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"I had a great time, Angela. I hope we can do it again real soon." As she stepped down off the porch, she turned and gave Josh an emphatic one-finger salute. Josh just laughed and closed the door. Angela heard the deadbolt snick into place.
Angela leaned back against the closed door. It had been a tremendous ordeal, but she'd gotten through it. Now to go home and sleep for about three days...
Her ears pricked at faint mechanical sounds coming from out front. It sounded like someone was working on a car. Very slowly she crept toward the front gate and peered through the vine-covered slats. She looked up and down the street; nothing. Then she heard the noise again. Over by her car in the driveway...
A wiry-looking punk in a tight Korn concert T-shirt, army-green cargo pants hanging off his butt and two sizes too big, and scuffed-up Lugz was trying to jimmy open the door of an old brown Corolla. Her mom's Corolla. Her ride home. With her stuff in it.
Angela had just gone through 24 hours of hell to get her Sapphire shoes back, and here some punk was about to make off with the other gems and tiara.
Angela snapped.
"No."
Tim heard an abrupt noise; oh, shit, someone's coming out from the house! He was about to take off when he got a look at the person approaching.
A slender girl was walking toward him. "No, I don't think so. Not tonight," she said. Her voice wasn't raised or angry or even defiant; it was as if she was flatly stating a fact. This puzzled Tim.
Did she have a weapon? A stun gun maybe? No, her hands were empty. Dressed in a risque Chinese hooker dress and stiletto mules, on a quiet suburban street with no one else around, she was walking right up to a guy who was bigger than her and breaking into a car. Did it occur to her that he might have a heavy flashlight or a crowbar or a knife? (Two out of three ain't bad.)
The would-be thief stood next to the car door slack-jawed.
"Get away from my car," Angela ordered, still approaching him. The punk squared off toward her but otherwise made no reply or sign of acknowledgement.
"What are you, deaf? Get the hell away from my car! Now!" She was yelling, and only three steps away from him. This would have concerned him except that he knew the neighborhood well -- nobody would dare come out to confront anyone, at best they'd call the police while peeking out their window -- and he had several inches of reach and quite a few pounds over her. And he wasn't wearing ankle-breaking stilts. This was obviously a hooker who just didn't know the pecking order on the street. Tim guessed he'd have to teach her.
Angela was completely lost in rage. It blocked out any sense of danger or fear or hesitation or logic. All she knew was that she was *not* going to let anybody take her stuff from her. Not tonight. She simply would not allow it.
Just two steps away from him and... still coming? Now one step, and she stopped. No, she swiveled her hips like she was turning... no, not turning...
And then Tim saw stars.
Tim had been kicked in the balls before. In fact, it had happened enough times that he considered it an occupational hazard and took precautions. But he'd never felt pain like this before, not even before he started wearing a cup.
Tim fell back against the car. His hands moved in slow-motion toward the origin of his pain. He looked down in bemused surprise at this angry little girl standing before him. There was no way she could kick that hard. She was alternately waving her arms around and poking him in the chest, and her mouth was moving fast; she must be yelling at him, though he didn't hear anything through the numbness brought on by the searing sensation below the belt.
"You MORON! Of all the cars parked in all the driveways and on all the streets in this neighborhood you pick THIS ONE? A nineteen-year-old dirt-brown Toyota Corolla with a missing bumper and dented fenders. What, because there's a purse on the front seat? Did it ever occur to you that maybe someone driving a car like that doesn't have ANY DAMN MONEY?! God, why do criminals have to be so STUPID! *No wonder* crime doesn't pay! Well you picked the WRONG NIGHT and the WRONG GIRL TO MESS WITH!! I have been posed, poked, groped, squeezed, slapped, spanked, stripped, dressed up, tied up, and humiliated, all for a stupid pair of shoes *I* *never* *even* *asked* *for*!" Angela poked him in the chest with her finger in emphatic fury. "And now you want to go and take my stuff so I can do it all over again? What are *you* gonna ask me to dress up as, a *cop*? Or a *prison* guard? Or a *judge*? Or maybe your *sister*? Well I'm not gonna do it! I am through with this... bullshit!" Angela stopped, temporarily running out of riot act steam. "So GET OUT OF MY WAY!" She jerked a thumb to one side.
The delinquent just looked at her with a pathetic expression on his face, like someone had just insulted his ugly sister.
Gawd!
The girl had stopped poking him and screaming. She seemed to be asking him to move... but he wasn't finished here yet. He saw the purse, as a thief it was rightfully his. This cute little hooker didn't seem to understand...
She took a half-step back. She cocked her hips to one side. She brought one leg back, then swung it around very fast...
