local establishments, and lovers were enjoying the warm air and the setting sun, and hopefully each other’s company. I poured myself a stale yet strong cup of coffee from the pot I had made that morning, and contemplated my plans for the evening.
The next morning I arose at eight o’clock, groggy and lacking energy from a late night. A shower and a couple of cups of coffee solved that to a degree and I was off. The lot in which I rent a parking spot was alive with people and cars and kids and it took me a while to navigate out of it, but soon I was on my way. Gledenten is a lake shore community. The town’s main strip, where the jewelry store and my apartment are, sit about two hundred yards from the water’s edge. Most of the homes within Gledenten are modest, some are larger, some nicer, some newer—like any place. The exception to all of this are ten to fifteen monstrous mansions that sit on the water’s edge. Not surprisingly, Marlow and Brit’s abode is one of these.
It’s actually the largest one and sits at the south end of the town’s border. It’s an estate, with a gatehouse and the whole shebang. I pulled up to it, lowered my window and looked at a young man who was clearly surprised to see me.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Hi,” he shot back, which may or may not have meant that he disagreed with my assessment of the morning.
“I’m here to see Mr. Spooner . . . regarding his wallet.”
“Really, they didn’t say anything about that.”
I wondered who “they” were for a moment but pressed on. “They may have forgotten. I spoke with Mr. Spooner last night.”
He stood there for a moment and seemed anxious, his stress level and likely his blood pressure seemed to be on the rise. “I guess I’ll have to call . . . give me a second.”
The anxiety made sense now, and I assumed it was driven by my uniformed friends pending interaction with Marlow the red jeaned boy. I bit my lip, and then pursed them and did an assortment of odd little bodily things that people do when they’re trying to act like they’re not listening in on someone’s call. Obviously I was.
“Good morning sir, there’s a gentleman here who says you’re expecting him . . . something about your wallet . . . yes sir . . . I don’t know his name sir . . . I don’t know exactly . . . I’m twenty-five . . . just high school . . . I’ve never taken and IQ test . . . sorry sir . . . really . . . yes sir,” and he hung up.
By this point I was reaching over and rustling papers in my glove compartment for no reason other than to afford the kid a chance to maintain some dignity. I’m not a violent person, although I do have that “injustice” thing goin’ on that I mentioned earlier, but I’m not a fighter, a physical fighter anyway, but when that kid told me to drive through, and I saw the humiliation on his face, and I knew that he had likely just lost his job, I was half certain that I was going to fight Marlow within the next five minutes.
I parked in front of the ridiculously large home, took a number of deep breaths, got out and rang the bell.
Brit answered the door. She gave me a glance up and down before succumbing to normal human courtesy. “Hi, you must be the guy with the wallet.”
“Yes, hi I’m Robert King,” I said and stepped inside as Brit invitingly opened the door wide and back peddled so I could get in.
“You look familiar,” she said and narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow—or, the paint which had replaced her brow.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” I said which didn’t make sense, but it escaped my mouth before I could prevent it.
From my vantage point the house looked both tasteful and grand. “Substantial” would do if I was pressed for a one word description. A large wide staircase led upstairs and was right behind Brit. To the left and right were a living room and a dining room which were both warmly painted. There were shelves and coves and pedestals, all of which housed valuable artifacts—most of it African. There was an original (I assume—wasn’t close enough to be sure) Mateus Athorn painting hanging in the living room which could probably fetch a million and a half at auction. It was nice, if you’re into that sort of thing.
“Oh, here’s Marlow,” Brit said as Marlow ambled up behind her.
I extended a hand which Marlow shook reluctantly.
“Marlow, this is Robert King, the man with your wallet,” Brit said and opened her hand in my direction like the women on the Price Is Right. “I was just telling him that he looks familiar.”
“I was in the jewellery store yesterday when you came in. Harrison’s Fine jewelry.”
“That must be it,” Brit said.
“It must be,” I said and paused. “I’m sorry and I hope this isn’t rude, but is that the necklace that you bought yesterday,” I said and threw a quick little point in the direction of her neck.
