I relaxed in his lap, his arms wrapped around me for the entire time. As I felt him become flaccid, I let out a sigh.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Whenever you are.”
He spread his knees apart.
I slid from his lap, cupping my right hand between my legs as I did so. “I’ll shuffle to the house now.”
He waved at Mr. Kline as he pulled up his jeans. “Be in in a minute.”
“Okay.”
“I love the dress,” he said. “You look beautiful in it.”
It was my first dress as an adult, and hopefully the start of a new trend for me. In addition to helping me overcome my self-esteem issues with my leg, they made me feel like a lady.
A beautiful lady.
I loved my new outlook on life, and on myself. I had Percy to thank for bringing me out of my shell, but I could never thank him enough. One thank you at a time, though, I’d sure try.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
Chapter Forty-Six
P-Nut
He sat at a small table on the other side of the display case. His head was fitted with a lighted magnifying glass, and his face was buried in the object of his desire. I glared at his back in disbelief.
“I know there’s always a difference between a buying price and a selling price, but it sounds like you’re a little confused on a real market value. Do I need to get someone a little more knowledgeable?” I asked.
“I’m considered an expert in this region.”
“I like the way you paused when you gave me the price. Like you were fishing.”
He glanced over his shoulder and lifted the magnifying glass. “Fishing?”
“Tossing out a hopeful number. Lobbing a try in my direction. It’s like fishing. See the similarity?”
“I don’t.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. The number needs to have a four in front of it, and if it doesn’t, you and I are done talking.”
“$285,720,” he said flatly.
“I guess we’re done.”
He lowered the device to his eye, took one last look, and then glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll entertain a counter offer.”
“Not if I’m not giving one, you won’t. I was a child years ago. I haven’t got any desire to play childish games.”
“$300,000 is not child’s play.”
“You didn’t say $300,000. You said $285,720. Maybe I should just stick around here and let you go up in $14,280 increments until you get to $400,000.” I cleared my throat. “Notice how I did that math in my head? I’m good with numbers. You’re not.”
“We’re too far apart on this,” he said.
“Fine. I’ll be on my way.”
He swiveled his chair to face me. After setting his spectacles aside, he sighed. “$350,000.”
“We’re making progress.”
He grinned. “I’ll have the bank print a check.”
“And what? Pay me the other $50,000 in cash?”
He let out a sigh. “I can’t go $400,000.”
“I can’t go $350,000.”
“We’re close,” he said. “Awfully close.”
“You’re $50,000 off. That’s a lot of money. Go buy a house and short ‘em fifty k. See how close they think you are.”
“How did you arrive at your number?” he asked. “I’d like to know.”
“I arrived at it by being knowledgeable in current market values. These things change daily. If you aren’t current on that specific card, you could be off a mile. You didn’t even look on the computer, or in a book.”
“I don’t need to.”
He was frustrating the fuck out of me. I looked off to the side, and saw what I assumed was his car on the other side of the storefront window.
“Is that your Austin-Healey?” I asked.
“It is.”
“A man drives something like that, it’s apparent he likes cars. Are you a collector?”
“I dabble.”
“You own several, right?”
“More than several.”
I gave a slow nod. “What’s the value of a 1988 308 Ferrari?”
He chuckled. “I have no idea.”
“You like cars, you’re a collector, and you have no idea what a 1988 308 is worth? How the fuck can that be?”
“There are far too many cars in this world to be privy to the price points of all of them.”
“Exactly. And there are more baseball cards on this earth than cars. That’s a 1952 Mickey Mantle #311. It’s a PSA 9. Look at the centering. It’s 47-53 front, and 50-50 rear. Measure the motherfucker. At an auction, it’d go for $550,000-$575,000. If I auction it, I’ll have to pay taxes. Taxes will get me to $400,000. Give me $400,000 for the son-of-a-bitch, or kindly hand it back to me.”
“Give me a moment,” he said.
He went into the back room for a few minutes, and then returned. “I’ll give $395,000.”
“That five bucks is going to kill you, huh?”
He shrugged. “It’s a matter of principle. I need to feel that I’m getting a bargain.”
“The $550,000 price you just saw on the internet didn’t make you feel that way?”
He grinned. “Do we have a deal?”
“You know what? Normally I’d walk over $5.00. Just like you, as a matter of principle. Today, I’ll let you get over on me for $5.00, but only if you’re paying in cash.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t keep cash like that in the store.”
“I didn’t figure you did. Give me the card, gather up the funds, and then we’ll meet up.”
“I’m not going to bring cash like that here. I’d need you to meet me at the bank, or at the police station.”
“Trust issues, huh? Yeah, I’ve got ‘em, too. Good luck getting me to go to a police station. I’ll meet you at the bank. How much time do you need?”
He looked at his watch. “Will noon work? We can meet here. My bank is around the corner.”
“Noon will work fine.”