This moron just didn't get it! If he wasn't going to move she'd have to move him herself! Angela took a half-step back, wound up, and nailed him in the upper thigh with a roundhouse kick. The gem on her shoe strobed like a camera flashbulb; without the tiara to focus them Angela couldn't project force but their forcefield was still intact and they would still react to any sudden force with an equal and opposite force -- in this case, amplifying the furious girl's kick to devastating effect. But she wasn't thinking of the gems; she wasn't thinking at all.
And suddenly Tim's crotch was not the center of his attention. His legs collapsed out from under him; he heard a sickening Crack! as his tibia broke and a Pop! as his hip was dislocated. He felt himself twisting around and falling sideways, landing in a crumpled heap on the driveway. When his vision stabilized he found himself looking at the valve stem of a Toyo radial. Apparently the girl had brought a mule with her and it had kicked the shit out of him.
Angela stepped over the fallen miscreant, squatting down to retrieve the hide-a-key from the front fender well. She gave him a little kick in the pants. "Idiot."
The Corolla bounced back out of the driveway into the street and lurched off into dusk.
Matt Ramsey slipped into his son's bedroom. What had that little shit been up to while he and his wife had been gone? Matt knew Josh was a chronic underachiever and bullshitter, skating by on his charm. He knew it all too well; he hadn't been much different at Josh's age. But at least Matt'd gotten his shit together, gotten a good job in sales, applied himself... Josh didn't show any signs of becoming responsible. They were going to have to have another little talk...
Matt carefully snooped through the room, covering all the known hiding places. The lighter and rolling papers in the back of the underwear drawer, the bag of buds wadded up in a pair of thick dress socks, the money clip of twenties he stole one at a time from his dad's wallet in an envelope taped to the back of the framed Carmen Electra poster -- up to $240, the kid was obviously working up to something. The three porno mags tucked between the mattress and the box spring... if he'd ever made his own bed even once in his life Josh'd know that was a lousy hiding place; Matt had no doubt that his sexy wife had spent more than a few mornings frigging herself while flipping through Josh's mags right here on the boy's bed.
The desk was "clean." Drawers full of scholastic-looking books and notepads, the top artfully arranged to imply feverish studying for the SATs. He hoped the boy was doing at least a little studying; the next time he took the test it counted, and he needed to show improvement over the practice test he'd taken last year. At least Josh might actually finish college; something Matt hadn't thought important once he'd met Erika. Six months later she was pregnant with Rebecca, then they were married, and then Matt had started his climb up the sales ladder at Hartwick International.
Matt returned to the present, rifling through the pencil drawer. "A ha..." he fished out a 35mm film canister. "HOT!" was written on the outside with a black felt pen. "This could be interesting." He fished some more and came up with five more rolls. "VERY interesting." Matt knew his son had had company in the form of his old girlfriend Angela; he'd overheard Josh invite her over. He'd never thought much of Angela; a little mousy on the surface, but with enough of a 'reputation' that he'd heard her talked about down at the coffee shop back when she and Josh had been dating. It was probably best that Josh had broken it off with her; the last thing a smart young man needed was to get tied down. He needed to get out there and experience life...
Matt pocketed the film canisters. "But there's no harm in having a little weekend indoor fun..." Josh seemed to be a chip off the old block in that he had no trouble getting good looking girls to come over. Matt always made a show of keeping the house respectable and preventing any fooling around by showing up early after a night out or a weekend getaway, but really he just liked catching the boy in the act, and sometimes getting a glimpse of teenage hotties as they bounded down the hall buck naked toward the safety of the bedrooms. In fact, he was pretty sure Angela had been here the week before...
"I should get these developed for Josh. If he just turns them in to FotoShack he might get in a little trouble. And I've got a roll of my own from this weekend..." Matt smiled like a wolf, remembering the mischief he and his wife had made. He checked his watch. "I bet Chip's there now; he can have them out of the machine in an hour." Matt had an arrangement with Chip, the pimply assistant manager at the FotoShack -- free processing as long as Chip got to keep the second set of prints for his own use. Matt didn't mind; heck, he made a couple hundred bucks a month off guys who downloaded pics of his wife from an "amateur" exhibitionist website.
As Matt turned to leave the room, he noticed the videocamera set up on the tripod in Josh's closet. "Wonder what he used this for?" He ejected the tape, and pulled the other tapes from the accessory bag on the floor. "We'll just have to review these for objectional material," he grinned.
Josh dumped the pencil drawer out on the bed. Where'd the film go? Dammit!
He noticed the closet door pushed open a bit too far; from his bed he could see the videocamera's cassette door was open and the cassette was missing. Shit! He jumped up and checked the bag. The other tapes were gone too!
Josh kicked himself for not making a copy right away. What was he thinking, actually going to Starbucks to actually study for the SATs? Well, and to check out the cute new help...
