The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “Grab some clothes,” I said to Dax. “No telling when we’ll be back.”

  “When are you handing the keys over to Levowitz?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Four million wasn’t enough to secure the electro-disruptor, and it was far less than what we’d planned to disappear with after auctioning the Artifacts of Exile. In the last week, there were no calls from Prince Azim. With each passing day, optimism dwindled. Bargaining with four million and fake proof of the Rossino Otto was a last-second pass for victory from my own end zone. Dad convinced Elena and Dmitry that proof existed. In my eyes it was a myth, and yet an inkling pulled me back here.

  “I better call Melrose Moving in the morning.” Dax opened the fridge, grabbed two beers, then popped the tops with his teeth. He grimaced as he leaned a brand new titanium cane against the kitchen island. A gift from Elena and Dmitry. “My leg and shoulder — your throat and arm. I told you leaving demons in the desert wasn’t going to last.”

  “Wounded warriors never die, they live on in folklore.”

  “I’d say living is the key word in that ludicrous quote,” Dax replied.

  We clinked bottles, chuckled, and paused in the chaos. He had a way of chiseling the stone from hardened souls.

  “After the Feds question you and we talk to Wilkins,” I said, “I need you to drop the keys and pick up the cash from Levowitz tomorrow at the studio lot.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To pay a visit to Silicon Swindler. Maybe he can track down the IP owner.”

  “What makes you think he’ll help us?”

  “We’ll give him a shot at the Rossino Otto.”

  “You can’t dangle a carrot in front of a donkey if there’s no carrot.”

  “All we have to do is convince him we have proof it’s real.”

  “That hasn’t worked out so well with Azim.”

  “Dad promised cars to buyers all the time before he secured them from the seller.” I finished off the bottle and set it on the counter. “Azim and Swindler don’t know whether or not we have the invite, or the proof.”

  Dax nodded as if he agreed. “Hey, you sure Laney won’t arrest me?”

  “She gave me her word.”

  “Bro, she worked you like a Peloton trainer for six months.”

  “You have immunity. We all do.”

  Dax set the bottle on the counter. “Famous last words.”

  “We’ll hand over the Prodigal hard drive and tell them about tracking the Level 10 malware. That’ll be enough to keep us on their side.”

  “Chase, they’re looking for names.”

  “I’m not betraying the Vihkrovs.”

  “What’s going on between you and Elena anyway?”

  Without answering the question, I stepped down into the living room, walked over to the Renaldt Royale Bessler model, then pressed my palms against the glass. “Last summer she got pregnant.”

  Confession never fully relieved the pain, only eased the burden bearer for a brief moment. I waited for Dax to speak, but he stayed silent.

  “Whenever we were together she stayed clean, but I was still hooked. Dad asked me to go with him to deliver the collector cars to Azim in the Emirates. I was gone a week, but there was a complication — a mistake. She miscarried.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Dax walked toward me. No wisecracks. “That’s why you still love her.”

  “I never blamed her — I guess that’s love.”

  Dax stood in the center of the room while I stepped away, headed for the bedroom. Going straight for the closet I dug through a drawer, rifled through folded shirts, and tossed them on the bed. At the bottom of the drawer I found what I was looking for — a Speed Racer container. Inside was a priceless treasure — the number twenty-three Indy car from the Brickyard store. It was a reminder of the day Dad looked into my eyes, convinced I was his legacy.

  “Remember when we pretended we were Indy racers in your dad’s garage?” Dax waited in the doorway. “Amazing you still have it after all these years.”

  “I dreamt about it on the flight back.” I slipped the car into my pocket. “It was Dad’s idea to keep it safe inside this container.” Everything stopped for a second. “Hold on…”

  Brushing past Dax, I headed back into the hallway, shuffling along the wood floor, straight for the Renaldt Royale Bessler. My fingers felt the smooth glass on all sides, then ran along the edges of the base.

