"I dunno,” he says, starting to be angry, then catching the name on my shirt and wondering if he should make something of it. “Gotta be outside, ‘cause we been here three years and nobody ever knocked on the door ‘bout it before."
"So show me where it is then."
We troop around the house, and he leads me toward the garage where I said it should be, but as we walk around the side of the house I spot it behind the spirea bushes, and tell him thanks for the help while I'm typing numbers into my meter, then walk off to the next house without looking back. Because I already saw exactly what I needed to see: yes, those were the eggs sitting right there on a shelf by the windows. It's the ego thing, gets in the way. People who steal stuff, they always show off the bling and it catches up with them. Trust me, I know. Those two golden eggs gotta be the ones I'm looking for, look like Fabergé, just like Beckett described them.
Knowing where they are doesn't make me any happier, even though finding them was easy. First off, she's got JoJo the security guy living in the house. Maybe she lets him out in the yard to shit, but I'm betting he doesn't go much farther than that. Second, the windows are all shatterproof glass and hooked up to an alarm system. So, even if I dodge her guard dog, I can't do a smash-and-grab, because the windows won't smash and if they did the cops'd be on me even before I could grab. The extra bonuses they pay cops in these neighborhoods are quaint too—private industry at its best.
I sit on that for a couple weeks, making plans and discarding them, watching the neighborhood. In the end, because I'm dead broke and need the payday fast, I decide to try the invisibility trick again. I see work vans bringing Have-nots from the suburb apartment complexes into the neighborhood to work—landscapers, maids, carpet-cleaners. A regular one-stop shop, every Wednesday, contracted out by the homeowners association. There's one supervisor who walks around between several houses all subscribed to the same service.
Dressed up in drab colors, a little dirty, and carrying a keypad, I wait until the supervisor has hit Beckett's ex's house already and is down at the other end of the block in the cul-de-sac. The door to the ex's house is open while the vacuum guys—all bonded and carrying headcams—shoot through the rooms. JoJo the dog-faced bodyguard is out back in his doghouse with his head under his food bowl hiding from the sound. I walk in studying my keypad and when I notice nobody noticing me, I scoop the eggs into a pocket I've got hidden in the front of my work shirt. Usually I look around and filch a little something for myself on jobs like this one, but there's really no time and I don't want to end up on any of the headcams. I notice, however, some blown-glass unicorn sitting on the shelf beneath the eggs—I pick it up, snap its neck, and lay it down. Then I waltz out.
I stop on the front steps, tapping furiously into my keypad. One of the lawncare guys looks up from where he's raking mulch into the bushes and I say, “We're behind schedule. Pick it up or you won't be home in time for dinner."
Guy mutters a curse word or two, but makes a big show of putting his back into the mulch-spreading. I hardly even see it because I'm walking down the street, shedding my hat, tearing the nametag off my shirt. Then I'm in the car, and out through the gates.
The two eggs weigh more than I expected. I don't know how much sperm weighs, but I don't worry about it. I figure Beckett will plug them back in, they'll go back to work, and that's that.
In the end, it's one of the easiest jobs I've ever done.
* * * *
At home, I spend the whole evening studying these eggs. They're gorgeous—heavy, gold-enameled spheres, one decorated with dancing cabana boys or whatever they're called, the other with naked nymphs, look like porn stars, all in silver filigree and ornamented with tiny gems. I figure even if it's all fake, it's still worth a bundle.
It reminds me of the gold globe I was wearing when I went to meet Beckett. I go back to my bedroom and pull it out of my sock drawer and hold it up to the light. It's a tiny world on a gold chain, a present from Diane to Joe. It had been on the list of things she wanted back from him. Had been on the top of the list, actually. But since it had been a gift, I figured she didn't really have a right to it and I kept it for myself. A little something for ignoring the surgery I went through to be taller for her. Maybe I even planned to return it once she dated me, only then she never did.
