Chapter Seven Seems Pretty Cool

Saturday, June Eleventh, Eight Fifteen A.M.

Alex was in a bit of a rush.  He’d woken up late, and was hustling to get moving in order to get to the airport in Crystal by eight forty five.  He was supposed to be meeting a pilot named Bruce Evans at nine o’clock, and he wanted to leave himself a bit of time to park, and just in case he got himself lost.  The Crystal airport was new to Alex, and he didn’t want to get himself lost and arrive super late.

He had stuffed a few changes of underwear and a couple of extra shirts into a duffle bag, and figured that was going to be plenty.  Alex anticipated that he and Bruce were going to be spending more time flying than on the island, so having a bunch of changes of clothes didn’t seem necessary.  He grabbed the duffle bag on the way out of this apartment, locked the door behind himself, and hopped on the elevator that would take him down to the parking garage.

Down in the garage, Alex hurried to his parking spot.  Ordinarily, his Mustang would be there waiting for him, but he’d borrowed the Impala for a couple more days from Darcy Custom Brokers so he wouldn’t have to deal with moving the statue between cars.

Something seemed funny with the Impala.  It took Alex a minute to realize what it was:  the front passenger side window was missing, and there was a pile of broken glass under the car.

Alex panicked a bit then.  He ran the rest of the way to the Impala to check the damage and see if anything important was missing.

The doors were all unlocked, and the glovebox had clearly been gone through.  Alex noticed that his folder of compact discs was gone.

That in itself made Alex nervous – there was nothing of value in his cd case.  It was mostly copies he’d made of cds so he wouldn’t wreck the originals in the car.  Whoever had stolen the cds clearly hadn’t bothered to see what was in the folder before taking it.  The only original cd in there was Queen’s Greatest Hits. 

If they’d stolen that, would they have stolen the statue out of the trunk?   Alex really hoped not.

The good news was that the trunk was still shut.  Alex leaned in and pushed the trunk release button.

Nothing happened.

Alex pushed the button a couple more times, each time with the same result – nothing.  He had another small rush of anxiety – if he couldn’t get the trunk open, it was going to be hard to get the hopefully still there statue out again.

He dug the key fob out of his pocket, and hit the trunk release button.  He heard a mechanical click, and the trunk opened easily.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Alex said.  He opened the trunk the rest of the way and looked inside.

To Alex’s great relief, the statue was still there, just where he’d left it. 

Chevy’s crappy trunk release button saved the day, what do you know? Alex thought.

He tossed his duffle bag in the trunk along with the statue, and slammed the lid shut again, then hustled around to get in and start the engine.

Alex backed out of his spot without much regard for the broken glass on the floor.  If the apartment’s maintenance folks hadn’t cleaned it up by the time he got back, he figured he’d go after it with a broom and dustpan.

He glanced at the clock, and was glad to see there was still plenty of time for him to get there before nine.  He figured it would take twenty minutes to get to Crystal from his place, assuming everything else went OK.

A few minutes later, Alex was on the freeway headed towards the Crystal Airport.  The wind rushing in from the broken window made Alex very glad that the weather was pretty warm and not rainy.

He wondered if he should try to cover up the hole where the window had been before he left the car parked for a few days.  He decided he’d see how he was doing for time once he got to the airport, and cover it if he had enough time before meeting Bruce.

Alex was a bit surprised when his phone rang just as he was reaching the airport.  He answered it, and tried to figure out where to park at the same time.

“Mr. Minor?” the voice on the phone said.  “This is Bruce Evans.  I thought I’d call and help you get the parking situation figured out.”

“Wow, great,” Alex said.  “I’m just getting to the airport now.”

“Perfect timing,” Bruce said.  “Come on around to the secured driveway and I’ll let you in.  You can leave your car in the hangar while we’re gone.”

Wow, that works out well, Alex thought. 

“OK, that would be great,” he said.

Alex reached the security gate, and saw a man in a white polo shirt, khaki shorts and a battered, navy blue baseball cap waiting next to the keypad.  Alex rolled down his window, and said, “Hi, are you Bruce?”

“I sure am, Mr. Minor.  Ready to fly?” Bruce said.

“I hope so,” Alex said.  “You can call me Alex, by the way.”

“Thank you Mr. Minor,” Bruce said.  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep things formal.”

“Well, whatever works for you,” Alex said. 

“Let me get this gate open, and then I’ll hop in with you and guide you to the hangar,” Bruce said.

Bruce punched a sequence of numbers into the keypad, and then jogged around to the passenger side of the Impala as the gate rolled open.

“Jeez, what happened to your car?” Bruce said.

“I guess someone really, really wanted Queen’s Greatest Hits,” Alex said.  “Sorry about the mess over there.”

“No worries, Mr. Minor,” Bruce said.  “I’ve seen worse.”

Within seconds of getting into the airport, Alex realized he was hopelessly lost.  He was glad Bruce was there directing him on when to turn, and where. 

After a few minutes, the two of them reached an open hangar.  A blue and white airplane that looked absolutely tiny was sitting in front of the open hangar door.

“So what are we going to be switching this plane out for before we get out over the ocean?” Alex said.

Bruce looked mildly insulted.

“Switch it out?  This is a Mooney, we’re going to be flying her all the way to Walli-Wo,” Bruce said.

“With just the one engine?” Alex said.

“Waste not, want not,” Bruce said.  “Mooney’s are slippery, fuel-efficient and fast.  Multi-engines won’t give us much more speed, and cost a hell of a lot more to fly.”

“Yeah, but what happens if the engine dies, or something,” Alex said.

“We’ll get wet, probably,” Bruce said.  “We would in most multi-engine planes too.  You lose one engine over the ocean, it just means you’re going to have some more time to think about how wet you’re going to get.  Anyway, quit being such a pessimist, Mr. Minor.”

Alex didn’t know how to respond.

Bruce glanced at his watch, and said, “Time’s wasting, let’s get this bird in the air.  Pull right on in to the hangar and park.  Your car will be safer here while we’re gone that it would be in your own garage.”

Alex parked, and the two of them got out of the car.  Alex popped the trunk open.

“Great, you packed light.  Good man,” Bruce said.  “How much do you think this statue weighs?”

“I’m not sure, eighty pounds or so, I guess,” Alex said.

“OK, great, that’ll be no problem at all, then,” Bruce said.  “Do you want some help getting this thing into the back seat of the plane?” Bruce said.

“That would be great.  Will it be safe in the back seat?” Alex said.

“At least as safe as it was in your trunk,” Bruce said.

The two of them were able to get the statue bundled into the back seat of Bruce’s Mooney with only a little bit of difficulty.  They tossed Alex’s duffle bag back there too.  Bruce had already loaded his own stuff into the plane earlier that morning.

Once everything was in and secured, Bruce closed and locked the hangar, and said, “Have you ever flown in a small plane before, Mr. Minor?”