Damn! His dad had stolen his stash! Again!
Josh headed for the study. He stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room methodically, mentally reviewing all the places he'd checked before. Not in the bookshelf, not in the desk, not in the file cabinet, not in the safe (man he'd had a hell of a time finding the combination, finally stumbling on it written on a scrap of a PostIt in his dad's wallet one day when he was peeling a Jackson), not behind the painting, not in or under the lounge chair or the ottoman. He'd already turned the master bedroom upside-down too. Josh knew his dad had a sizeable porn collection -- after all, Josh himself unvoluntarily contributed a half-dozen home movies and four or five rolls of film -- but he couldn't find it anywhere no matter how hard he looked. It had to be in the house somewhere, but where?
Josh sighed in resignation and returned to his room. To find his dad's stash he'd just have to catch the old bastard in the act. Or maybe set up surveillance...
The door chime made Barron look up. An elderly Asian man walked in. Barron studied him. Chinese, thick black hair but quite wrinkled and fragile-looking, clearly an old man, someone's grandfather, maybe even great-grandfather. Barron's frown grew as he noticed the gentleman head straight for him, never glancing at the jewelry displays. This meant he wasn't here to buy anything -- he was either a repair or a no-profit inquiry or appraisal. Barron forced himself to smile.
"Good afternoon," the shorter older man said in too-perfect English, looking up into Barron's eyes with a kind face but a piercing stare.
"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you find something in particular today?"
"As a matter of fact you can," the old man replied. Barron noticed he made no move for his pockets; not a repair, therefore profitless. Barron's frown reappeared. The old man ignored Barron's cold reaction. "I am looking for an unusual set of stones. I gave them to my grand-daughter as a gift, but I am afraid she does not appreciate them. I think she may have tried to sell them for profit rather than return them to me. They are very important to my family. I am willing to pay quite handsomely for their recovery."
The old man's pacing was maddening, delivering his message in a slow, measured pace, and pausing just long enough between sentences for the jeweler to draw in a breath but not enough to allow polite interruption. But Barron's consternation evaporated with the Asian elder's final sentence. Barron wasn't greedy, exactly, but he wasn't here for charity either. After a slow week of window-shoppers and free appraisals he was anxious to put himself in the black.
"And how may I be of service?" Barron asked, fighting the urge to lick his lips.
"If you should come across any of these stones, acquire them for me. I shall pay double your cost for your trouble. You may contact me at this number." A slow hand extended from the lightweight jacket with a business card. Barron took it.
"And how are these 'stones' unique? How will I recognize them?"
"You have never seen anything like them before. You will know them when you see them."
"Could you be more specific? It will be difficult to inquire with my associates if I can't describe them."
"You may tell them what I told you. It is sufficient."
Barron remembered the girl from the day before. "Are they sapphires?"
The Asian's eyebrow raised. "So you have seen them." He stared hard at Barron as if to extract more information telepathically. Barron blinked off the stare, then gazed out the window into the distance to avoid eye contact.
"I believe I have," Barron replied.
"But you do not have them here."
Barron only remembered one stone. "How many are there?"
"How many did you see?"
"Just the one."
"Ahh."
Barron waited for more, but the man added nothing, waiting for Barron to continue.
"I saw it yesterday," Barron spurred. "A girl had it. I offered to buy it, but she wanted to think about it," he lied, not wanting to squelch any opportunities here. "She said she'd let me know in a couple of days. She thought my appraisal was too low," Barron grinned, as if sharing a preposterous comment with a knowledgeable peer.
"I'm sure it was," the old man replied. Barron took offense. "Do you have her address?" the old man asked.
"No." And if I did why would I give it to you so you can cut me out of the deal? "But she said she would contact me in a couple of days." Then Barron recognized the loopy logic. "Don't you know how to reach your own granddaughter?"
"The girl you describe is not my grand-daughter."
"How do you know? I didn't describe her."
"You ask questions for which answers are of no importance to you. Offer her double your honest appraisal. I will offer you double that again."
Barron was suspicious. "How do I know this isn't a scam?"
"That does not concern me. I will eventually locate the stones myself. I offer you the opportunity to profit from accelerating that process. Your participation is entirely voluntary."
"If she agrees to an exchange and I contact you, will you bring the money?"
"How will I know it is not a scam?" The old man's eyes twinkled at the turnabout.
"Or I could sell them to someone else."
"Not for twice their appraised value," the old man pointed out. And with that, he turned on his heel and made his way toward the shop's front door.
"There are eight stones," he said at the door without turning around, answering Barron's earlier question just before slipping out of sight.
"[The stones are here.]" After uttering the single phrase in Mandarin, the old man hung up the phone.