“What shall we do with the Mantle #311?” he asked.
“We aren’t going to do a damned thing with it. I’m going to take it with me.”
His face distorted. “On the motorcycle?”
I held out my hand. “Same way it got here.”
“You feel safe with a half-a-million-dollar card on that?”
“Safer than in a cage.”
With obvious reluctance, he handed me the card. “I’ll see you at noon?”
“The two of us,” I said. “My buddy and me.”
“Buddy?”
Ridding myself of my Mickey Mantle #311 was like pushing a family member off a cliff. I knew I’d never see him again. I’d never have the pleasure of dusting off the case, measuring the edges of the card, admiring the lack of fraying on the corners, or comparing it to the many for sale on the internet, knowing mine was better.
It wasn’t an easy thing to do, but it was necessary.
The cause was well worth it.
My father would be proud.
“Yeah, I said. Me and my buddy Mickey. Mickey Mantle.”
He grinned and handed me the card. “I’ll look forward to seeing the two of you at noon.”
I looked at the velour cloth. Four examples were displayed, all facing me. The fluorescent lighting over the case did wonders for improving clarity and magnifying beauty, but it wasn’t enough.
I pointed at the cloth and wagged my index finger from left to right. “No, no, no, and no.”
She looked at me and blinked a few times. “Is there a problem?”
“Quality. I don’t want what everyone else has. I want something different. You know when you buy a shirt, and then you see someone else wearing the exact same thing? Imagine that in this circumstance. It’d make you sick, wouldn’t it?”
Her eyebrows raised. “Possibly.”
“I want something that no one else has, or can have. I want
something that’d make everyone say, damn, I wish I could have one of those, but I know I can’t.”
She grinned a shallow grin. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place. You might try David and Sons on La Jolla Village Dive.”
“Know the address?”
“It’s in the 4000 block.”
“Appreciate your help.”
I rode to the location, circled the buildings, and found the shop. After parking the bike, I pulled my backpack from the saddlebag and walked inside.
The man behind the counter looked at the backpack, and then at me. “How can I help you?”
“Rumor has it that you specialize in products that aren’t like everyone else’s.”
He was in his mid-forties, had a shaved head, and was wearing a navy suit. He brushed his hands along the thighs of his slacks and then clasped his hands together. “I’d say that’s an accurate statement.” He craned his neck to the side and peered toward the parking lot. “Is that a Heritage Softy?”
I nodded. “Sure is.”
“An Evo, isn’t it?”
If he could spot an Evo engine from his vantage point, he was pretty knowledgeable about Harleys.
“You ride?”
“Collect. Ride. Get threatened with divorce. Sell a few. Buy a few more and sneak them in the garage. When she notices them, I sell one of them, and keep the other.” He extended his hand. “I’m David.”
“Percy.” I shook his hand. “Which one’s your favorite?”
“I like looking at my old ’52 Pan. I like riding the Road King.”
“The ‘King’s a good sled.”
He nodded toward my bike. “Are the bars comfortable?”
“More than any other bar out there. Everyone thinks apes are uncomfortable, but they’re not. Try a set, you’ll love ‘em.”
“I’ll do that,” he said. “Now, in response to your earlier statement, we do specialize in making a bold statement at an affordable price. We’re a specialty shop, but we’re family owned, and we’re small. We don’t have to feed a corporate machine, we only have to feed ourselves.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“What are you looking for, specifically?”
“Not sure.”
“Engagement?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not exactly. I want her to know I’m committed to her. I don’t want to scare her off with an engagement ring. Just something that’ll make sure she knows I’m in it for the long haul.”
He nodded. “Very well. Have you got a price point you’d like to be under?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got a lot of money, and you don’t know what the definition of a lot is. I want quality, and it needs to be unique. And, don’t get any wise ideas about snatching my backpack, either. I’m quite a bit meaner than I look.”
He coughed out a laugh. “If you’d like to follow me into the back, we can lock that in the safe while you’re shopping. Regardless of your definition of a lot, I’d hate for someone to attempt to relieve you of it while you’re here.”
I considered his offer. After a moment of weighing the possibilities of what if, I agreed. After securing the money in the safe, we returned to the front of the store.
“Do you have a preference on the shape of the stone?”
“Round.”
“Not a conventional solitaire?”
I shook my head. “Looks too much like an engagement ring.”
“Give me a few minutes, will you?”
“Sure.”
He returned in no time. “I’ve got a few I think you might like.”
He spread a cloth on top of the case, and then placed six rings on top of it. The differences in the eye appeal was immeasurable, but the difference in the sizes of the diamonds was drastic. He was obviously offering rings in several price points.
One stood out as being exactly what I had in mind.
“The one on the left. What do you call it?”
“That style is called a halo. It’s a round center stone that is surrounded by stones. It’s a custom piece, built by the one and only Master Jeweler Thomas. There’s not another like it.”