“No, this is a new experience for me,” Alex said.

“Well, I’ll do my best to show you the ropes,” Bruce said.  “First things first, let me show you how to get in.”

Alex discovered it was mildly challenging climbing into an airplane from the wing.  Bruce had made it look easy, but Alex stood there feeling foolish and trying to fold himself the right way to fit into the cockpit.

Once he was in and buckled up, Bruce leaned across Alex and shut the door.

“Forgive me invading your personal space.  These doors only need a gentle touch to close, and I like to take care of them myself when I’m flying with a newbie.  Some folks try to slam them shut like a car door, sets my teeth on edge,” Bruce said.

“Bear with me a moment as I go through my checklist,” he continued.

Alex sat back and watched as Bruce consulted a written list, flipping switches and pulling levers, until he finally opened a tiny window on his side of the cockpit and hollered, “Clear Prop!”

Starting the engine made the entire plane moved in a way that made Alex realize just how lightweight the plane actually was.

Bruce looked over at Alex and said, “I need your attention for a moment in order to go over my passenger briefing with you.”

He read aloud from a small notecard to Alex.

“Good morning, we’re going to have a great flight today.  For your comfort and safety, please put on your god damn seatbelt and keep it on.  A fire extinguisher has been placed within your reach, please apply its contents liberally to any fires in the cockpit.  The emergency exit is the only exit, so in case of emergency, exit there.  Unless extra exits have become apparent, in which case, use which ever exit feels best.  In case of an emergency landing, please put your head between your knees.  You don’t have to kiss your ass goodbye, but it never hurts.  During taxiing, take off and landing, please keep your cake hole shut so I can do my job and not get us killed.  Do you have any questions?” Bruce said.

“Uh,” Alex said.

“Great, let’s get this bird in the air!” Bruce said.

Chapter Six is Definitely Where It's At

Friday, June Tenth, Eight O’clock A.M.

The office Darcy Custom Brokers kept was in a historic building in Minneapolis’s warehouse district.  The hallway leading to the office had a tile floor, and the few other offices on the same floor all had green doors with frosted glass windows.  The name of whoever was behind each door was painted on the window in black block letters. Every time Alex went in, he felt like he was going to pass a hard-boiled detective in a trench coat and fedora who was on his way to a meeting with a mysterious femme fatale.

Alex reached the door that was simply numbered 310, and let himself in. 

“Good morning, Mr. Minor,” Megan said.

“Good morning, Megan,” Alex said.

He had tried to convince Megan to just call him Alex since very shortly after he’d started working for Mr. Darcy.  And she had insisted on continuing to call him Mr. Minor.  Megan was, in fact, her last name.  She preferred to simply be called Megan rather than Ms. Megan. 

Alex was happy to call her whatever she wanted to be called.  She had saved his bacon on several occasions, and was absolutely not to be messed with.  It was true that she sat behind a desk and greeted people who entered the office, but she was far more than a receptionist.

“Mr. Darcy is on an international phone call at the moment.  He’ll be with you shortly,” Megan said.

“Great, thanks,” Alex said.  He sat down on one of the leather chairs in the reception area, and let himself sink into it.  He hadn’t slept for close to twenty four hours now, and he was starting to feel pretty wiped out.

Now that he’d wrapped up recovering the funny little tiki man statue, Alex hoped that Mr. Darcy was going to have another assignment for him.  Sometimes it was a week or two between assignments, and he tended to get very, very bored if he wasn’t working.  And Alex tended to get himself into trouble if he was bored.

It was his need for high stimulation levels that had gotten him the opportunity to work for Mr. Darcy, in fact.  Alex had worked in a succession of office jobs after he’d gotten out of the military, and he’d gotten himself promptly fired from all of them.  Typically for falling asleep on the job.  Luckily, his recruiter was one of Mr. Darcy’s many connections.

“Mr. Minor,” Megan said sharply, startling Alex awake.

“Oops,” Alex said.  “Sorry Megan.  What’s up?”

“Mr. Darcy is ready to see you now.  You can go in,” Megan said.

“Great, thanks Megan,” Alex said. 

He got up from the chair he’d been dozing in, and glanced at his watch.  It was now a quarter to nine, which meant he’d probably been asleep for half an hour. 

The door to Mr. Darcy’s office was open, and Alex went in.  Mr. Darcy greeted him immediately, as usual.

“Good morning, Mr. Minor!” Mr. Darcy said, “Did everything go well with your latest recovery?”

Mr. Darcy sat behind an enormous dark wooden desk that was bare except for his pen and notepad.  His office was lined with bookshelves, and it would be easy to think that he was an attorney.

“Overall, yes, thanks.  I was able to get the statue without too much difficulty once I’d tracked it down.  I had a little more adventure than I was expecting getting it back here, but that’s OK,” Alex said.

“Ah, yes, I heard about your run in with the law while you were en route,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Really?” Alex said.  “How did you hear about that?”

“Why do you think the state trooper let you off with a simple warning, Mr. Minor,” Mr. Darcy said.

“You got me out of that ticket?” Alex said.

“Of course,” Mr. Darcy said.  “Although, not giving you a ticket was still up to the state trooper.  I just asked that you be allowed to continue on your way without more delay, since you were needed here.”

“Wow,” Alex said.  “Well, thanks for that.  I had the craziest experience at a truck stop after that, too.  

A couple of guys tried to rob them, but the employees all went full commando on them.  There was a cashier in particular that seemed completely unaffected by the whole thing, you might want to consider recruiting her to work with us.”

“You must mean Sarah.  She’s quite a force to be reckoned with, isn’t she?” Mr. Darcy said, chuckling.

“You mean you know her already?” Alex said.

“Of course.  She and the others that work there are all associates of ours already.  But thank you anyway, I’m always looking for new talent,” Mr. Darcy said.

Jeez, of course they already work for him, Alex thought.  He wondered again, briefly, just how big Mr. Darcy’s network was, exactly.

“But back to the matter at hand,” Mr. Darcy said.  “Did you bring the statue with you?”

“Yes, it’s down in the Impala,” Alex said.

“Excellent,” Mr. Darcy said.  “I’m glad you’ve got it with you.  I’m going to need you to deliver it to its rightful owner for me.”

“Sure thing, I can do that,” Alex said.

“I knew you could,” Mr. Darcy said.  “I suggest you go home and get some rest, you’ve got a couple of big travel days coming up.”

He took a manila folder out of one of the drawers in his desk and handed it to Alex.

“You’ll find all the details you need in here.  Tomorrow morning you’ll be meeting one of my pilots and flying to a little island called Walli-Wo,” Mr. Darcy said.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Alex said. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to have heard of it before.  It’s a small island in the middle of a great big ocean, and they prefer to keep their main source of income under the radar,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Drugs?” Alex said.

“Of course not,” Mr. Darcy said.  “I’ve told you before, Mr. Minor, we are the good guys.”

