Skunk Hunt

by J. Clayton Rogers

  SKUNK HUNT

  by

  J. Clayton Rogers

  Copyright 2012

  PROLOGUE

  Nothing in Marvin Hemmings' imagined scenarios prepared him for the shoot-out. The Jewelers' Security Alliance reported armed robberies against retail jewelers had jumped over the previous years, and Vernon Baldwin had done his best to make his store unappealing to local and transient slick willies. There were four bullet cameras covering the entire display floor of the Ice Boutique. There had been no need to put one outside—exterior cameras at the pizza parlor on one side of the Boutique and at the Subway on the other covered the parking lot. Since Vernon's cameras could be monitored not only on the office computer but also from Vernon's West End residence, this was a mixed blessing for Marvin, who even at that moment was being recorded at 30 fps. If he spread out a 16" everything-but-the-anchovies on one of the shiny Tecno jewelry showcases, Uncle Vern might be watching and there would be hell to pay. He was Vice-President of the Dominion Jewelers Association, after all, and needed to put on a good front.

  The gun in the utility drawer next to the register should have provided an extra margin of protection. But instead of being reassured, Marvin found it dangerously excessive.

  "An HK P7, Marvin," Uncle Vern had told him his first day on the job. "A good German utilitarian weapon. Even a moron can use it. What's that look? I'm not calling you a moron. But even if you're just an idiot, that's a notch up from nothing. Don't blubber. Are you going to run crying to your mother? She's the one who told me you've got the brains of a gerbil. Are you afraid I got this out of a pawn shop? It's perfectly licensed and legal."

  A bullet in flight did not care if the gun it came from was licensed or not. If the theoretical robber happened to be armed, displaying a firearm legitimized you as a target.

  "Let's go out to the firing range in Sandston. Fire a few rounds, Marvin, just to get the feel of it."

  "I get enough practice with Grand Theft Auto."

  "A computer game?"

  "It's pretty graphic."

  Uncle Vern had waved the gun in Marvin's face. It was hard to believe that most of the family believed this same man to be impractically saintly.

  "You don't get any more graphic than this!"

  As his nuts shriveled into chickpea gerbil-balls, Marvin comprehended the world of difference between physical and digital reality. It was inconceivable that he would pull that handgun out and flag himself for mortality. He'd decided on the spot there was no way he would stay in the jewelry store business, family or not. Retailers got popped on a regular basis. Only the month before, a pair of robbers hit a store using samurai swords, for chrissakes. It was a dangerous job, no doubt about it, and he couldn't believe his mother had pushed him into it, just because she happened to be Vernon's sister. It didn't seem like a very motherly thing to do. Besides, Marvin knew IT guys his age who pulled in salaries three times what he was making at the Ice Boutique (and what a corny name that was, and misleading, with as much De Beers as a dime store—Saint Vernon said he wanted nothing to do with blood diamonds). If his mother really wanted to show her love, she would google him proper employment. When was the last time a systems analyst had been murdered on the job?

  In the meantime, Marvin was forced to cast his luck with the multiple cameras and alarms that festooned the shop, electronic nuggets far more appealing to him than the angular Heckler & Koch. The paradox all jewelry store operators confronted was how to make their shop look appealing while disguising that foreboding fortress ambience. Sprinkling rose hips in the display cases might dispel some of the inherent sterility of assorted necklaces and pendants, overpriced earrings and cufflinks (Vernon stopped short of selling nose studs), not to mention the omnipresent rings—but they never quite allayed the fact that prospective customers were walking into a potential shooting gallery, and that they knew it.

  It was mid-December, time for the next-to-final sprint of the Christmas shopping season, and the last thing sellers wanted was a wintry blast laying open their mercantile jugular. Virginia being a semi-tropical state, it was not unheard of to see people outside in their shirtsleeves well into January. But in the pre-dawn hours the phlegmatic sky had begun hawking globular flakes that clung tenaciously to the roads. The Department of Transportation, taken unawares, spurted feeble wads of sand at key intersections.

