Rumours & Lies

by Timothy Quinlan

they might like. This had gotten my attention, so I had wondered a little closer, and was tapping into my discreet yet formidable peripheral senses.

  The woman had the necklace on, and was looking into a small mirror that was being held before her by the owner. She turned so her gentleman friend could see it. “It’s absolutely stunning Marlow . . . absolutely stunning,” the woman said. She must have been six feet tall, and a larger than normal proportion of that was neck. The makeup was perfect, and her short black hair seemed to have a very slight purple tinge to it.

  “It looks wonderful on you Brit,” Marlow said, but there didn’t seem to be any sincerity in it. Marlow was likely close to double her age, and his expensive duds; the black leather jacket, the made to order red designer jeans, and the trendy high end leisure shoes looked silly on him, but he had obviously looked in the mirror that morning and thought all was good, so all the power in the world to him.

  “May I have it Marlow?” she said and gave him a smile that was a currency all its own.

  “How much?” Marlow asked the store owner who opened his mouth without making a noise, perhaps surprised to have arrived at the negotiables so soon. He was close to Marlow’s age but dressed the part; conservative sky blue button down shirt, tie with diagonal red and green stripes, and spectacles that seemed only slightly larger than his irises. He stalled a bit, and I guessed he was sizing up the situation; balancing the risk of over-shooting and having Marlow storm out versus leaving money on the table and coming in well below where Marlow was willing to go.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” he said with more composure than I would have anticipated. “That includes an imitation that can be worn to anything less than A-level events . . . or, well you know . . . B-level or C-level events.”

  I hoped Marlow did know, because I didn’t have a clue. If I owned a piece of jewelry that cost a quarter of a million dollars, I wouldn’t waste my time wearing a cheap knock off anywhere.

  “You’re joking. For that?” Marlow said and waved his finger in the general direction of Brit’s long neck.

  “Sir, this piece is perfection,” the owner said, his face hiding well the anxiety that I guessed was starting to build.

  “No, it’s not goddamn perfection you idiot,” Marlow said, his tanned face of pointy angry features making him resemble a long-tailed weasel . . . with a tan . . . that was angry. I thought he might storm out. Instead he stared hard at the owner with a condescending glare that I guessed Brit had seen a few times.

  The owner started to say something and stopped. He was shaken up, and his lip was quivering. I felt bad for him, and bad for Brit, and bad for the human species that Marlow’s type had snuck through the evolutionary chain.

  “Fine,” Marlow said at last, shaking his head and laughing a demeaning little giggle to himself. “Cheque?”

  “Certified cheque or bank draft.”

  I looked directly at Marlow now, abandoning my peripheral skills all together. He looked as if he was actually contemplating the most efficient way to kill the store owner. Shall I stab him, break his neck, smother him . . . just what are all my options. I moved a step closer as I’m the type to not let injustices play out in front of me—I actually thought I might have to physically get between Marlow and the store owner with the tiny glasses.

  Finally Marlow seemed to calm down a bit. He exhaled slowly, and shook his head again in one last show of rancor. “Wait here,” he said forcefully to Brit. “I’ll go to the bank and get a bank draft, and be back in five minutes.”

  And so Marlow left, while Brit continued to stare at herself in the mirror, and I eyed a seventy five dollar bracelet for my friend. The owner, having composed himself a little, plodded over and humoured me.

  “I’m just looking for something inexpensive for my friend,” I said.

  “Special occasion?” the owner said quickly.

  “Birthday,” I said and pointed to the one I’d been eyeing.

  “Very nice.”

  “Not really,” I thought. “Yes it is,” I said.

  “Shall I pop it in a gift box?”

  “Does that quarter of a million dollar necklace come with a gift box?” I said smiling, hoping to settle the mood a bit.

  This made him uncomfortable. He clearly didn’t want to be heard talking about Marlow and Brit behind their backs, although he needn’t have worried, as Marlow was still at the bank and Brit was still mesmerized by her own reflection. He gave me a quick little smile so as not to alienate me and my seventy five dollars, but said nothing and skipped back over to Brit. She was indifferent to his presence, and so he started to rustle around near the cash register for a box for my bracelet. Before he could finish, Marlow entered the store and instantly relegated my box to the back burner.