“Right, sorry,” Alex said.

“Anyway, you’ll be flying there, giving the statue back to its rightful owner, and then flying back here,” Mr. Darcy said.

“OK, who’s the rightful owner?  How am I going to find him?” Alex said.

“You’ll have a hard time missing him.  I assure you that he’ll find you.  He is the king of the people of Walli-Wo, and you will be treated with all the hospitality fitting a guest of the royal family while you’re there.  I think you’ll quite like him, and the people of Walli-Wo adore him,” Mr. Darcy said.

“The king?  For real?  Like, crown and throne, issuing decrees, off-with-their-head, king?  Or is he just a figurehead?”  Alex said.  He didn’t realize there were still actual monarchies, however small, anywhere in the world.

“For real, Mr. Minor.  Please treat him with all the respect he’s due.  And he’s not really the off-with-your-head type.  I believe most of the time, his way of resolving matters is to hug it out,” Mr. Darcy said.

Alex started laughing, “Hug it out?”

He was about to continue, but he realized that Mr. Darcy was not laughing along with him.

“Yes, Mr. Minor,” Mr. Darcy said.  “His methods may seem unorthodox, but consider that he is beloved by his subjects, and has no enemies among the other islands in his vicinity.  The world would be much better off if everyone followed his lead, in my opinion.”

“Well, now that you point it out, I guess that’s true,” Alex said.  “I guess I didn’t realize you were being serious.  Probably because I need some more sleep.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Minor.  Just be sure you don’t laugh in our client’s face if something seems amusing to you while you’re there,” Mr. Darcy said.

“You’ve got it,” Alex said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Darcy said.  “Well, I imagine you’ll want to get home, get some rest, and review the information in that folder.  Have you got your passport handy?”

“Always,” Alex said.  “It’s all shined up and ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“Good,” Mr. Darcy said.  “You won’t need it on Walli-Wo, but if you need to stop anywhere else on your way there, or on the way back, you’ll definitely need it.  Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer.  Have a good day, and a good trip, Mr. Minor.”

Hang on, Alex thought.  Something seems a little off here.

“Thanks, Mr. Darcy, I hope you have a good day too.  Say, uh, when do I get paid for recovering the statue?” Alex said.  He’d been expecting to get paid that morning.   He wasn’t in dire straits, financially, but he didn’t work for free, either.

“Thank you, Mr. Minor.  You get paid after you’ve delivered the statue to our client, of course.  Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s it,” Alex said.  He wasn’t sure if the fact that he was expected to deliver the items he’d recovered to Mr. Darcy’s clients meant he was getting more responsibility, or less.  He did know better than to argue too hard though.  Working for Mr. Darcy was, generally speaking, the most fun he’d ever had.

“OK, good day, Mr. Minor,” Mr. Darcy said.

“See you,” Alex said.

He left Mr. Darcy’s office. 

“Have a good flight, Mr. Minor.  I think you’ll enjoy flying with Mr. Evans, he’s an excellent pilot,” Megan said as he walked by.

“Thanks Megan.  Have you flown with this guy before?” Alex said.

“Several times.  We haven’t had a landing we couldn’t walk away from yet,” Megan said.

“Out of sight,” Alex said.

The Impala was where he’d left it, parked just down the street a short distance from the building.  Alex debated swapping cars again and getting his Mustang back, and then decided that he didn’t really feel like carrying that statue around any more than he had to.  It had to weigh close to eighty pounds, if not even more, and besides, every time he moved it, he risked damaging it.  It was definitely best to just leave it in the Impala until the following morning. 

Alex hopped back in the Impala, and drove back to his apartment to get some sleep.

Chapter Five is All Up In Your Business

Friday, June Tenth, 3:00 a.m.

Alex’s capacity for driving calmly had been exceeded thirty minutes earlier, and he was now barreling along the freeway at the highest speed he felt the Impala he was driving could handle.  The Impala had seen better days, and was in just good enough shape to be easily ignored rather than noticed.  It’s suspension was in dire need of an overhaul, and the steering was vague, to put it kindly.

As such, Alex was doing his best to not exceed ninety five miles per hour.

There were very few other cars on the road with him.  Generally speaking, he’d see a set of taillights ahead of him, pass them, and find he had the road to himself again for ten minutes before he’d see another set of taillights.

Since he didn’t feel like he really had to pay too much attention to traffic, he didn’t notice the state trooper parked in the median.  Seconds later he saw flashing lights in the distance in his rear view mirror, gaining on him.  He glanced down at the speedometer, thought shit, and let off the gas.  Slamming on the brakes wasn’t going to do him any favors at this point.  He hoped that, perhaps, the lights belonged to an ambulance or a fire truck.

That hope was squashed, however, when the flashing lights came up directly behind him and did not pass.

Shit, shit, shit, Alex thought.  He was perfectly aware that he had a terrible poker face.  If the cop asked him anything about what he’d been doing, it would be immediately obvious that he was lying.

Alex hoped that the trooper would just give him a speeding ticket and let him continue on his way.

He pulled over into the break down lane and stopped.  He shut off the engine, then grabbed the proof of insurance from the top side of the visor, and dug his driver’s license out.

It seemed like ten minutes before the trooper approached his car.  Alex wasn’t able to see the trooper’s face, due to the flashlight he was shining at Alex.

“Good evening sir, do you know why I pulled you over tonight?” the trooper said.

“Well, when I saw your lights come on, I noticed I was going a little fast,” Alex said.

“Yes, sir, you were going ninety seven miles per hour when you passed me.  I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the speed limit along here is seventy miles per hour,” the trooper said.

“Oh wow,” Alex said.  He thought, ninety seven?  Wow, that’s faster than I thought this thing could go.

Alex said, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realize I was going that fast.”

“I’m going to need to see your license and proof of insurance, sir,” the trooper said to Alex.

“Sure,” Alex said, and handed them to him.

The trooper walked back to his car, and Alex waited.  On the one hand, he was extremely worried that he’d just gotten himself busted for entering (he was fairly sure he hadn’t “Broken and entered,” just entered) and larceny.  On the other hand, he was definitely enjoying the rush of adrenaline.  He’d been getting a little sleepy during the drive, but he was wide awake now.

Alex’s “thrill issues,” as he liked to call them, were what made him uniquely suited to his new career.  In situations where most people would start panicking, Alex tended to yell “wahoo!” and have the time of his life.

It seemed like the state trooper been gone for twenty minutes when he approached Alex’s window again.

“Is this your car, Mr. Minor,” the state trooper asked.

“Uh, no, it belongs to the company I work for,” Alex said.  What the hell kind of a question was that? Alex wondered.

“Would you mind telling me who you work for?” the state trooper said.

“Sure, Darcy Custom Brokers,” Alex said.

“Got it.  Company car, huh?” the state trooper said.

“Yes, sir,” Alex said.

“I get to deal with one of those myself,” the state trooper said, and chuckled.

