by N. C. Lewis
The trunk flipped open with a rusty squeak. Eddie reached inside, pulled out his luggage and made his way across the potholed blacktop, dotted with piles of litter toward the motel entrance. He barely noticed the ugly weeds which poked up through the cracks in the stained sidewalk: brown, wizened, barely alive.
The gloomy reception area smelled of cheap beer and cigarettes. Eddie glanced around furtively. His rent was due today, but he didn't have the cash right now. In a day or so when his money came through, he'd settle his account and move out. Meanwhile, Eddie wanted to avoid Ethel Babbage, the landlady.
There was no one behind the reception desk. Eddie scurried past, pausing momentarily at the men's restrooms to glance over his shoulder, checking that no one was behind him.
Eddie had seen how the rich live at the yacht club—the trust-fund brats, business empire builders, trophy wives, movie stars, and celebrities. There were even several judges. He chuckled at that. Most of all he wanted in on their action; that's why he'd applied for a job at the club.
The toilet in his motel room didn't work, so he darted into the men's restroom, dragging his luggage behind. A sharp, sour tang almost caused him to retch. He snorted in distaste, eyes darting around to check no one was hiding in the shadows. His eyes settled on the sink. The revolting sight of a partially digested Chinese meal clogging up a cracked basin caused him to lose control of his stomach contents. Quickly he slapped his hands on the counter, steadying himself, legs shaking as explosive stomach convulsions caused him to vomit.
"Got to get out of this hellhole," he said when it was over, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and walking shakily to the urinal.
Finished, Eddie washed his hands in an adjacent cracked basin, the trickle of water dripping from the faucet inadequate. Then he stepped out of the restroom, eyes dancing nervously around the gloomy hallway. He felt like a rat trapped in a maze. For too long he'd accepted his situation. That had all changed now. He was on the up and up, would soon party like members of the Hidden Harbor Yacht Club.
Eddie scurried along the dim hallway filled with a sharp odor of chemicals. The elevator rarely worked so he started up the stairs, one hand gliding along the cool wood of the bannister, the other hand dragging the luggage.
With each step, his breathing became more labored. The moldy, sweaty air filled his lungs. He stopped halfway, coughing up dust.
On the second floor, he turned into the hallway that led to his apartment and hurried past the elevator. At his door he fumbled for keys.
The elevator door creaked open.
Eddie could hear mutterings drifting from the elevator—Ethel Babbage?
"Hey, you!"
Eddie closed his eyes. Mind racing over what to say. "Sorry, I don't have the cash, but tomorrow or the day after." He knew that line wouldn't work, not with Ethel.
As he waited for the inevitable, his mind drifted to the Hidden Harbor Yacht Club. On his first day, the opulence had amazed him. Even the security booth made his motel room seem like a hovel. He clenched his fists. Ethel could wait for her money.
The voice came again, louder. "Turn around and face the truth."
Eddie opened his eyes and turned around.
A man in a cheap, maroon, polyester suit, dragging an oversized battered, brown suitcase staggered drunkenly along the hallway toward Eddie.
"Turn around. You're going the wrong way," the man muttered to himself unaware of Eddie's presence.
Eddie recognized the man as a neighbor, had something to do with selling water filters, but didn't know his name.
"The other way," the man shouted to himself turning around and retracing his steps. "Home sweet home is around the next bend."
Eddie slipped into his room closing the door quietly behind. The still air was heavy with the stench of sweat, bleach, and stale fast food. He flicked on the light switch, and cockroaches darted for cover.
"I'm a not thief," Eddie said to the dead silence of his room. But he stole valuable artifacts to order, and when business was weak, stole them opportunistically. He considered himself an artist like Fagan in Oliver Twist, although lately with the rise of electronic surveillance, tagging, and databases, he was more of the starving-artist variety.
He dropped his bags by the door and stood for a moment staring at himself in the cracked, full-length mirror. Dabbing at silver face paint with a dirty handkerchief, Eddie began to chuckle. The more he wiped the more he chuckled. At last, tossing an oversized tin hat on the bed, he doubled over in laughter. As Eddie straightened up, his silver-painted hands rested on his hips, and he stared with satisfaction at the wheelie suitcase—purple with a large yellow bow.
"I got it! My freedom ticket."
Eddie's contact had told him what to look for and when, and that it would be an easy job. He wasn't sure about the easy part. Just as well, he timed his 'grab and run' with the grand parade of Tin Men. With his flat feet, he knew he'd have lost a straight-out foot chase. A thousand identical Tin Men leveled the odds.
"I'm too old and slow to be in the bag-snatching business."
Eddie flipped the suitcase onto his bed, unzipped it and reached inside, pulling out a heavy bronze statue of a bird with blue feet. He held it high in the air, then swung it savagely like a robber wielding a club.
"This is my next payday," he shouted. "My way out of this hovel, the next step toward my destiny."
Chapter 12
Oceana Peach strolled along the trail that ran around Town Lake in downtown Austin wearing sports shorts and a T-shirt. The late afternoon air was heavy with the tang of the water, and unseen birds chirped merrily in the treetops.
Oceana's arms swung steadily at her side, back erect, like a tin soldier on the parade ground. Shadows from the tall oak trees offered cooling protection from the sun hanging low in the western sky. Joggers, tourists, families, and cyclists bustled in every direction.
"A good long stroll," Oceana muttered as she walked, "will get her out of my system." That always worked back home in New Jersey after she'd been in the suffocating company of Marge Christopher. Oceana disliked the wealthy, only liked their money. She swung her arms more vigorously and stepped up the pace, kicking up dust as she went.