  “Any problems,” the owner asked as Marlow approached the counter—I thought this was actually courageous of him.

  “Here,” Marlow said and handed over what I assumed was a bank draft for a quarter of a million dollars.

  “Perfect,” the owner said, looking down at it, but desperately trying to act like it was no big deal. He hadn’t thought that the word “perfect” might incite Marlow into another rage, and luckily this flew right on over Marlow’s died brown hair. The store owner reached around Brit’s neck, startling her for a moment, and then unclasped the necklace and put it in a small wooden case, and then put that in a small velvet pouch, and then put that in a small shopping bag, and then handed that to Brit. And then Brit rushed to catch up with Marlow, who was already out the door and looking for his next conquest, or takeover, or whatever it is that Marlow looked for.

  The owner now turned his attention back to me and continued looking for a box for my bracelet, the bank draft still in his hand. As he did, I glanced around and then glanced down to the counter and noticed a sleek leather wallet sitting to the side of it. Immediately I knew it was Marlow’s. I took it.

  Now, the moral judgements that go hand in hand with an act like this need to be taken in context; there was likely a phone number in the wallet, or at least a full name which would allow a phone number to be determined, so I was just as likely as the store owner to be able to ring Marlow and arrange for his wallet to be returned. And, if Marlow had any tendency towards generosity and was the sort of fellow who might offer a reward, well better I receive that than the store owner who was doing well already with his quarter million dollar draft. I popped the wallet in my coat pocket, paid for my bracelet with cash, and took my small unwrapped gift box (without a bag) and bid my ruby selling friend adieu.

  I live directly across the street from Harrison’s Fine Jewelry in an apartment above a hair salon. I rushed home so I could call Marlow on my old fashioned land line. I didn’t want him calling the store and asking about his wallet, that’d get messy. I’d tell him I found it on the sidewalk just outside the store. That’d seem nobler than taking it from the store, and more deserving of a reward. The driver’s licence and a couple of bank cards told me his last name was Spooner, and a quick call to directory assistance got me his number. As I dialed, I realized there was two grand in hundred dollar bills in the wallet, but they say honesty pays, so I stayed on the line.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Spooner?”

  “Uh, no. There is no Mrs. Spooner.”

  It was Brit. I wanted to say “Hey Brit, how’s the necklace. How’s the neck for that matter,” but I didn’t. “Is Mr. Marlow Spooner there please? I’ve found his wallet.”

  “Oh, you’re kidding. Oh, well. I’ll get him.”

  A moment later the red jeaned man himself was on the line.

  “Yes.”

  “Hello Mr. Marlow. My name is Robert King,” I said as cheerily as I could muster. “I’ve found your wallet on the sidewalk in downtown Gladenten.”

  There was a pause during which I assume he felt his jean pockets or his jacket pockets and came to the realization that he indeed was walletless. “Yes, I seem to have lost it,” he said, seemi
ngly crushed at this ounce of failure that had snuck into his masterful life.

  “Do you live near Gledenten, I’m on my way out. I can pop by with it,” I said.

  “Actually, we’re just on our way out to some friends for a dinner,” he said and then there was silence as he contemplated what to do.

  “Do you need your wallet tonight Mr. Spooner?”

  “Ummm, no I suppose I don’t. Brit . . . er, my wife will drive,” he said.

  I wanted to tell him that I suspected that Brit wasn’t his wife and that it really would have been appropriate for him to tell me to call him “Marlow” rather than “Mr. Spooner,” but I chose the shorter route. “Would it be convenient if I popped by tomorrow morning at nine o’clock . . . it really isn’t a bother, I’ll be going out then anyway.

  “Uhhh, sure, that’d be fine,” he said as if I ought to be delighted at the prospect.

  “I’ll see you then,” I said.

  “You’re going to need to know where we live,” he said as if speaking to a small child.

  I chuckled a bit. “Silly of me. I have a pen, go ahead.”

  He told me the address which I already knew; I’d talked the directory assistance operator into giving it to me, but I wrote it out and said goodbye to Marlow.

  It was just past six in the evening, and Gledenten was switching to weekend mode. The shops were closing, the evening crowds were starting to take their spots in the beer gardens outside the