Alex laughed along with him.

 “So what are you doing driving a company car close to one hundred miles per hour at three in the morning?” the state trooper said.

Alex felt another rush of adrenaline, and felt his face get hot.  He hoped he hadn’t just turned bright red.

“Trying to get home, sir,” Alex said.

“Late night at work?” the state trooper said.

“It seems like they all are,” Alex said.  He wasn’t sure how many more vague answers he was going to be able to come up with before he had to start making up lies to explain what he was up to, and lying was not his strong suit.

“I hear you,” the state trooper said.  “Have you been drinking tonight, Mr. Minor?”

“No sir,” Alex said, relieved that he’d been asked a question he could give an honest answer to.

“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” the state trooper said.  He paused for a moment, then said, “Well, Mr. Minor, I just want to remind you again that the speed limit along here is seventy miles per hour.  It sounds to me like you just want to get home after a late night, and there’s so little traffic along this stretch of road at this time of night, I know it’s easy to keep speeding up without realizing it, so I’m going to just give you a verbal warning tonight.  If I catch you again, though, I’m going to have to give you a ticket, do you understand?”

He handed the insurance and Alex’s license back to Alex.

“Oh thank god,” Alex said before he realized it.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Minor?” the state trooper said.

“Uh, I said, thank you sir.  I understand, and I’ll be more careful,” Alex said.  I can’t believe I’m getting away with this, he thought.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Minor.  Get home safely, now,” the state trooper said.

Alex took a deep breath and exhaled after the trooper had walked away and Alex had rolled his window back up. 

That could have turned ugly, Alex thought.  He resolved to drive slowly the rest of the way home.  He then thought, I hope the cruise control in this thing works.

After starting the car back up, and making sure he wasn’t going to pull into the path of a speeding big rig, Alex got back out on to the freeway.  He saw the state trooper’s overhead lights turn off in his mirrors.

The state trooper kept pace with Alex for the next few miles, until there was a turnout where he made a u-turn and went back to his original spot (or so Alex guessed).

It turned out that the cruise control in the Impala worked just fine, and so Alex crept along at a lazy seventy miles per hour.  Once the adrenaline had died down again, he realized that he was both very sleepy, and ridiculously hungry.

After a couple of miles, Alex saw a billboard for a truck stop.  Apparently it had a twenty four hour McDonald’s.  Seemed like it might be a good place to stop.  He was sure to find some decent coffee and something edible at a truck stop.

A few minutes later, Alex rolled the Impala to a stop at the truck stop.  The entire area was bathed in artificial light.  When Alex got out of his car, the first thing he heard was the sound of fifty (or more) idling diesel engines.  They were all lined up on the other side of the parking lot, with their lights off and engines running.  Alex guessed there was probably someone sleeping in every one of those trucks.

He stretched, and started walking towards the entrance that had a McDonald’s sign.  A woman wearing a very short leopard print skirt, tall black furry boots, and a knee length, sheer, red duster came out of the restaurant and walked towards him.

As she passed, she made eye contact with Alex, and said, without much interest, “Are you looking for a date?”

“Not tonight, thanks,” Alex said, and kept walking. 

“Your loss,” she said.

He kept walking.  Arguing with aggressive saleswomen, he’d accidentally learned, could lead to very uncomfortable discussions with their well-armed male business associates.

Anyway, he needed a large coffee and a double quarter pounder with cheese.

Inside, Alex was able to order with minimal hassle, and before long was lethargically eating his burger and fries (the coffee was still too hot to even look at directly without burning the roof of his mouth) at the least dirty table.  He was surprised, in a sleepy way, by how dirty the tables were.  His experience had been that most truck stops were spotlessly clean.  After all, they wanted the truckers who stopped in to come back the next time they passed by.  Maybe the employees slack off at three in the morning, he thought.

The burger and fries were fine, and after fifteen minutes or so, he was able to drink the coffee without burning himself too badly.

After another fifteen minutes, he’d had enough coffee and was feeling human enough that he thought it would be a good time to get back out on the road and get this night finished already.

He was dismayed, then, when he heard someone shout “Everyone on the floor!”  Looking around, he saw two young white men in very baggy clothes with bandannas covering most of their faces brandishing guns over in front of the display of Hostess baked treats close to the cash registers.

Damn it, Alex thought.  I just want to get out of here and get home.  And, now, maybe some Twinkies.

No one else seemed to be in a very big hurry to hit the floor, so Alex stayed sitting at his table.  He hoped everything would play out quickly and quietly, and that he’d be able to get on his way.  Alex figured that this place had a “give them whatever the hell they want” policy, and a multitude of cameras capturing everything so they’d have plenty of evidence to give the police.

He was very surprised then, when one of the employees behind the cash registers was suddenly brandishing a shotgun.  She was all of five feet tall, with dyed black hair and the coldest stare Alex had ever seen.

For the record, Alex had seen some pretty cold stares during his career.

“I suggest you boys get the fuck out of here and go home to play some video games in your mom’s basement,” the cashier said.

Holy shit, Alex thought.  He wasn’t sure if he was freaked out or turned on at the moment.

“I suggest you get on the floor like we said,” one of the two thugs said, with all the brashness he could muster.

The cashier racked the slide and pointed the shotgun directly at them.

“You know, I’m not exactly sure how far the shot in this gun will spread at this range,” the cashier said.  “It’s double aught buck shot, so it might not spread much at all.  I’m pretty certain that I can wreck at least one of your pretty little faces, though.  And I notice there’s no one behind you.  Maybe you should take a hike like I suggested.”

The less brash of the thugs said, “Uh, brah…  I really want to go home.”

Alex noticed several other truck stop employees carrying an assortment of weapons circling in on the two young men who’d been trying to rob the place.

Holy crap, what kind of truck stop is this? Alex thought.  Since when are all the employees in these places heavily armed?

“Dude, pull up your pants and remember why we’re here,” the other thug said.

To the cashier he said, “Doll, put that thing away and give me all the cash in the register like a good girl.”

Alex was pretty sure he should look away at this point, but he was transfixed by the scene unfolding in front of him.

“Oh, honey, you are in a world of hurt now,” the cashier said.

The thug laughed, and said, “How’s that, there’s two of us, and one of you?”

“No, sweetiekins, there are twelve of us, and two of you,” the cashier said.

“This was a bad idea, Tom,” the thug who’d wanted to go home said.

“Jesus, man, don’t use my name,” is what the other thug would have said, had he not just taken a thick oak billy club to the back of the head.

Instead, what he said was, “Uff,” and fell to the floor.

“Oh fuck,” the other thug said.  He looked around and saw the other employees closing in.  “I, I just want to go home.”

“It’s a little too late for that, bud,” the cashier said.  “But don’t worry, we’ve got a nice storage closet for you and your mouthy friend to wait for the police in.  Oh, by the way, drop your gun.”