The world twirls at the end of the chain, throwing reflections off the silver surface between the porcelain-enamel continents. It's elegant and looks like it should screw in half to hide something inside, but I've never been able to take it apart and after Diane moved on, I lost interest in trying. It sat in a drawer for a couple years until I needed to impress people with money.
I lay it on the table, coiling the chain around it like a nest, and go back to the eggs. The read-sockets are hidden underneath. I try plugging in my computers but it's security locked, and all I get are tiny flashing red lights that go away when I unplug. I figure if there's any kind of tracer in them that I've activated, it's best to turn them over to Beckett. So I call him and tell him we need to meet right away.
Beckett is grinning and chuckling when I hand the eggs to him at an Opie's Family Restaurant. We're in the booth at the end of the counter that's lined by barber chairs—they look great but they're not so comfortable to sit in, so they stay empty most of the time.
"You're amazing,” he says, drinking a big malted shake. “How'd you do it?"
I tell him it's a professional secret and ask him to show me the cash. I like cash because it's harder to trace. He hands over a duffle. I drop it beside me on the seat and count the money out under the table. When I'm satisfied it's all there, I say, “It's been a pleasure doing business with you. Keep me in mind for any future needs you may have."
He chuckles again, like this is the greatest thing ever, and I'm thinking that Haves are different than the rest of us, because they have more money. But now I've got a piece of that for myself. “How you gonna spend that?” he says, grinning.
Since it's none of his business, I smile and say, “Dunno. I'll come up with something."
He laughs and tells me not to spend it all in one place, then we shake hands, promise to keep in touch, part friends.
I hate that downhome Opie crap, so I go through a drive-through Thai King to get some tom ka gai on the way back to my place. I pay them with one of the small bills Beckett gave me.
Alarms go off as soon as it hits the cash drawer. The money is fake. Counterfeit. The lady in the food window is old as my grandmother, and she's staring at me with that old lady mixture of disappointment and contempt while the tire spikes pop up in front and back of my car.
I lean my head forward against the steering wheel to wait for the private cops to show up. I'm hoping they take a while so I can figure out how to get even with Beckett.
* * * *
Turns out, I get out of the drive-through situation by pretending to be stupid. Way I feel right then, there's not a lot of pretending involved. The money isn't marked or tied to any other crime. When I hear that, I feed them some bull about getting it for change at a Chopstick Charlie's cross-town. While they badmouth their competitors, I dig up enough clean cash from my pocket to pay Thai King again for the meal. I also talk to the manager and pay upfront for the drop-in call from the coptractors. Of course, they keep the counterfeit bill. We all know one of them is going to spend it somewhere else, which is how the stuff stays in circulation. Everybody's happy. Even the grandma in the pickup window favors me with a complimentary smile and everything is forgiven.
By the time it's over, I'm not as mad at Beckett either. Thing is, I realize how lucky I am to get caught spending the counterfeit for small change. If I dropped a roll of it at a dealer for a new car or something, they'd have to cart me off to jail. So the big question is, is it all fake, or was that just one bad bill? Is it an accident, or have I been set up?
I'm hoping it's the former, because once I've calmed down I still want to like Beckett. It's hardly the first time I've been bagge
d with a bad bill. Everyone gets one now and then.
When I get home, I check out the rest of the finder's fee in the bag.
It's all fake.
Every bill.
I know, because after a few random ones turn out fake, I get methodical, like a freaking bank teller, and check every bill.
Which means Beckett is fake too. He's fooled me better than I thought.
I'm sitting here, on my futon, planning ways to get even with him, trying to figure out how I'm going to pay my bills, when the phone rings. I don't even bother to see who it is before I answer.
"Yeah, what?” is what I say.
"Still the charmer, I see,” says a voice on the other end that I don't quite recognize anymore and also can never forget. When I'm completely silent, she says, “Hey, this is Diane. You still in your old line of work?"
"No,” I say. “I retired recently. Apparently I'm too stupid to do it anymore.” But what I'm thinking is, Diane? What the hell? I can't really concentrate on anything else.