  When Marvin arrived, a man from the snow-removal service under contract with the small strip-mall had already cleared a path across the parking lot and had started plowing individual parking spaces. When Marvin saw no other cars in the lot, he checked his cell phone for messages. He scowled at the only number in his inbox—his mother's usual wakeup call. She never trusted him to open his eyes.

  Uncle Vern had given Marvin a key and the alarm system pass code, two items the young man had, up to now, never needed to use at the beginning of a business day. Whenever his uncle took off early to perform a charity function at one of the state prisons, he left Marvin to lock up. But that was it. He had been working at the Ice Boutique for almost a year, and never once had Vernon failed to arrive first.

  There was no need to be here, Marvin thought sourly. People who shopped for jewelry in this kind of weather needed their heads examined. Anyone who spent good money on sterile rocks was kind of loony, in his estimation. There were a million gizmos on the market for cyberspace aficionados. Why buy something that just sat? Well, computers just sat, too. But it was more than just a difference of degree. Or was it kind? Marvin could never keep the two straight.

  And which category did Marvin belong to once he had opened up—and just sat, dreamily watching the plow through the broad display windows? Animal, vegetable, mineral...?

  The snow laminated the interior of the store with hundreds of glowing refractions. Everything seemed twice what it was. Diamond anniversary rings, white gold semi-mounts, silver pendants, sterling cutwork, heart pendants, bridal leaves, sapphire golfer pins, stick pins, emerald pins, pinwheels...all the crud the slurping public consumed to feed its self-esteem. At least the watches were practical. And there were watches galore, although Uncle Vern insisted there were no watches in his shop. These were timepieces—or, when confronting a particularly snobbish client, personal chronometers. Baume & Mercier, Mont Blanc, Jaeger-LeCoultre, all the names Marvin couldn't pronounce, with or without the proper frenchified accent that Vernon professed adéquat—whatever the hell that was. In fact, Marvin had difficulty with the fundamental category itself, which had an unfortunate tendency to emerge from his lips as 'jewry'.

  Even Marvin was impressed by the peculiar reflection of the snow on the displays. But the initial shock of the observation washed his frontal lobe of interest, leaving him in a state of banal nirvana. He was not one to cherish quiet moments, whether for contemplation or just to allow his mind to return to its original blank slate. In fact, such moments made him edgy. His fingers began dancing on the air, chipping away at an invisible keyboard. One of the first things he did upon entering the store was boot up the computer. On a typical day, whenever Uncle Vern stepped out Marvin would catch a cyber wave and surf the net, checking out the latest images of Megan Fox, updating his Facebook page, sending out twitters—the content of which he forgot within moments after he posted them. Of course, everyone had a secret net-life, but so far as he could tell, his uncle only used the computer to read emails and peruse a handful of job-related websites, most particularly the wholesalers: Richard Cannon, A & V Imports, A. Weiss and Son. Occasionally he would post bids on GemFind, but Vernon rarely spent more than ten minutes at a stretch on the office computer, a horrible waste of a Dell Optiplex. He knew, of course, that Marvin used the computer, but he was not savvy enough to check the web history.

  This morning Vernon's absen
ce so disturbed Marvin that he lost all desire to fill in his wasted moments with the kaleidoscopic mindsweep of the internet. To be a take-charge kind of individual, you had to have the desire to dominate your environment. Marvin much preferred to let the environment scroll past him without extensive commentary. When Vernon was out of the shop, Marvin showed a marked tendency to defer to the absent owner. Vernon recognized this was bad for business, but since he was a take-charge kind of guy, he accepted his employee's lack of self-motivation. There was no dickering whenever Vernon was on one of his prison charity trips, which could take the better part of a day. Marvin was to "stick to the price tag."

  Marvin swiveled his eyes away from the contractor's snow plow, plying back and forth like a huge, hopping-mad insect, and glowered at the musical wine glasses sitting on the front display. Twenty-two of them, enough for three full octaves. Totally impractical for a prison environment. Not only was the expensive Reidel & Schott Zwiesel crystal at risk, being placed in the hands of a crew notorious for breaking things, but even a novice inmate could convert it into a nifty weapon with a simple snap of the wrist. How Vernon convinced the authorities to allow them into the prisons was a mystery.

