Alex Minor was exactly on time. Meaning, of course, that he would arrive on time so long as he kept driving at a speed over one hundred miles per hour for the next twenty miles. From the off ramp he would need to take there, it was only about a mile to his destination, and he wouldn’t have to speed any longer. Unless he felt like it.
Which he probably would.
Motörhead’s first album was currently blasting on the stereo in his Mustang, at a volume high enough that he couldn’t hear his own thoughts.
He was on his way to meet a colleague, of sorts, who had some important information for him concerning the whereabouts of the item he was currently working to recover.
After a career in the military, and a few catastrophic attempts at having a normal career, Alex had found his true calling as a repo man, of sorts.
The item he was currently trying to locate and return to its rightful owner was a small statuette made of some kind of volcanic rock (probably basalt), about the size of a teddy bear. He didn’t have a photo to work from this time, just a general description of the material, size and appearance. “Kind of tiki-looking,” was the extent of the description.
It was safe to guess that he would recognize it when he saw it, anyway.
Ten miles to go. Alex figured he’d arrive in about five minutes, which would actually give him a moment to relax before he had to get to his meeting.
Like Alex, the person he was meeting could best be described as a “freelancer.” Alex didn’t work with her directly, but they’d crossed paths several times in the past, each pursuing their own missions.
Neither of them particularly liked the other’s company, but they were able to tolerate one another long enough to exchange information of value to each other.
Alex rolled to a stop in front of a little coffees hop in downtown Minneapolis. The sign painted on the big front window announced it as, ”The Bump and Grind.” There were a handful of bicycle couriers standing outside the front door of the coffee shop, smoking and talking to one another. They watched as Alex approached.
“Hey man, when are you coming back to work?” one of them asked him when he got close enough.
“When I need the money again,” Alex said, and opened the door to the shop.
“He’s gone soft,” his inquisitor commented to one of the other couriers as Alex went inside. Alex ignored him.
One of Alex’s friends had hooked him up with a job as a bicycle courier some time ago. Every now and then, when he was between projects at his main gig, he’d make deliveries just for the thrill of it. There was something satisfying about pedaling as fast as he could through downtown traffic.
It beat sitting at home watching TV, anyway.
Alex approached the counter to order a cup of coffee. The woman working behind the counter was blond and was probably pretty when it didn’t seem like she was about ready to shove the espresso machine right off the counter and start throwing punches at anyone in her immediate vicinity.
She glanced up at Alex, and then checked her watch.
“You’re late, Alex” she said.
Alex glanced at his own watch. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, right on the dot.
“What are you talking about? I’m right on time, Tamara,” Alex said.
Tamara smirked, and said, “You forget that I know how you drive. On time means you were running late. Did you have to go over one hundred miles per hour to get here by eleven today?”
“No,” Alex said. He heard a defensive edge in his own voice, and he knew Tamara would have heard it as well. She could be obnoxiously perceptive.
Which, he had to admit, was what made the information she gathered so valuable. Generally speaking, the impression she’d gotten was the right one, and following her hunches had made his life a heck of a lot easier on more than one occasion.
It was a shame she could be so hard to put up with.
“Right,” Tamara said. “Want your usual?”
“Yes please,” Alex said.
Tamara poured a cup of black coffee, and handed it to him.
“Let’s go grab a table,” Tamara said. “I could stand to sit for a couple of minutes before the lunch rush starts.”
She came out from behind the counter, and led Alex over to a table that wasn’t far from the cash register. Apart from a courier reading the newspaper at a table in the corner, and a young woman with pink dreadlocks dozing in one of the comfy chairs near the front window, the coffee shop was empty.
“So I hear you’re looking for a little tiki man,” Tamara said shortly after they’d both sat down.
“Yep,” Alex said. “Do you know any more than that?”
“Not much, just that a little curiosities shop came into a supply of Polynesian knick knacks, and sold the majority of them to Beachcomber’s Port,” Tamara said.
“What is Beachcomber’s Port?” Alex said.
Tamara raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been there yet? I figured it’d be your kind of place. It’s a tiki lounge, of course. The most authentically inauthentic tiki bar in the upper Midwest, if the hype is to be believed.”
“So the statue I’m looking for is at a Tiki bar?” Alex said.