The thug that was still standing looked around and saw 7 firearms in a variety of calibers, three clubs, and a couple of knives, all held by people who looked more than willing to put them to work.

“You got it,” he said, and set his gun down.  He took a couple of steps away from it for good measure.

“Good boy,” the cashier said.

The employee with the oak billy club hit the thug upside the head, dropping him to the floor as well.

The cashier lowered her shotgun, and said, “Damn it, John, was that really necessary?”

“I’m afraid it was,” John said.

Wow, Alex thought.  I’ve really got to tell Mr. Darcy about these folks.  Seems like they might be real good fits for the organization.

Chapter Four on the Floor

Friday, June Tenth, 1:30 a.m.

One of the challenges Alex had with his job as a repo man was getting past feeling like he was stealing something.  After all, he job was to recover things for their rightful owners.  None the less, sneaking around and grabbing things when no one was looking felt very much like it had to be illegal.

Which was part of the thrill, of course.  Feeling like he was getting away with something gave him a huge adrenaline rush, every single time.

And getting chased by folks who had just gotten something repossessed from them was usually a thrill too.

At the moment, Alex was walking up the driveway leading to Trader Zim’s.  He wasn’t sure if Zim actually lived in the shop or not.  If so, driving right up to the shop might tip Zim off.  And at any rate, speeding away from there at two in the morning in a bright red Mustang might be a bit less than discrete.  Instead, he’d borrowed a non-descript car from Darcy Custom Brokers, and left the Mustang there.

He’d parked the loaner car a few blocks away, and walked from there.

There weren’t any lights along his path, and the shadows of the odd yard decorations along the driveway seemed alien and ominous in the moonlight.

There didn’t appear to be any lights on inside the house that was home to Trader Zim’s shop.  That was a relief.

Alex could feel his heart pounding, and the crunching sound of every step he took seemed deafeningly loud.

When he got up to the entrance to the shop, he saw the sign on the door, which said, “Obviously Closed.  Come back later.”

“I’d rather not come back a fourth time, thanks,” Alex muttered to himself, and suppressed a giggle.

He hadn’t noticed any signs warning him of a security system, but he figured it would be best to get in and out of there as quickly as possible all the same.  But first, he was going to have to get in.

Without much hope that it would open, Alex grabbed the door knob and tried it.  His heart skipped a beat as the knob turned easily.  However, when he tried to push the door open it wouldn’t budge more than a fraction of an inch.  Deadbolt.

Alex sighed, and wondered if there was another easy way in.  He looked at the sides of the building to see if there were any windows that looked like he might be able to open them without having to actually break anything.  None of them seemed likely, however, so he walked around the back of the house, hoping there might be another door.

He just about jumped out of his skin when a cat hissed at him, and then ran past to take shelter under a pile of old tires.

“Easy, kitty, easy,” Alex said.

There was, in fact, a back entrance to the shop.  Alex approached it, heart still pounding from the scare the cat had given him.  He wondered what might be on the other side of the door if he was able to get it open.  Would a pile of jagged rusty metal collapse on to him?

Really, though, the only way to find out was to try it.  Alex grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open easily.  He was pleased to discover that the door had not, in fact, been a structural support for Trader Zim’s collection of antique anvils and wrecking balls.  Before thinking about it too much, Alex quickly stepped inside, and closed the door again behind him.

He stopped for a second, hoping his eyes would adjust to the dark.  There was, so far as he could tell, no light in that room, and after a moment he found himself hoping that he hadn’t just broken in to Trader Zim’s storage closet. 

Alex really didn’t want to turn on a flashlight and potentially give himself away, but there didn’t seem to be much hope that his eyes were going to adjust to the dark, and he knew the shop was so cluttered that he’d need to be able to see in order to get out of there without causing himself any major injuries.

He had a small flashlight in his pocket, which he took out then, and switched on.  It cast a small circle of light on the wall directly ahead of him.  He was glad he had stopped where he did.  If he’d gone much further, he would have actually tripped over an anvil and could have fallen on to a pile of rusty metal.

Scanning the room with the flashlight, Alex spotted a door that appeared to open into a hallway.  He walked that way, and before long found himself in a room he, roughly, recognized.  Hanging on the wall, there was a wooden model of an old tall ship that was possibly the ugliest thing he’d seen in the shop.  He’d noticed the first time he’d been in and it was, in fact, probably one of the only things in Trader Zim’s that he would be able to recognize.

Alex was torn between his desire to hurry through the shop, grab the statue, and get the hell out of there, and his desire to not injure himself or make his presence known by causing a big racket.  He still had no idea if Trader Zim himself was in there with him or not, so he decided that discretion would be the better part of valor.

He tip toed his way through the shop, slowly and carefully working his way back to the room where the statue was.  Every step seemed to require a careful calculation to avoid knocking over one pile of things, all while keeping his balance and not stumbling straight into a different pile of stuff.  Alex wondered if there was some kind of class he could take to help him get lighter on his feet.  It seemed like it might be a good career move to find out.

After what felt like an eternity, Alex reached the room that the statue was in.  The statue itself was still right where he had seen it last.  It had occurred to Alex that if Trader Zim actually had a reason he wasn’t willing to sell it, that he might have moved it somewhere for safe keeping.  So, finding it right where it had been earlier was a relief.

Alex carefully made his way over and through everything in the way between him and the statue.  He grabbed on to it with both hands and tried lifting it.

It was significantly heavier than he was expecting it to be, and it promptly fell out of his grasp and thumped loudly back down on the table it had been displayed on.

“Shit”, Alex whispered to himself.  His heart had leapt up into his throat and was doing its best to teach Alex what swallowing an angry frog is actually like.

Making things worse was that there was a pair of thumps in response to the one he’d just caused, from elsewhere in the building.  And then he heard footsteps.

A light came on somewhere down the hall from him, and Alex heard Trader Zim shout, “Is somebody in here?”

Alex froze, hoping that if he managed to keep from making any noise for the next several minutes that Trader Zim would decide that something had just fallen of its own accord (it had to happen all the time in there, Alex thought).

That strategy might have worked too.  Alex’s felt ice spread from the center of his chest, across his shoulders, and down his arms, as the table the statue was on groaned, creaked, made several snapping noises, and then collapsed to the floor, making an awful racket.

“Who the fuck is in here?” Zim yelled.  Alex was fairly sure the next sound he heard was the slide of a pump action shotgun being racked.  “Y’all better scram, or I’m going to give you a few new breathing holes!”

That was all the warning Alex needed.  He scooped up the statue, which suddenly seemed almost impossibly light, hugged it to himself, and made a break for it.  He ran wildly through the shop, knocking over everything in his path, which caused many other things to fall over, and so on, like noisy, rusty, smelly, old dominoes.

This is bad, this is bad, this is bad, Alex thought as he hustled, knocking over more junk, trying to get back to the main entrance and out of there before he found out if Zim meant what he’d said.