  Without looking back I said, “Help me lift the glass.”

  Dax hobbled over and grabbed one side. We pulled the case up and over the model, then set it on the floor. What was I looking for? I wasn’t sure. But suddenly I was convinced it was there. The Indy car inside the tin container reminded me of Dad’s story about finding the Royale behind a wall in a hidden garage.

  Stepping back, I eyed the model closely. A lump lodged in my throat as the beating in my chest intensified. Without another thought, I grabbed the oversized clay model and slammed it to the floor. The Royale exploded on impact, scattering clay pieces everywhere.

  Dax stumbled backward on one leg in shock.

  There it was, near his feet — a key.

  FORTY-TWO

  UNION 1781 — DOWNTOWN

  Built in the early twenties, the private club boasted no official membership, yet its ivy-covered speakeasy gained entry by those who ran Los Angeles, as well as those who owned it. Corporate elites. Globe-trekking entrepreneurs. Political titans. Media moguls. Old money. New fortunes. A retro Mad Men landmark hidden from the pages of Angeleno history. Inside the Union, there were no cameras, no Wi-Fi, and no cell phones. Conversations held within these walls were never disclosed.

  Prince Azim paid a million-dollar annual membership for exclusivity. He brokered deals for the society and offered expertise in negotiating with their counterparts in the Middle East. Beneath a yellow glow from a bar lamp, he waited with the Level 10 malware in his pocket — a ticket to bid on the Rossino Otto.

  A woman entered without attracting attention and slipped into a corner table away from the other members. Early thirties, Iraqi, dressed in dark clothing. Azim ordered another bourbon on the rocks and watched her eye the room. Without ever seeing her face to face, his instincts told him she was the one. For weeks, their interaction was strictly conveyed over burner phones. Never the same number twice. It was rare that Azim took such measures, but the stakes were high. He waited a moment before walking across the bar and offering a handshake.

  “As-salaam ‘alaykum,” he said. Peace be upon you.

  “Wa ‘alaykum salaam,” she replied. Upon you be peace.

  Azim recognized her voice and slipped into a chair across from her.

  She asked, “You have a gift for me?”

  Azim’s eyes narrowed. “And you for me.”

  The woman reached into her jacket and retrieved a black metal card. She placed it on the table, keeping her fingers pressed firmly against it. Leading up to this meeting their conversations were brief, never speaking of anything other than brokering the sale of the electro-disruptor and Azim’s requests regarding the Rossino Otto. So far, neither had held up their end of the deal.

  Azim slipped his hand into his pocket and felt for the Level 10 malware thumb drive. He hesitated, knowing this was his only bargaining chip with a woman who had yet to give him her name. He slid the drive onto the table keeping it hidden beneath his palm.

  “I must have proof the Rossino Otto is authentic.”

  “With this card you receive an invitation same as all others.” She stared at his hand. “How do I know you have what you claim?”

  “I suppose there are risks on both sides.” First sign of weakness in a deal was death, so keeping on guard was necessary. “Perhaps a sign of good faith?”

  From his coat pocket, Azim removed a piece of paper and handed it over. “A snapshot of the files contained on the drive.” He watched as she scanned the page before she flipped the metallic card over to reveal a hologram. Azim recognized
the emblem from Rossino Renaldt’s Royale collection. He left his palm over the thumb drive. “Merely one designer’s signature — not uncommon. How am I to know this is not a hoax?”

  The woman snatched the card from the table and moved to leave.

  Azim held up his hand. “Istanna.” Wait.

  “Both of us have delivered as promised,” she said. “It is time to walk away.”

  Azim lifted his palm off the thumb drive, while reaching for the metallic card in her hand. In one motion they held what they wanted most.

  “There is one other matter,” Azim said. “I have a buyer for you.”

  “The item is no longer for sale,” she replied.

  “Five million,” Azim pressed. “Your asking price.”

  “Ali, our business is finished. As-salaam ‘alaykum.” Upon you be peace.