"Well, get back into it. I need a serious favor and I can't turn to anyone but you to do it."
And I'm thinking, I can't possibly rip my heart out and leave it on your doorstep again because I've already done that once, and it was one time too many. “What is it?"
"A friend of mine had something incredibly valuable stolen. She needs somebody she can trust completely to get it back again."
"Look, Diane, I don't really do that anymore."
"This is a special situation,” she says. “Some asshole stole her ovaries."
I shut up. I already know the next line before she says it.
"She had them stored for safekeeping in a couple of jeweled eggs, like Fabergé—"
"And her name's Patrina Solove."
That shuts her up. And gives me time to think.
Of course they were eggs. Beckett lied to me about the whole thing. If they'd been his testicles, they'd have been a couple golden nuts. He played me twice.
"How'd you know that?” she asks finally.
"Word gets around."
"It gets around fast then! I knew you were the right person to call. You know who has them?"
"Maybe,” I say, thinking I don't really know much about Beckett at all, and whether he even is who he said he was. I'm thinking this whole thing is seriously screwed up and I'm better off if I don't have anything to do with it. What I want to say to her is, hey, listen, there's not enough money in the world to pay me to be part of this mess. But she gets tired of waiting for me to speak.
"That's fantastic,” she says. “Look, if you do this as a favor for me, I'd be very grateful."
"I don't know, Diane. I'm out of that line of work. I'm back in school, trying to finish my degree."
"That's great. God, you've got so much determination."
"I've got my mom's role model to follow,” I say. “She worked really hard all her life. I'm just trying to, you know, do something I can be proud of.” I don't even think of it as a lie, when I'm saying it to her. I believe it. It's the chance I should have had, the chance I still deserve to have.
"That's really great,” she says. “Look, if you've changed and you don't do that stuff anymore, I understand that completely."
"I didn't say that, exactly."
"It's just that it would mean a lot to me. For my friend's sake. That's something this guy took from her that can't ever be replaced. It's like taking her whole world away. Do you have any idea how that feels?"
"Why would she do something like that anyway?” I ask, trying to change the subject away from me and Diane, because I don't want to think about us, and about all the stuff I deserve that I don't have.
"I know,” she says. “It's a terrible idea because something just like this can happen. I told her it was a bad idea, but she wouldn't listen. She's completely devastated. Are you sure you can't do anything to help her?"
"I don't know. Maybe I could talk to her.” I don't know what makes me say that, but as soon as I do, Diane's all over it.
"Oh, I knew I could count on you. Maybe after you talk to her, we could get together for dinner or something. Catch up on old times."
"What old times are those,” I mumble, frowning at the bitterness I hear in my own voice.
But she says, “No, I should've done it a long time ago. I owe you payback. More than you know."
"No problem, Diane,” I hear myself blurting out loud enough for her to hear. “Anything you ever need from me, you know all you have to do is ask."
After that we trade a couple pleasantries and she sets up a meeting with her friend Patrina right there while I'm waiting on the phone, and then we promise to talk to each other soon, and that's that.
I'm totally over Diane, okay. But like she said, she owes me and maybe finally I'll get to collect. If I can get even at the same time with Beckett for cheating me, even better.
* * * *
Get this: Beckett wanted to meet at Starbuck's; his ex takes me out to lunch at Eleni's. Eleni's is the best restaurant in town, a place where you have to book reservations a month in advance. I meet Patrina there the next day.
When I arrive, the maître d’ looks me over like I'm a bum off the street, until I tell him who I'm having lunch with, and then the whole staff suddenly treats me like I'm the guest of royalty, which tells me Patrina's a big spender, because in this part of the city, money is king.
They take me over to the table where she's already sitting and I can see why Beckett was willing to give up his testicles.