Somewhere behind him, he heard Zim holler, “You son of a bitch!  You’re making a mess of all my merchandise!”

Alex reached the door, and was glad to see that the lock was an ordinary deadbolt.  The statue was starting to get really heavy again, but Alex managed to hang on to it with one hand and work the lock and the doorknob with the other hand.  He yanked the door open, darted through, slammed it shut again behind him, and hobbled as quickly as he could manage down the driveway.

The statue felt as though it was getting heavier by the second, and Alex had a sneaking suspicion that he may have pulled a couple of muscles from yanking it up off the floor in his adrenaline fueled rush.

He could head more crashing and indiscriminate shouting coming from inside Trader Zim’s.

By the time Alex reached the street, he was hobbling along, and got a serious case of the giggles imagining how he must look, limping quickly along the road, carrying a stone tiki wearing a fez, in the wee hours of the morning.

He really hoped no police officers would happen by.  Something told him the conversation might not work out too well if he said, “Good evening officers.  Don’t mind me, just taking my tiki man for a walk.”

Just as he was starting to wonder why he’d parked so far away, Alex reached the car he’d borrowed for that night’s errand.  He had a much harder time holding the statue with only one arm this time, as he unlocked and opened the trunk. 

With a heavy sigh of relief, Alex put the statue in the trunk, and wrapped a blanket around it as well as he could manage to keep it from getting damaged while he drove.

Once he was back in the driver’s seat, he took a deep breath, and thought, Calmly.  Drive away calmly.  Nothing to see here, just a late night traveler on his way home.

Alex started the car, put it in gear, and pulled away at what felt like an excruciatingly slow speed.  He felt better once he was back on the freeway and heading back to Minneapolis. 

Now he just needed to get this statue to Mr. Darcy, and see what other projects Mr. Darcy might have in store for him.

Chapter Three Has Arrived

Thursday, June Ninth

Another day, and time for another attempt to retrieve the statue from Trader Zim’s.  Alex hoped that Zim had forgotten him and would be more cooperative today. 

He’d just rolled to a stop in front of Trader Zim’s, and shut off the Mustang.  It was two in the afternoon, and time to go find out.

The sign hanging from the door today said “Totally Open.”

Alex walked into the shop, wondering what to expect.  He was amazed that the shop looked completely different.  It was hard to say if that was because the stock had actually changed, or if it was because there was just so much stuff in there that it was impossible to remember all of it.

There hadn’t been any other cars in the parking area outside, so Alex was surprised to hear conversation coming from somewhere in the building.  At the moment, Zim himself was nowhere to be seen.

Alex picked his way through the piles of antiques and random junk, working his way back to where it seemed he had seen the statue the day before.  Even though it had only been twenty four hours since he’d been in, the place seemed bigger in his memory than it was in real life.

In a side room, Alex spotted the statue, just where it had been the day before.  He made his way over to look at it, stepping over and around various things that seemed to have more than their share of dirt and rust on them, and tried to recall when he’d last gotten a tetanus booster.  He made a mental note to be sure he got one the next time he went to see his physician.

The statue didn’t seem to have a price tag on it.  He looked around at several of the other items around him and noted that nothing had been priced.  He wondered if Trader Zim priced his wares according to how much he thought the customer who wanted it could spend.  Alex hoped that Zim hadn’t seen the Mustang, if that were the case.  He’d had to search for clothes again that morning, so he figured he probably didn’t look particularly well off.

Alex heard footsteps and a voice getting closer, and a moment later Trader Zim appeared, talking on what looked like a very old cordless phone. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I have some of those,” Trader Zim said.  He noticed Alex, nodded to him and then said, “No, I could use some of those.  Right.  Well, why don’t you bring all of it over, and we’ll see if we can make some kind of deal.  Yeah.  OK, bye.”

He pushed a button on the phone, and set it down on a nearby stack of ornamental tin boxes. Trader Zim looked at Alex again, and said, “Hi there, anything I can help you find?”

Thank god, Alex thought.  He doesn’t remember me at all. 

“Well, I came in looking for some interesting decorations for my apartment,” Alex said.  He didn’t want to get led back to Zim’s display of Viking memorabilia.  “I like this little statue; how much do you want for it?”

Alex pointed to show Zim which statue he meant.

Zim took a look at it, and frowned, thinking.  “You want that statue right there?  Shoot, I didn’t think anyone would want it.”

Sweet, Alex thought.  This is going to be a piece of cake.

“But then, you know,” Zim continued.  “There was some peckerhead in here yesterday that wanted it too.  Seems like it must be a hot ticket.”

Alex’s stomach dropped.  Was Zim just messing with him, or did he really not remember Alex? 

Alex decided the best thing to do would be to do his best to seem oblivious to what Zim was talking about.

“The guy yesterday didn’t buy it?”  Alex said.

“Nah, he was just a time-waster,” Trader Zim said.  “Then there was another asshole right after him that wanted it too.  Don’t know why he was taken with it, but he said it would fit his collection.”

Is this guy for real? Alex wondered, then remembered some of the other oddballs he’d met since he’d started working for Mr. Darcy.  In comparison, Zim wasn’t all that weird.

“Wow.  So the other guy didn’t buy it either? Lucky me, I guess,” Alex said.

“Nope, not sure what his deal was either.  Probably just simple-minded,” Trader Zim said.

Alex plastered a fake smile on his face, and said, “Must have been.”

Trying to get Trader Zim back on course, Alex said, “So, how much would you want for something like this?”

Zim took off his bowler hat, scratched at the side of his head, and put his hat back on.

“Well,” he said, “Let me think about it for a minute.”

Alex waited patiently for several minutes as Trader Zim stood and stared blankly at the statue.  After a few more minutes, Zim blinked a few times, and looked back at Alex.

“Gosh, I’m sorry.  I guess I got lost in thought there.  Is there something I can help you with?” Trader Zim said.

He has to be screwing with me, Alex thought.

As politely as he could manage, Alex said, “I’d like to buy this statue.  How much would you like for it?”

Trader Zim looked back and forth between Alex and the statue several times.  Then he said, “This thing?  What on Earth do you want it for?”

I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, Alex thought.  What he said was, “I think it’ll look nice in my apartment.”

“Jeez, your apartment must be some kind of mess if this thing is going to make it nicer in there,” Trader Zim said.

He continued, “Anyway, that one’s not for sale.  It’s a part of the Trader Zim Permanent Collection, you know.”

“Now, come on,” Alex said.  “I love this little statue.  Name your price, I want to buy it.”

“Which statue?” Trader Zim said.

Alex pointed directly at it.

“This one.  How much?  I’d like to buy it,” he said.

There’s no way this guy is for real, Alex thought.  I don’t know what game he’s playing, but this is just too ludicrous.  Why is he wasting my time rather than just telling me to leave like he did yesterday?