I nodded toward it. “May I?”
“Absolutely.”
I picked it up and held it under the light. It sparkled from what seemed like thousands of facets at the same time. “Damn, this thing sparkles.”
“It’s a Round Brilliant stone, and an Ideal cut. All Ideals are Round Brilliants, but only the best Round Brilliants are Ideals. It’s a remarkable stone.”
“Is it the best you’ve got?”
“It’s the best money can buy. There’s no finer cut. It’s also a colorless stone, and the clarity is VVS-1.”
The ring had a large center stone, and it was surrounded by two rows of smaller stones. The stones that surrounded it tapered toward the center of each side of the ring.
“Cost?”
“Cost for a fellow rider? $175,000.”
I admired the ring, and then placed it on the cloth. “I want to spend a little more.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because you can?”
“Something like that.”
He grinned. “I can bring out rings that cost twice that and more. I brought that one for a reason. It has eye appeal. It’s not gaudy, it’s not ridiculously overpriced, and it’s not a mass-produced example. It’s a custom. A one off. It’s a remarkable piece for one type of woman. A remarkable one. Imagine if you build a one-off bike. Everything from forging the casting for the engine, welding the frame, and stitching the seat’s leather. All yourself. That’s what you were holding.”
I liked his analogy. I reached for it. After admiring it for a moment, I handed it to him. “I’ll take it.”
“You don’t want to see any others?”
“Nope.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yep.”
“Providing there’s no damage to the ring, we offer a seven day, 100% refund on returns. We also offer free lifetime maintenance. No one else in the city offers that.”
“I won’t be returning it. If she doesn’t want it, I’ll toss the fucker in the ocean.”
“Why do I believe that you’d do just that?”
“Because I will.”
“I’ll package it for you, and get the certification paperwork from the safe. You’ve made a wise choice.”
I sure hope so.
I paid for the ring, and then stuck around for a few minutes discussing motorcycles. Eager to get home and schedule the delivery of my gift to Joey, I bid my newfound friend farewell.
“Appreciate the help. And the honesty.”
“My pleasure. Stop in any time. You might bring your friend in when you’re able. I’d love to see that piece on her hand.”
I waved over my shoulder. “Will do.”
The money I had left would allow me to buy a lesser grade Mantle #311. Having a replacement would let me feel that I hadn’t lost a family member altogether.
He’d just be a little rougher around the edges.
In other words, he’d be one of the family.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Joey
We’d ridden the rollercoaster a dozen times. Exhausted, my stomach hurt from laughing and screaming for an hour and a half straight.
“My stomach hurts.”
“Why’s that?”
“From laughing and screaming.”
He motioned toward Sweet Shoppe. “I need some ice cream.”
“Me too.”
We walked to the front of the store, and he motioned to the bench. “Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.”
“I can go in.”
He wrinkled his brow. “Have a seat.”
Reluctantly, I sat. “What are you going to get me?”
“Butter pecan, and pralines and cream, what else?”
I liked it that he knew my favorite flavors. “Fine, I’ll wait here.”
I watched as he walked to the counter, ordered the cones, and waited. He wa
s a wonderful man, and very few realized it. Being one of the few who knew him made me feel privileged. I hoped he felt the same way about me, but had no real way of knowing.
I watched as he talked to the boy at the counter, and then grew curious as he motioned toward me. The boy made eye contact, and then quickly looked away when Percy said something. I imagined him threatening the poor kid with violence for looking too long, and smiled at the thought.
He walked out of the store with two ice cream cones and a cup of water. He sauntered toward the bench, struggling to hold all three.
I stood. “Let me help you.”
He handed me the cone. “Here.”
I accepted the cone, took a bite, and then looked at him. “Were you being mean to that kid?”
He set the water cup between us and licked his cone. “What kid?”
“The kid in the store?”
“No. I was just talking to him.”
“It looked like you were scolding him.”
“Looks are deceiving.”
I glanced at him, and then took another bite. “They sure are.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means what it means,” I said mockingly.
“Finish your cone,” he said. “We’ve got shit to do.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Gonna ride to Meathead’s house.”
“Who’s Meathead?”
“One of the fellas.”
“Haven’t heard too much about him,” she said.
“Been in jail awaiting trial,” he said. “But they dropped charges. He’s free now. Pretty happy about that. I want you to meet him. He wants to thank you.”
“For what?”
“His freedom.”
I scrunched my nose and stared. “What do I have to do with it?”
“We’ll talk about it later, finish your shit.”
I rolled my eyes and took another bite. “Sometimes you give me an ice cream headache.”
He laughed. “Whatever.”
We nibbled at our cones and exchanged glances. He seemed happy about his friend, smiling each time he looked at me.
I wondered what he was thinking, and took another bite of my cone. My teeth clanked against something. I lowered the cone and pressed my thumb to my teeth.
“That was weird.”
F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7) Page 98