  With even more care than he showed for his jewelry, Vernon would wrap up each wine glass in a velvet-lined box and take them to one of the state prisons for Correctional Education graduation ceremonies, wardens' birthdays and religious holidays. All these and more provided occasions for him to show off his jailhouse musicians. This entailed a great deal of training. First he had to show them how to tune the glasses by adding water with a touch of vinegar, then roughen their fingertips to produce a solid tone. Sessions could last for hours—after all, Vernon couldn't leave the glasses behind for solo practice. But in the end, Vernon assured Marvin, his students produced perfect tremolos.

  When the musical glasses weren't on display, they were replaced by framed pictures of the glasses with little tags that said, for example, "I am High C—I'm away right now enhancing the lives of the less fortunate in our society." What a waste of valuable display space! Vernon claimed this show of public virtue was good for business. People appreciated charity, especially when it didn't cost them a cent. Marvin was doubtful. You came to a jewelry store to lighten yourself of excess expendable income or to max out your credit card, not to be reminded that there were unfortunate people out there who scarcely saw the light of day.

  This belief was vindicated, Marvin believed, when business slacked off dramatically. Of course, the entire economy was tanking. Diamonds were not a girl's best friend when all she wanted was a Big Mac and fries. The negative spin represented by the glasses had more than once backfired on Vernon. Why should those who had broken the law get a break? Why should they be allowed a cute little pastime while law-abiding citizens were struggling to survive? And while there was no taxpayer expense involved in Vernon's musical groups, people had a tendency to link them with the educational programs state facilities provided their inmates. Look at that! These guys break every rule of civilized behavior, and they're rewarded with a free education! More than one would-be customer had stormed out of the Ice Boutique on learning of Vernon's munificence.

  Next on the schedule was the Christmas pageant, in two weeks, when Vernon and his students pulled out all the crystal stops for a program of holiday favorites. For now, though, the wine glasses were tuneless reflectors of a snowfall that showed no sign of letting up.

  The man driving the plow either figured this out for himself, or had a radio plugged in his ear and had learned his efforts were futile. The parking lot was only half cleared when he suddenly swerved out onto Staples Mill Road and chugged home.

  Marvin had not realized how comforting the sight and sound of the plow had been until it was gone. Its industrious presence had signified accomplishment, activity, freedom of movement. Its absence signaled the reverse. Nothing was getting done, and those who ignored that fact risked getting stranded. Only a handful of cocky 4-wheel-drivers had passed the tiny strip mall, volunteers for Meals on Wheels or taking workers to the hospital. The rest were just assholes showing off their maneuverability as long as they could before they got stuck and added one more barrier in the road. This stretch of Staples Mill had been visited twice this morning by the big county plows, yet already another slippery coat had been laid on. The entire area was becoming an ice boutique, and Marvin could think of no better place to be stuck at than home.

  The snow wore on him like mental sandpaper. Not that long ago he would have been waiting breathlessly for the news that the schools were closed due to inclement weather. Only now he was part of the school of life, as Uncle Vern would say, and the call that would release him refused to come. Was Vernon sitting in the warm comfort of his 3,000 square foot Southern Living custom-designed mini-palace? Was he watching his monitor? Could he be sniggering at his useless nephew staring mindlessly at the mindless world?

  Marvin started. He had to find something useful to do. But chronic non-starters are woefully unprepared to be useful. He could take out a Handi-Wipe and dust the displays. He could even shovel snow off the sidewalk, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Reason being the handmaid of sloth, he decided there was no reason for heroic measures. Let the snow finish, then shovel it off. By then, of course, the contractor would have returned and done the job for him.

  He went to the back office and stared at the computer screensaver, a to-be-expected image of the Hope Diamond. Vernon would be impressed no end if Marvin checked the Rapaport Diamond Report for the latest pricing trends. The risk being that, if Marvin proved competent at judging wholesale markets, or even just reporting on them, Vernon might take it into his head to add it to his daily chores.