  “I’la-liqaa’” Until we meet again.

  With that the woman stood and left, leaving Azim alone at the table. A thrill shot through him as he held the metallic black card, believing it was in fact an invitation to bid on the greatest collector car in history. Another deal was done with no regrets for delivering the Level 10 malware to a nameless woman. Azim shook his head, then finished off the bourbon.

  FORTY-THREE

  HOLLYWOOD, CA

  We parked in a public lot a few blocks away and headed toward the Tower Records Building, which was directly across the street from Tanets. After finding the key, there was a renewed bounce in our step. Dax still limped with the help of his cane, but his pace was faster and the titanium seemed to put his stride more at ease. Neither of us questioned whether the key was real — there was only one way to know for sure — turn the ignition of the Rossino Otto.

  My cell dinged: OFFER ACCEPTED. CALL TOMORROW.

  “We’re in with Azim,” I said. “I’ll reach out in the morning.”

  “So, you help him authenticate the Rossino Otto, and he hooks you up by spending all your money on buying the electro-disruptor?”

  “And gives me the name of the seller — but we’re a million short.”

  “When are you going to break that to the Prince?”

  “I’ll wait until we’re face to face.”

  “Sucks the Vihkrovs didn’t get an invite.”

  “Somehow we’ll make it up to them.”

  “Chase, do you ever think about what it is they do?”

  “Honestly, I’d rather not know.”

  LAPD restricted vehicle access as crowds gathered along a makeshift memorial outside of Tanets that stretched an entire block. Candles. Flowers. Messages. Hundreds lined the sidewalks, some even pouring out onto the streets. There were those who knew the victims, as well as others who were there out of respect and concern for a sight seen far too often in recent years. While cell phones captured the spectacle, reporters milled about alongside their cameramen gathering stories and footage to cut into their on-scene reporting during primetime.

  “The Feds finally released the building,” I said, “but Elena’s staying out of sight.”

  “As the daughter of a known Russian mobster, I’d say the last place she’d want to be seen is on the ten o’clock news.”

  “Who knows what the Feds found in the upstairs offices since there wasn’t any time for her to clean up. That’s why I needed Laney to agree to immunity.”

  “You’re always one step ahead, Chase — like your dad.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s true,” I replied.

  A group of teenagers passed out white candles to the crowd. We each took one and continued walking until we were engulfed by the masses. People of every race, age, and religion surrounded us. Together we held our candles high as a sea of light glowed across the cold, dark night. For a moment, the world around us stopped, and those lives lost were remembered.

  My stomach turned in knots. “These people died because of me.”

  “Because of us,” Dax whispered. “You weren’t the only one in Mosul.”

  “I’m afraid this will get worse before it gets better.”

  “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

  Several in the crowd ahead parted as Laney and Vaughn emerged. It was the first time I’d seen Laney since Bird Street, which was only days earlier yet felt like a lifetime. Bruising on her face was less noticeable, but the stitches were still there. Did she feel responsible too? Hard to believe our love was shattered by a lie, and it wasn’t from my lips. Steadying myself, I breathed in deeply and exhaled, knowing it was a risk to trust her and Vaughn. I blew the candle out and handed it to Dax, pulling my hoodie so that it partially covered the stitches on my neck.

  “You two look as beat up as I feel,” Laney said in an attempt to break the ice. “Not sure I want to know the details.”

  “It’s not important,” I said. “We’re here. Now what?”

  “Mr. Thompson will go with me to be questioned,” Vaughn said. “Laney has some other matters to discuss with you.”

  Dax handed me the rugged hard drive which I passed on to Vaughn. “Before we go further, here’s everything we have on the Prodigal. Two years of intelligence while we were on the ground in Baghdad and Mosul. Not sure what’s in there that might be helpful, but we wanted to give this to you as a sign that we are willing to cooperate.”

  Vaughn’s brows raised. “Good to know we’re finally on the same team.”

