Kathy Reichs - Seizure

The twin odors rolled in waves.

“Thanks for your time.” I jerked my head toward the door. “Let’s bail.”

“Fine. One hundo. Final offer.”

A new scent appeared. Metallic. Hard. Like iron shavings.

Resolve . Bates wouldn’t go lower.

“Deal,” I said. “Shelton, pay the man.”

Shelton counted five twenties, about half of our available funds. Bates scribbled a receipt and handed the crate to Ben.

“Good luck with those ‘artifacts,’” Bates chuckled. “That box ain’t nothing but garbage. I paid twenty for the whole lot!”

“Think again,” Shelton shot back. “We already know the papers are real. Pretty dumb to put the map symbol right in your ad.”

Ben cuffed Shelton, but the damage was done.

“Say what?”

“Nothing,” Shelton mumbled. “I was just joking.”

“Map symbol?” Bates’s left eyebrow rose. “What chu’ mean, map?”

Nice job, Shelton!

I searched for a credible answer. Blanked. My blood pressure spiked.

SNUP.

The power dissolved. I swayed, but managed to keep my feet. Hi caught my arm.

“Clear?” Hi whispered.

Shaky nod.

“Steady. Don’t pass out.”

“I just need a sec.” My head spun like the teacups ride.

Bates’s face pinched in confusion. “How’d ya’ll know about my ad?” Then, with realization, came anger.

“Ya’ll played me!” he fumed. “Acting the fool, like ya didn’t know what ya came for! Bull -crap! Ya’ll wanted that box the whole time!”

Bates stormed over to Ben. “Forget this! No sale.”

“Too late.” Ben put a hand on the crate. “Deal’s a deal. You took the money. We have a receipt. Done.”

“Is that a fact?”

Ben didn’t blink.

“Fine!” Bates’s eyes were bulging like golf balls. “Get out my shop! And watch yourselves, this neighborhood ain’t safe. I’d run back home, if I was you.”

I was down with that. We hustled to the door.

“Wait!” Bates pointed at me. “Sign the receipt. Otherwise, the deal ain’t official.”

I hurried to the counter, jotted as fast as possible.

“Who sold you this box, anyway?” I asked.

“Piss off.”

“Hey!” Ben shouted. “Watch your mouth.”

Ben stepped toward the counter. Hi grabbed his arm as Shelton placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Though furious, Ben allowed himself to be halted.

I joined the boys. “Let it go. We got what we came for.”

The others followed me toward the door.

“Can we get some buzz-out music, please?” Hi’s smile looked forced. Shelton’s hands were shaking. Time to bolt.

Bates watched us for a very long moment. Finally, his hand moved below the counter.

Buzz!

“Ya’ll don’t come back here. Ever.”

Not a problem.

LONNIE BATES WAS furious.

Worse, his pride was stinging.

He’d run Bates Pawn-and-Trade since age seventeen, first for his uncle and now for himself.

Buy for a dollar, sell for two. That was his mantra. It worked. He was rarely taken for a fool.

Except today.

Those downtown brats had swindled him. He felt it in his bones. The punk kids had seen the ad and come for the pirate junk. They’d driven all the way from under their mommy’s skirts, walked into his shop, and swindled him good.

Bates couldn’t calm himself. Anger burned like an ember in his gut.

The black kid had blurted something about a map. He’d tried to cover his slip, but Lonnie Bates was no fool.

Why would rich kids come all the way to the projects for a box of pirate junk?

They wouldn’t. Unless they knew the stuff had value.

Bates thought back. Two years earlier he’d bought the crate from a strange old cracker. Weird dude, obsessed with pirates. Wouldn’t stop running his mouth about Anne Bonny.

Bates should’ve suspected something—dude wore a white tuxedo. In Myers! He’d written the guy off as a lunatic.

Twenty bucks for some fake pirate crap. No big deal.

The geezer had whined, but accepted the price. They always do. No one leaves without selling. Hard cash talks when you’ve got none.

A hundred bucks. Those kids knew something in the box was worth more, had come specifically for it. The papers? Had he been sitting on a gold mine and blown it? That possibility burned the worst.

Don’t sit here feeling sorry, played, and stupid. Do something!

The map. Those papers. Find out.

Bates prided himself on his ability to sniff out money. To know when there was coin to be made. He was feeling that itch now. Full tilt.

He’d screwed up, but wouldn’t just roll over. Not in this lifetime.

Bates reached for his cordless phone. Fat fingers punched the keys.

Two rings, then a groggy voice answered.

“Wake up, slack ass! It’s your pops. Got a job for you boys.”

THE PLACEMATS WERE neatly pressed.

Linen napkins. China plates. A full battery of utensils. Crystal stemware.

The table was set for three. Kit. Me. And the Blonde Bimbo.

Picnic lunch. No possibility of escape.

Whitney had selected the roof deck for a surprise meal. The weather was her accomplice, with low humidity and cloudy skies keeping the mercury down.

Whitney arranged her bounty with precision, everything just so. She’d made potato salad, cornbread, fish tacos, and wild rice. Her culinary skill was perhaps her only saving grace.

Coop sat to one side, eyes and ears alert. Any scraps would have a short stay on the tiles.

Throughout the meal, Kit oohed and ahhed like a bumpkin, praising everything from the salad to dessert.

Blech.

I ate in silence, bored silly, counting the minutes.

When Coop nudged my knee, I absently scratched his ears.

“Shoo!” Whitney flicked her napkin at the wolfdog. “Get back!”

“Tory, don’t feed Coop at the table,” Kit said. “Whitney worked hard to make us a nice lunch.”

“He’s not bothering anyone.” I gently pushed away his snout.

Coop whined and backed up a step, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Can we please put the animal inside?” Whitney never referred to Coop by name. It was always, “that beast,” “the animal,” or “that mongrel.” Drove me bonkers.

Did she not understand that her attitude bothered me? Or did she just not care?

Kit looked uncomfortable, stuck in his usual spot between daughter and ditz. Sometimes I really did pity him.

“If we put Cooper inside, he’ll just whimper at the door,” I said. “He’ll be fine. So will you.”

Whitney bristled but let it go. Lunch proceeded in silence.

“How was the yacht club?” Whitney asked. “Did you have the best time? I know you looked adorable in that dress! Celia says that style is très popular this season.” The attempt at French was jarring in her thicker-than-Dixie drawl.

“It was fine.”

The idiot woman was born without tact. Like I wanted to discuss the merits of my borrowed dress.

“Did you meet that friend of yours?” Kit thought a moment. “Jason? Jackson?”

“Jason Taylor?” Whitney beamed. “Oh my! That boy is from a fine family. I’m well acquainted with his mother. And such a handsome young man!”

Gross. Whitney knowing my friends made me ill. Completely unfair, but this was a strike against Jason.