  His cell phone rang. He read the display and grinned. Uncle Vern's home number. He was going to call it a day! And none too soon. Marvin had doubts he would be able to negotiate his diminutive Reno through this mess.

  "Hello?"

  "Marvin. This is your Aunt Hilary."

  He was glad she had identified herself. Marvin rarely spoke to Vernon's wife. And her voice seemed changed, somehow. Stress?

  "Hi," Marvin said numbly. He didn't know how to speak to relatives, even close relatives—Vernon being a case in point.

  "Are you in the shop?"

  "Well...yeah."

  "Listen..."

  Aunt Hilary was breathing hard. There was noise in the background. An echo from a PA system, a series of shouts. Marvin's intestines roiled.

  "You sound like you're in a hospital," he said into his phone.

  "I'm at Henrico Doctors'. Marvin, there's been an accident. Your Uncle Vernon..."

  "Oh my God..." Marvin's mind gonged with dismay and glee. Was he going to get the rest of the day off? But would he have to visit Vernon in the hospital? But wait...what if his uncle expected him to run the shop until his return? How badly was he injured? Was it possible he would be told to watch the store by himself for days on end? Even weeks? For all of his uncle's gruff ways, he provided a sense of security. He could browbeat roving salesmen with the best of them, and his ability to dismiss irate customers held a certain rude charm. Marvin could not function without Vernon's certainty, as his uncle well knew. He could not hold the fort for any extended length of time.

  But wait...was Uncle Vernon...God forbid...dead? Yes, God forbid. But that would entail Aunt Hilary taking over the business, probably selling it, and then Marvin would be...free. God forbid.

  A lot could go through Marvin's head when it was properly activated.

  "He'll be all right," came Aunt Hilary's tense voice. Marvin found it hard to say if she was pleased by this information. "I just spoke with him. They've taken him in for X-rays. Some idiot rear-ended him on River Road."

  Marvin tried to think of a proper way to convey deep concern. He cleared his throat. "How's his car?"

  "It's been towed. Now listen, Marvin, Vern told me to tell you to close up shop, now."

  "All right."

  "No, Marvin.
Now. No fiddling with the computer, no waiting for customers...not that anyone would come out on a day like this."

  She was making him feel like a chump for showing up on the job. But no more of a chump than Vernon, who had, apparently, paid the price for his work ethic.

  "Do you understand me? He wants you out of the shop this instant."

  He was suddenly alarmed. Why this urgency? It would be just like Uncle Vernon to try and close a deal on his deathbed. If Marvin chose to linger about, there was a remote chance he could make a sale. For his uncle to write off an entire day as a total loss sounded unnatural.

  As was to be expected in a young man, Marvin had a mulish streak. Being pushed out the door—even to his benefit, because it sounded like a delightful proposition—caused his hackles to rise and his feet to dig in. Fortunately, he had enough common sense to cut short his protest. Unfortunately for him, and for others, he didn't do it soon enough. He paused, hemmed, startling Aunt Hilary with tones of a stoic and stalwart employee. He would see out the storm, he would keep the Ice Boutique lights lit up, people passing by would be impressed by such dedication and drop in to make a purchase—

  "There won't be anyone passing by, you moron!" Aunt Hilary cut him short. "They're calling for eight more inches!"

  Marvin gaped at the phone. His aunt had called him a moron! What had her husband said to her about him? His heels dug in harder—then suddenly released. What was he doing? Eight inches on top of what had already fallen! In Richmond, such an event was considered a catastrophe. Besides, he was talking himself into a hole. Aunt Hilary might decide Marvin could keep the store open by himself for however long it took Vernon to recover. Although, from the sound of it, she could scarcely credit him with enough sense to lock the door on leaving.

  "All right, Aunt Hilary, I'm going, I'm going."

  "What's that? I don't hear you going."

  "OK, bye." He disconnected. In somewhat of a huff, he sat before the monitor, brooding, tempted to visit a couple of sites that his uncle would disapprove of, just on the off-chance he could infect the computer with a virus from a porn sight. That would be a hoot. Ol' Vernon checking the price of diamonds and getting a pop-up of a beaver. The saint would go ballistic.