“Yes, it is . . . actually this is just an imitation, the real one is someplace safe . . . it just comes out when we’re going someplace special.”
“It’s beautiful. My mother is in love with that necklace. They had it out one day about a week ago, under the display case and I was in with my mother—she likes to go in and just look at the jewelry—and she loved it. You’re very lucky to have it.”
“Thank you, Marlow takes quite good care of me. He’s very generous.”
Marlow looked at her as if to convey that she was talking too much. She stopped talking, and then started again “I can hardly tell the difference between the real one and the fake one.”
Good for you Brit, I thought. Talk when you want to talk. Don’t be bullied by this guy. “I didn’t find anything I liked,” I said to her, but made sure that I looked at Marlow so he felt as if he were part of the conversation. “When I was in Harrison’s jewelry store yesterday I mean. I was just looking for something for my mom. She likes fancy jewelry but she can’t really afford it. I can’t either. I was just looking to pick up some costume jewelry for her but even that is so expensive.
Marlow rolled his eyes, so I took his wallet out of my pocket.
“Here’s your wallet Mr. Spooner,” I said and handed it to him.
He took it and immediately checked to see that the cash was still there. It was. He glanced through the cards and small papers, and then once content that I hadn’t taken anything he nodded at me.
“Twit,” I thought. “My pleasure,” I said.
“It was very nice of you to return Marlow’s wallet and go through the trouble of bring it back on a Saturday morning Mr. King. I’m sure Marlow is appreciative, aren’t you Marlow.”
“Yes, I am Brit. We’ve already done the nodding thing . . . just a second ago,” he said, annoyed as he always seemed to be.
There was a pause and Brit seemed to be contemplating something. “Marlow may I speak to you for a moment,” she said and disappeared around a corner into the living room. Marlow followed. There was whispering and I may have heard a Marlowian sigh, and then more whispering and then a smack which I think was a kiss, and then they returned. “We’d like you to have this,” Brit said and unclasped her necklace and handed it to me. “It’s just the imitation, and it’s only worth a couple of hundred dollars but we’d like you to have it for your mom.”
“Oh my God, I couldn’t possibly accept it,” I said.
“Well we offered,” Marlow shot back and he walked off.
It was just Brit and I now. “Please take it,” she said, and sounded sincere which impressed me.
“Well, I know that my mom will be thrilled. Thank you so much,” I said and walked out. I got in my car and drove down the long driveway.
It turned out the kid at the gatehouse had indeed been turfed by Marlow. He was just leaving, being hustled out by his replacement who had likely been shuffled over from somewhere else on the property. I stopped and lowered my window.
“Get in buddy, I’ll give you a ride,” I said.
He was a tall thin black kid. His hair was short, and he was wearing black slacks and a red golf shirt, as was his replacement. There was a sadness in his eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was his termination that ha
d caused it or if it was his standard look. “No, I’m good man,” he said.
“Seriously, get in. I’ll drive you anywhere,” I said while reaching over and opening the door.
He got in without saying anything to his replacement who stood expressionless just outside the gatehouse, arms folded across his chest. “Thanks,” the kid said softly once he was in the car with the door closed. “I live on Rotter just off of Tredmore.”
I had no idea where these streets were but he directed me and we found them. Along the way, I learned that he was a student, and that the job was helping pay for his education. And I learned that Marlow was indeed as large a moron as I had assumed, but I had to draw this out of the kid, he seemed to have an ingrained loyalty that he hadn’t relinquished even though Marlow had fired him—an honourable trait, if a little misplaced in this instance. He told me about what he was studying and where he was going to school, but I ignored all of this because I was thinking about something. Trying to rationalize a decision that I’d need to make in the near future. He got out and thanked me. Before he did I took his phone number and told him I might have a job lead for him and that I’d get back to him in a couple of days.
And so now I’d like to come clean if I may. Which is saying something for yours truly—trust me.
The gatehouse kid would get a call from me in a few days, and a few days after that he’d get a wire transfer from me for
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