose a receipt, right?"

"Maybe you can't read." Boldt pointed to the sign. "You blind or just plain stupid?" Boldt Ill painted was beginning to enjoy this. It gave him a vent for his anger.

The woman edged over to them and said to Boldt in a sexy voice, "Hey, sweetheart. You gonna jerk off all day or what? I got some rocks I wanna hock."

"Get lost," Maybeck barked at her.

"Get fucked," she said to him. "Wasn't tawkin' it to you. "In a minute," Boldt told her. "Those really your teeth?" she asked Maybeck. He popped her shoulder with the butt of his hand. She stumbled back and flipped him the bird. "I don't need your business, pal," Boldt said. "Take it somewhere else. Now!" He felt terrified to say such a thing and yet he went with Daffy's assessment. "Hey! Hey!" the guy said, raising his hands as if the woman had stumbled all by herself. "I'm cool, man."

"You hit her again, I'm gonna see you through the front door-without opening it." "You and who else?" the guy asked. "Who's next?" Boldt called over the guy's head, ignoring him completely now.

He looked over at Maria Romanello. Her skirt was about as big as a fly swatter, her legs, in black tights, a mile long. "What kind of stones?" he asked her.

The guy was looking at her, too. Damn near drooling. Meyers let loose on electric guitar so loudly that Boldt couldn't hear himself think. Boldt hollered for him to knock it off. "Come on, man," the suspect tried once more.

Boldt felt relieved that Daphne's ideas seemed to be working. He never would have played it this way. Not in a million years. He said strongly-a teacher losing patience- "My floor manager told you yesterday: You lose the ticket; you come back after the grace period; you buy it back at floor value. if no one has bought it by then, it's yours. Those are the rules, pal. And I gotta tell you: A laptop computer is not going to be around that long. No way. So give it up. Get a fucking job for all I care."

"You got to make an exception." He offered Boldt two twenties he had cupped in his hand. "What do you think?"

"Put the fucking cab fare in your pocket, pal. You're going to need it. Wrong guy. Listen," he said, conceding a point, "the only exception I ever make on something like this is if the customer can describe the item in such a way as to convince me they're the rightful owner. But with something like this-with a laptop computer-they're all the fucking same to me. I don't know shit about computers-so you're plum out of luck."

"But they're not the same!"

"To me they are."

"Diamonds," Maria interrupted, leaning in so the man could see down her blouse. "Diamond earrings."

The guy was staring right along with Boldt. "Get outta here," the suspect said to her, but he didn't seem to mean it.

She adjusted her blouse. "Keep your fucking eyes to yourself," she said. "In a minute, darling," Boldt told her. She pumped her way over to a stool and sat down on it with her legs set wide apart. Meyers broke a string on the guitar. Who could blame him?

The suspect was still staring at Maria when he said softly, "Jesus, what a package."

"I hear ya," Boldt agreed. It brought them together. It allowed Boldt to soften. "But what if I could prove it's mine?" he asked Boldt. "You mean a serial number, something like that? Maybe. We've done weirder things before." It was an awful chance to take. If the guy produced the serial number then Boldt would have to change his mind. Or he could pretend to check in the back and "discover" that the serial number indicated the computer was hot. Something. But this was clearly the turning point. He felt warm again. He wondered if the guy could see him sweating. "You got the serial number?"

"Better than the serial number. A password. Who else besides the owner is going to know the fucking password?"

"A password? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The thing won't work without the password."

"You kidding me?" Boldt shouted over to Lamoia, who was also in a grungy undershirt, "Hey, Benny! Know anything about computer passwords?"

"Password? I thought that was a TV game show!" He laughed.

"Check Deloris in the back. She's the only one around here with any brains."

Maria shouted over to Lamoia, "Hey, buddy? Yeah. You interested in my diamonds?"

"Can't keep my eyes off 'em, honey," he shouted back. She strained up off the stool and sauntered over to him, brushing past the suspect on her way, keeping his attention off the fact that Boldt had gone into the back room. Meyers managed to get the rock guitar sounding like a jet airplane. Lamoia swore a blue streak at him until he turned it back down.

Boldt mopped his forehead when he reached the back room. There were a couple techies waiting with the laptop. Some expensive looking cameras were locked away in wood-framed chicken wire cabinets. A belt of cigarette smoke hung in the air like a layer of cloud. It came from the real owner, who was chainsmoking from a corner seat. He looked nervous.

The techies had the laptop up and running, the cursor blinking on a line that awaited the necessary password. Daphne rushed up to Boldt. "You're doing great," she said. "Tell him to write down exactly what steps to take and that Deloris will try to get it running. You're going to have to convince him that under no conditions will you allow him or any client to work the machine. No exceptions."

"No exceptions," Bolt repeated, his system feeling overloaded. "Now I know why people smoke," Boldt said, looking over at the nervous owner. He walked back into the main room.

One of the guys working undercover shouted, "You guys all on fucking vacation or what? I want some fucking service."

Maria turned to him, "I got some friends who are in the fucking service, honey, if you're serious. But they ain't cheap."

"Up yours," he said. "That's the general idea, in case you're new to it. She returned her attention to Lamoia and went through the act of selling him her "stones."

Boldt was so entertained by this-so surprised at how convincing his people were-that the suspect had to shout over at him to get his attention. "So?" it worked in Boldt's favor.

Meyers launched into a dreadful rendition of "Purple Haze," badly out of tune. A woman with kitchen brooms for eyelashes entered through the front door. inspecting her nails. Her facial skin looked like old boot leather.

Boldt worried about her. He didn't want any civilians in here just now. She might realize that he and Lamoia were new faces. Boldt went into the back room again and told the owner to put one of his people out front. The owner agreed. The new person handled the woman.

Boldt hurried back to the suspect who was clearly losing patience. To Meyers, the would-be jim! Hendrix, he shouted, "You gonna buy that thing? This ain't rehearsal space!" To the suspect he said impatiently, "I gotta have two forms of picture I.D. from you, and you gotta write down how I do this password thing."

"I can do it for you."

"No fuckin' way. Do you read?

Do you listen? We got state rules, and we got our own rules here, you understand? And I don't got all day, neither, so move it or lose it." He pushed a piece of paper in front of him. To one of the undercovers he shouted, "How can I help you?" in no mood to wait around for the suspect. As he stepped over to help this "customer," the suspect said, "I'm with you!" He fished for his wallet. "But I only have one picture I.D."

Boldt wanted that wallet so badly, wanted this man's name so badly that he felt like diving across the counter to get at it. Instead he had to sound uninterested. "I'm not gonna do this computer shit twice, pal, so make the directions simple. Understand? Far as I'm concerned, you can come back after the grace period. Guys like you are a real pain in the ass."