  “We’re not on your team,” Dax blurted. “Just don’t want you to lock us up.”

  “What Dax is trying to say is, we’re here because of the immunity deal.”

  “And we appreciate your help,” Laney reassured. “Both of you.”

  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Vaughn said, “let’s get moving.”

  Dax and Vaughn left, disappearing into the crowd. Laney and I stood in the midst of the aftermath of the shooting at Tanets where only one of us was a killer.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I don’t want to run into any reporters.”

  “I forgot, you’re a celebrity now.” When Laney didn’t respond, I suggested, “My car’s a few blocks from here.”

  We left the memorial and found ourselves walking east on Hollywood Boulevard. During the day, the streets were crowded with tourists boarding buses to stalk the homes of their favorite celebrities, which were actually a few miles away in Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, Brentwood, all the way west to Malibu. Those lucky enough to get tickets to late-night talk shows or the latest blockbuster at Grauman’s Chinese Theater tasted a bite from the entertainment apple. As with most things in life, what you see on the surface is rarely what’s beneath.

  When you peeled the storytelling magic of epic blockbusters away the world behind the curtain wasn’t what you expected. The real Hollywood, apart from the Capitol Records Building and the Pantages Theater, was mostly nondescript buildings, faceless sound stages, blank-walled recording and editing studios. Streets packed with Angelenos who trampled over the celebrity stars along the Walk of Fame. In recent years, the mystique of what Hollywood Boulevard had once been migrated away to Burbank and Santa Monica, leaving the gritty streets more dangerous after midnight.

  Laney broke the silence. “I talked with Randall Collinsworth.”

  “About the Artifacts of Exile being inside his hangar?”

  “Actually, that never came up. He’s the one who called the meeting.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “He showed me proof that Abu Haji Fatima is dead.”

  “Did you show it to Wilkins?”

  Laney grabbed my arm and stopped walking. “Chase, Wilkins is dead too.”

  It was like a heavyweight fighter punched me in the gut and all the air exhaled from my lungs. “When did this happen?”

  “We found him yesterday in San Diego — there was an explosion.”

  I stepped back in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because I thought you’d keep running.”

  “Well you sure as hell were right about that.”


  Jerking my arm away, I kept walking, leaving Laney to quicken her steps to keep up. Rage on the rocks, mixed with a splash of hate, swirled inside.

  “There’s a dark web bounty on my head by the Prodigal,” I said deadpan. “If you’re telling me that Abu Haji Fatima is dead, then who is after me? Who are we chasing?”

  “I spoke with Wilkins before he died. He confirmed that you shot Fatima, and that his heart stopped. After you left, Wilkins revived him, but during the extraction their helicopter was hit by a surface-to-air missile. When the helicopter crashed, Wilkins was severely injured, but there are photos of Fatima inside the helicopter deceased.”

  Too many questions scrolled through my mind, but there was one that determined whether I believed Laney or not. “Uncle Randy showed these photos to you?”

  Laney nodded. “Telling you back then wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  Right away, it made sense. Dad and Uncle Randy reacted in the same way to protect me. Keep me in the dark, and perhaps the darkness would never find me. “You said there was an explosion that killed Wilkins.”

  “He was living on the streets, and we were taking him home. There was C4 found inside his truck. We don’t know how it was triggered, or whether he’s the one who did it.”

  “So, there’s someone out there who’s pretending to be the Prodigal — pretending to be Fatima to settle the score.” We reached the parking lot, paid the attendant, then walked toward a Zircon Red Mercedes-Maybach S650 Cabriolet. What was I supposed to think about Dax’s eyewitness testimony or the video capturing Dad’s final seconds? “You need to let me talk to Akram.”

  “Chase, I agree, but we need more leverage before you face him.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Laney?”

  “Collinsworth also gave us a positive ID on the other suspects — all commanders in Fatima’s army. Kasim is the only one left — except for one other.”