“Oh, that one,” Trader Zim said.  “Sorry bud, it’s not for sale.  Not sure why I put it out here to be honest.  I should really put it away, though I’ll be darned if I know where.  You know, I’ve got some other cool little decorations you might be interested in.  Come with me, I’ll show you.”

He turned and started to walk away.

“I’d like to buy this statue, please,” Alex said. “If you don’t want money, is there something else you’d want to take in trade?”

Trader Zim turned back to face Alex.  It was hard to tell what it was, exactly, but he suddenly seemed a lot more intense than he had been seconds before.

“I beg your pardon?” Zim said.

“I asked if there is something else you might like in trade for this statue,” Alex said.  “I’d really like it.”

“What are you trying to get at?” Trader Zim said.  He seemed to have taken offense, but Alex had no idea what could have caused it.

“Huh?” Alex said. 

“You heard me.  What kind of person do you think I am, anyway?” Trader Zim said.

“Huh?” Alex said.  “Look, I just want to buy this statue and leave.”

“That’s not what you said a minute ago.  You made some kind of comment about trade…” Trader Zim said.

“Well, yeah, I thought you might be willing to barter for the statue,” Alex said.  “I mean, your name is Trader Zim.”

Trader Zim’s right eye started to twitch, and it seemed to Alex that Zim had gone from zero to high piss off in no time flat.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but if you’re just going to stand here and insult me, then I think you’d better get the fuck out of my store, pal,” Trader Zim said.

“Insult you?  I just want to….” Alex started.

“Get out!” Trader Zim said.

“…Buy this statue,” Alex finished.

“Out out out!  That statue ain’t for sale, and if it was, I wouldn’t sell it to some jerk ass who comes in here and starts insulting me in my own shop.  Take a hike, dude,” Trader Zim said.

“Look, I think we’ve just had a misunderstanding,” Alex said.

He was completely taken by surprise when Trader Zim reached behind his back and produced a black revolver, which he immediately pointed at Alex. 

The revolver looked as though it was from the days of stagecoaches and cowboys, but Alex wasn’t interested in finding out the hard way if it still worked.

“Understand this,” Trader Zim said, “Get the fuck out of my shop.  I’ve got nothing to sell you.  Is that clear?”

“Clear as day,” Alex said.  “I’ll just get going then.  Lot’s to do today.”

He clambered past the pointy rusty bits as quickly as he could manage, and hurried out of the shop.  Trader Zim followed behind, and called out the door as Alex hustled back to the Mustang, “And don’t come back!”

He slammed the shop’s door behind him, and a couple of moments later hung a new sign on the door.

“So closed!” it said.

In the Mustang, Alex tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.  Who would have thought offering to trade for something could offend a shopkeeper?  He wondered again if Trader Zim was for real, or if he had just been messing with him.

Alex started the engine, and turned up the stereo in order to try and get his brain to quiet down a bit.  By this time in his career, Alex had found himself standing on the wrong side of a gun more than once, but he found it wasn’t something that he was able to just shake off as if nothing had happened, and the adrenaline made it hard for him to drive at all reasonably.

He took a deep breath, and said to himself, “Well, time for plan B.”

Here Comes Chapter Two!

Wednesday, June Eighth

After unintentionally taking the extra scenic route home from his meeting with Tamara yesterday, Alex thought that, perhaps, checking to see what hours Trader Zim kept might be the best next step before he tried heading back there again.

He had anticipated that finding store hours would be a matter of a five second search on Google.  The most reliable source he found, however, was a post on a site about Minnesota oddities.  There were no hours listed.  There were, however, some guidelines for arriving at a time when the shop was likely to be open for business.

It said, “Trader Zim’s is usually open, as long as Zim is awake and feels like having the store open right then.  Unless it’s Tuesday, in which case the store will definitely be closed.  You’ll be as likely to find the store open at two in the morning as you will at two in the afternoon.”

There was also a bit of advice concerning how to handle Zim.

“Zim doesn’t like it if you don’t treat everything in the store with appropriate reverence.  Be tactful.  If he gets irritated enough, he will chase you out of the store.  The good news is, he doesn’t seem to remember faces, so if this happens, you can just go back the next day and try again.”

Alex figured he could handle being tactful.  He hoped this Zim guy was going to feel like his store should be open around when he got there again.

It was ten in the morning, and Alex figured if he left his apartment at eleven, he would roll up to Trader Zim’s at about one in the afternoon. 

And if he was going to leave at eleven, he was going to have to find some pants, and eat something.

For the briefest of moments, Alex felt nostalgic for the months when a co-worker of his had been rooming with him.  His temporary roomie had been a butler earlier in his career, and had appointed himself Alex’s valet and cook.

At the time, it drove Alex crazy, but as he crouched down and rummaged through a pile of clothes looking for something presentable enough to wear, he missed waking up to find his outfit for the day laid out, and breakfast ready.

A couple of minutes later, Alex had located a pair of reasonably clean jeans, and a button up shirt that was freshly laundered, even if it was seriously rumpled.   

He had a quick breakfast (frosted flakes and two cups of coffee), and went down to the garage to start driving.

Roughly an hour and forty five minutes later, Alex saw the billboard for Trader Zim’s.  The improvised signage directing him to the store was just as strange as it had been the day before. 

When he arrived at Trader Zim’s, there was another car, a dingy red Chevy, parked in the same area where he’d parked the day before.  Alex parked next to it, wondering if the car belonged to another customer, or Zim himself.

There was another hand-written sign on the door, written with what looked like black marker on a sheet of yellow legal paper.  It said, “Open, for now.”

That seemed a little ominous, but Alex was mainly glad the place was open and that he hadn’t wasted a drive.  He pushed the door open and went inside.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he was stunned by the sheer quantity and diversity of things strewn about without any apparent order or reason.  On the floor was a mounted moose’s head.  There were what looked like antique knitted sweaters hanging from each of the antlers.  Under a glass coffee table was an assortment of nearly identical Instamatic cameras.  Piled on top of the table were books about automobile repair, for cars that went out of production in the early nineteen sixties.  A chest of drawers nearby had hand-printed labels on each drawer.  There were labels for “buttons”, “bone china” and “socket wrenches.”

Somewhere in the building, Alex heard the sound of two people haggling.  One of the voices was gruff, like its owner had never met a cigarette or glass of whiskey he wasn’t glad to see.  The other voice was indistinct, nearly a whisper.

“Hey man, I’m only interested in genuine articles,” the gruff voice said.  “Don’t waste my time if this isn’t the real deal.”  He sounded affronted.

Alex assumed that was Zim.  The other voice said something in reply, but Alex couldn’t tell what had been said.

“Whoa, whoa,” the gruff voice said. “Take it easy.  We’re both businessmen here.”

Alex scanned the shop, searching for anything that looked “tiki.”  So far, everything he saw seemed to be “North woods” or “Farm”, but there also appeared to be a lot of other rooms waiting to be explored.  Maybe Zim kept the tiki stuff next to the antique beer cans and fishing reels in another room.