“I doubt it,” Tamara said. “I mean, maybe, but it’d be a hell of a coincidence. Beachcomber’s would have been looking for cheap novelty drinkware and bamboo candleholders more than authentic Polynesian artifacts, I’d think. People go there for fruity drinks with a lot of alcohol in them, not to appreciate the art collection.”
“So they don’t have it?” Alex said.
“Not unless they do,” Tamara said. “All I know is that the curiosities shop sold a bunch of boxes of decorative items to them.”
“OK. Does that mean that the statue is at the curiosities shop?” Alex said.
“I don’t know. Could be. Or they might have heard about it. Those guys usually have big networks,” Tamara said.
Alex sighed. He’d been hoping for a more concrete answer. It was hard to know if Tamara was being vague because she didn’t know, or if it was because she was amusing herself by toying with him.
“Do you know the name of the curio shop, by any chance?” he said.
“Sure, it’s called Trader Zim’s,” Tamara said.
“What does that name refer to?” Alex said.
“Zim, the owner,” Tamara said. “He trades things.”
Alex started rubbing his temples. “Of course,” he said. “Are they here in Minneapolis somewhere?”
“No, they’re south of the Twin Cities a ways. Just get on 35 headed south, and keep your eyes peeled for the billboard. It’s hard to miss. If you get to Iowa, you went too far,” Tamara said.
“Got it, thanks,” Alex said.
“Sure,” Tamara said. “Hey, have you heard anything about a stolen Magritte painting?”
Alex thought for a minute. “He’s the apple face guy, right?”
Tamara gave Alex a withering look.
“Yes, he’s the apple face guy,” she said.
“Nope, haven’t heard anything. I did hear about a forged Rembrandt making the rounds, though,” Alex said.
“I heard about that too,” Tamara said. “The funny thing is, it is a forgery of a painting by one of Rembrandt’s students.”
“Was the student’s painting valuable?” Alex said.
“Not once it was discovered it wasn’t actually by Rembrandt,” Tamara said.
“So someone forged a painting that isn’t valuable? What’s the angle?” Alex said.
“I’m guessing that the forger just wanted to stick it to the buyer a little extra,” Tamara said. “There’s probably a sick thrill in the double con – it’s a fake, and not even a fake of something important.”
“Who knew forgers could be so spiteful?” Alex said.
“It’s a screwed up world,” Tamara said. “Anyway, it’s getting to be time for me to start gearing up for the lunch rush. Get the hell out of here, already.”
“It was nice talking to you too,” Alex said.
He stood up and made his way back out of the coffee shop. The couriers who had been out front had apparently gotten their calls and were off making deliveries. Or had just gone to hang out somewhere else.
Alex got back in his Mustang, and started the engine. It was 11:30 in the morning, and he wasn’t sure what kind of hours a curiosity shop was likely to keep. He hoped that he wasn’t setting off on a day trip only to discover that the shop was closed when he got there.
On the other hand, going for a drive in the country wasn’t all bad. It wouldn’t be that much of a shame if they were closed.
Before long, Alex was back on the freeway, headed south out of the Twin Cities at high speed with the stereo so loud it was nearly distorting.
After about an hour and a half, he saw a billboard advertising Trader Zim’s. One more exit and he’d be there.
Coming to a stop at the end of the off-ramp, Alex looked side to side, searching for some kind of sign letting him know which was he needed to go in order to get to Trader Zim’s shop.
Some kind of sign had been provided for him, in the form of most of an airplane’s fuselage and wings, planted nose-down in the ground. “Trader Zim’s That – a - way” was painted on the wings in bright red letters, along with an arrow pointing to the right.
“Well then, I guess it must be over there,” Alex mumbled to himself. At least it wasn’t going to be a hard place to find.
Alex drove, and followed a handful of unusual directional signs (including a muffler man, a giant steel rooster, and a concrete igloo) to finally reach Trader Zim’s.
The shop appeared to be in a house on a large piece of wooded property. In the yard surrounding the house was an incredible collection of disparate items. A railway car. A clawfoot bathtub, dwarfed by a huge fiberglass rubber ducky. A Pepto Bismol pink Studebaker with fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. A veritable army of garden gnomes.
Alex parked in what seemed like the most reasonable spot, and walked up to the front door. There was a sign hanging in the window. It said, “Closed Tuesdays, come back tomorrow.”
closed?!.. ugh...
ReplyDeletewow, Alex is full of questions today!