Not that she's my type. But she's the kind of almost-anorexic brunette that a lot of guys go for, looks like she lives on a diet of coffee, cigarettes, and pills. And that's fine, because she's built like a Jaguar convertible, all muscle and lean curves, everything waxed to a high gloss. She's wearing rainforest-green lip gloss, leaf-pattern eyeshadow, and a dark dress with a sheen on it like dew. Her mouth is a bit too wide for her face, which makes it just wide enough.
"Please sit down, I'm so glad to see you,” she says, waving me into the seat and launching into a nervous account of the restaurant's specials, more like she waited tables than sat at them. We get interrupted once by a call to her cell phone and a second time when she remembers she needs to make a quick call. When we finally get waited on, I order the tofu curry, just because I think meat will upset her, and I smile a lot while she sips her wine and gives the preternaturally androgynous waitperson three sets of conflicting instructions.
When she finally settles down, I say, “So you're a friend of Diane's?"
She shrugs it off and then shoots right into a story about how they met at this party on one of the riverboats, and it turns out her best friend knew Diane's boss, and they started talking and became best friends, after which she adds a couple anecdotes about seeing Diane at a wedding and calling her another time for help with the police—a complete misunderstanding, but Diane knows how to talk to people so they do stuff, plus she's discreet, and anyway, that was all water burning the bridge, and then she laughs and says or whatever that phrase is, that's what I mean, and don't you and Diane go way back too?
"We've known each other a few years,” I admit. “So what's your problem, exactly?"
"Didn't she tell you?” At this point I notice that her makeup is covering some possibly bad surgery around her mouth. She's playing with it the same way Beckett played with his chin, only there's a tiny bump of a scar in the divot under her nose. Maybe it's a mole. Either way, she flicks her finger over and over it when she gets nervous.
"Yes, she did,” I say. “But professionally, I figure it's better to hear the whole story from you so I have all the facts straight."
"Well, there's not too much to say,” she says, leaning forward across the table to whisper to me, giving me a good look at the cylinders in her engine when she does it. “I had my ovaries removed, you know, for safekeeping, so they wouldn't be exposed to anything that might damage them. It's really the best birth control there is, you know. I had them stored
in some replica Fabergé eggs, the kind made by Seibert's—have you ever seen any of them?"
I have, in fact, just recently. But I give a shake of my head for a no, and she goes into a long description that doesn't really do them justice, adding that I ought to see her friend Christiana's, gorgeous, a real work of art, ought to be in a museum, although Jazmin has hers in a Betty Boop doll, which is kind of cute too, and Sigourney keeps hers in a golf ball—they can store them in something that small but it costs a lot more—even though they kicked her off the LPGA for cheating. She tells me a lot about how the storage process works, and how they can be ruined without regular maintenance, but I don't care much, so I don't listen.
She's as impatient as she is talkative, and she stops the waitperson several times to check on the status of our meal.
During one of these interruptions, I get impatient too and ask her what happened to her eggs.
"Cas stole them—he told me he would."
"Who's Cas?” I ask, even though I can safely guess that Cas is Casto Beckett, my previous employer. She tells me his full name and I feel glad to have gotten one thing right.
"It's kind of embarrassing,” she goes on saying and there's a flinch in her eyes, and at that point I can see her more as my type. For all her polished exterior, she's vulnerable. “I did some crazy things,” she says. “I got engaged to him, even drew up the prenups. That's when I promised him my eggs—before I knew what he wanted to do with them! This was back when I was still running with the oddbod addicts."
She says the last with a bit of a blush, and while I want to know what he wanted her eggs for, I don't know anything about oddbod addicts and I say so.
"It's a subculture thing, mostly about sex. You go into a spa at the beginning of the week and they give you any mod you want. End of the week, they turn you back to normal, whatever normal is for you. Anyway, the one we met at was just outside Naples—"
"Italy?” I ask, getting a quick vision of tracking this down across the ocean like a real jewel thief. I ought to be eating in restaurants like this every day, traveling to places like Italy too.
FSF Magazine, June 2007 Page 6