“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” the gruff voice said.

A cardboard box full of die cast toys caught Alex’s attention.  He was pretty sure he’d had some of those toy cars when he was a kid.  He did his best to forget that he was stumbling across cherished childhood toys in an antique / junk shop.

“Look, you don’t need to get hot under the collar.  Let’s be reasonable,” the gruff voice said.

Alex wandered into another room.  There was a spinning wheel, a collection of hub caps, and an astonishing assortment of coffee mugs and beer can koozies.  One of the koozies said, If you can’t eat it or drink it, then fuck it!

“Classy,” Alex muttered to himself.  There was a crash from the other room.

“Jesus!” the gruff voice said.

Alex heard quick, heavy footsteps approaching.  There was another crash, closer.

A man in a grey work shirt and blue jeans, with tattoos on both arms, hurried out of one of the rooms.  He noticed Alex as he was rushing past.

“Watch out, he’s in a mood today,” he said, then hurried the rest of the way out of the shop.  Alex heard the screen door slam, and a car starting outside a few moments later.

Another man appeared in the doorway to the room.  He was wearing a bowler hat, aviator goggles, a green t-shirt and a brown leather vest.  He was also holding a (vintage) baseball bat, slung over one shoulder.

“Sorry about that.  Some people have no manners at all,” he said, quietly. 

He set the baseball bat down reverently, in what seemed to Alex to be an entirely random spot.

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for today?” he said.

“Uh,” Alex said.

“Of course, you’re welcome to just browse around too.  I’ve got something here for everybody, I think.  And if I don’t have it today, I’ll probably have it before long,” he said, and chuckled.

“Cool, cool,” Alex said.  “So, uh, are you Zim?”

“That’s Trader Zim.  Shepherd and collector of oddities, curiosities, antiques, random pieces and otherwise useful bits or interesting flotsam,” Zim said.

“Sorry, Trader Zim,” Alex said.  “I’ve been collecting tiki memorabilia.  Have you got anything I might be interested in?”

“Oh, wow.  You know, I just sold a whole bunch of tiki stuff to some restaurant guy.  He said he’s been bringing tiki back.  I asked him where it had gone in the first place.  He didn’t have a good answer for that, I can tell you,” Zim said.  He leaned against the doorframe, and seemed content to just hang out and chat.

“Wow,” Alex said, agreeably.  “So, uh, do you have any stuff left over from that?”

“Hmm,” Zim said.  “You know, I think I’ve got some upstairs.  Follow me, I’ll show you where.”

Trader Zim turned and went back through the doorway he’d been leaning in.  Alex followed him.

The two of them went down a hallway that was crammed as full of random things as the previous rooms had been.  There was just enough room for them to walk down the hall.  Alex felt as if he needed to be careful not to knock anything over.

At the end of the hall, Trader Zim turned and walked through another doorway.  When Alex got there, he saw Trader Zim marching up a flight of dusty stairs.  The stairway was dimly lit by a pair of electric sconces with red, Victorian styled lamp shades.  There were books lined up about halfway across each step, which made it necessary to hug the wall in order to go up the stairs.  Alex wondered what would happen if a fire marshall visited Trader Zim’s shop, but decided asking about a potential safety violation in a house that was practically a monument to improper storage might upset his host.

At the top of the stairs, Trader Zim led Alex through another maze of rooms and displays of random things, before finally stopping at the base of a ladder that looked as though it led to an attic.

“Well, I’ve got these,” Trader Zim said, gesturing to an assortment of model Viking ships and wooden beer mugs.

Alex had been mildly hopeful up until that point.

“Hmm,” Alex said.  “They’re not really very Polynesian.”

Trader Zim raised an eyebrow.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he said.

Alex scrambled to come up with a diplomatic answer, remembering the advice he’d seen about being respectful of the merchandise.

“Well, I mean, these are very nice.  I just don’t think they’ll suit my collection, you see,” Alex said.

Trader Zim picked up one of the dragon boat models and examined it. 

“The Polynesians were sailors, weren’t they?  I thought I’d heard that their navigators were legendary,” he said.

Alex had no idea if they were good navigators or not.  He assumed that to get to their islands, they’d probably needed boats at some point.  That was about the extent of his actual knowledge about Polynesian culture.

“Oh, yeah, great sailors.  For sure,” Alex said.  “And these are great, it’s just that I’m more of a collector of little statues and totems and things.  I’m not so much into model boats.”

“Hmm,” Trader Zim said.  “Seems like someone who is into Polynesian culture would be into boats to me.  This would probably fill that hole in your collection.”

He held the dragon boat out to Alex.  The sail had the silhouette of a horned helmet painted on it.

“Sorry, I’m really not interested,” Alex said.  “Maybe I should come back another day and see what you have gotten then.”

Trader Zim’s lip curled with contempt for a second, but he quickly regained his composure.

“OK, if you say so.  Sorry I couldn’t be more help today,” he said. 

He led Alex back out of the room they were in.  As they continued back to the main room, Alex spotted a little grey statue out of the corner of his eye.  He stopped and turned to look at it.

It was made of grey volcanic stone, about the size of a teddy bear.  It kind of looked like an Easter Island head that was wearing a hat similar to a fez (only without the tassle).

“Hang on, I want to take a look at this,” Alex said, and moved closer to the statue. 

He was pretty confident this was what he was looking for. 

Trader Zim came back and looked at the statue along with Alex.

“That old thing?  Why’s that caught your attention?  Doesn’t look Polynesian to me at all,” Trader Zim said.

Alex wasn’t sure if Trader Zim was pulling his leg or not.  After a brief pause, Alex said, “It’s pretty cool, though.”

“Cooler than the boats I just showed you?  Are you high?” Trader Zim said.  He seemed annoyed.

“Not cooler, just different,” Alex said.  Right now didn’t seem like the best time to be irritating Trader Zim.

“Hmm,” Trader Zim said.

“How much would you want for this?” Alex said.

Trader Zim looked at him, and then back at the statue.

“It’s not for sale,” he said.

Alex couldn’t believe it.

“Not for sale?” Alex said.  “Why not?”

Trader Zim looked at Alex and said, “Because it’s not.  And we’re closed now.  You’re going to need to leave.”

“What?” Alex said.

“We’re closed now.  Get the fuck out!” Trader Zim said.

“But…” Alex started to say.

“Out, out, out!  Get out of my shop!  We’re closed!” Trader Zim said.

He seemed to be getting agitated, and Alex decided it might be wisest to just leave before Trader Zim decided to chase him out with a baseball bat or some other heavy blunt object. 

Alex hustled back to his Mustang.  He saw Trader Zim put a sign up on the front door that said “CLOSED!”

Well, shit, Alex thought.

Chapter the First

Tuesday, June 7th

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.”