This part of the trail was particularly beautiful and offered anyone with an eye for that sort of thing a view across gently rippling waters extending to the bank on the other side. Canoes and rowboats bobbed leisurely under the clear blue sky. It was a spectacular view in the heart of a metropolitan city.
Oceana took no notice of the beautiful scenery. Her arms swung hard as she focused on upping the pace. The faster she walked, the more her frustration grew. "It's not working," she huffed. "Maybe I should jog."
"The open yoga class begins in three minutes."
Oceana slowed her pace to look toward the voice. A thirty-something, geeky-looking woman standing on a blue mat held a megaphone to her mouth.
"Come and join us for our open yoga class. Mats provided. The class is free, offered by the city of Austin."
Twenty or thirty people of all ages sat cross-legged on mats arranged in straggly rows spread out on the soft green lawn.
"Why not?" Oceana said aloud. "Might help my mood."
The instructor welcomed Oceana with a slight smile, handing her a mat. "I'm Joyce, your instructor today. Enjoy!"
Oceana snatched the mat with a grasping hand, then apologized. "Sorry. It's been a stressful day."
"You're in the right place," the woman said softly. "Our class will begin with a period of reflection and meditation."
Another ten people had arrived before the class began. The pleasant green lawn was a little congested, and Oceana had to shuffle her mat several times to let new people in.
"Thank you for moving up," said Oceana's new neighbor, straightening her mat. "Thought the class had already started." She was a large woman with stale breath and the distinct acrid whiff of body odor.
"Life is a series of mountain ranges," began the instructor sit
ting down and crossing her legs. "The paths of yesterday, challenges of today, and the unseen trails of tomorrow are all part of who we are. Close your eyes and let them all go."
There was a long moment of silence. The low murmur of voices drifted up from the trail, a light breeze rustled leaves, and the faint chirp of birds seemed like a background chorus to a great opera.
"Now the past, present, and future are gone," continued the instructor. "Focus on a single path. The path you are on—can you see it?"
"Yes," Oceana mumbled, eyes closed. "My job." That was her latest path. Working checkout paid so little, and rents in Newark were so high. That was why she had become involved in the Jersey Rodin Collectors Circle. It was part of the plan to meet the man of her dreams—a man with money and lots of it. Prince Charming would sweep her into a life of elegance and privilege. That hasn't happened, yet.
"Now think of one thing on that path." The instructor's voice rose dramatically. "Let it go!"
I hate my job, Oceana thought, saying it to herself for the first time. I hate working the checkout line and smiling at customers who don't give me the time of day. I hate the mind-numbing boredom. I hate everything about that job.
But how could she let it go? The crummy job paid the bills. She was stuck with it until she met the man of her dreams. There were several prospects at the Jersey Rodin Collectors Circle. Oceana was working on them.
"Today I will share with you a secret known only by a few, a secret in plain sight of all," said the instructor, placing her palms together as if in prayer.
"This will be good," the neighbor said, leaning in close. "The secrets are the best part." The vinegary tang of her breath caused Oceana to wince.
The instructor banged a golden gong. "Wherever you are on the journey of life, know you are worthy," she whispered the words and they mingled with the reverberating sound of the clang.
The physical part of the class began with warm-up exercises, gradually moving into flowing full-body stretches.
"Now into downward-facing dog and hold it." The instructor's voice was effortless. "Clarity often comes in this resting position."
Oceana struggled to hold the pose, her arms trembled under the weight of her body. I hate Marge, she thought with venom. "That's why I did it," she muttered in a shaky voice. "To get back at her."
"Eh?" asked her neighbor with a heavy grunt.
"Nothing," replied Oceana, turning her nose away from the sour breath.
"One more sequence and then we will relax into the earth." The instructor's voice had become a little breathy, but once again she moved effortlessly through the sequence, ending in mountain pose. "Empty your mind of all that is bad. Empty your mind of all that is good. Empty your mind like water flowing from a jug."
But Oceana couldn't empty her mind. A sudden wave of guilt washed over her for telling Gwen Williams how much Marge would bid for the bronze blue-footed booby. She felt dirty for accepting Gwen's bribe, and angry when Gwen refused to pay. It wasn't Oceana's fault Marge got all excited on seeing the statue and outbid everyone.
It wasn’t the first time they'd worked together, either, but it was the first time Oceana felt a pang of guilt. The little plan had worked well for the past few years. She supplied the information to Gwen in return for a little cash. It helped her with the rent back in Newark and to buy elegant clothes to attract her well heeled Prince Charming. This was the first time it had failed. And now Gwen had refused to pay.
"I earned that money, did my part, told Gwen what she wanted to know. That money is mine!"
"Eh?" inquired her neighbor.
Oceana didn’t respond.
"Now, friends, it is time to relax into Mother Earth, become one with the ground," said the instructor lying flat on her back, arms relaxed at the side.
Oceana closed her eyes. Her arms relaxed. Her legs relaxed. Her body melted into the ground. But her mind wouldn’t shut down. It focused on Gwen Williams.
Gwen had laughed when Oceana asked for her money. Scoffed when she pleaded. Cackled with delight as she begged.
"Empty your mind and let it all go," soothed the instructor.
Oceana's mind filled with worry. What if Gwen told Marge what she had done? That would be the end of her role as club secretary, the end of her opportunity to mingle with wealthy men, and the end of her dream to meet Prince Charming.
"I want you to decide," whispered the instructor in a cotton candy voice. "Take a new path toward a new future."
Oceana knew what she must do. "Nobody pushes this Jersey girl around. I'm gonna fix Gwen Williams for good."
Chapter 13
It was the little details that made all the difference, Marge Christopher thought as she sipped chamomile tea from a bone china cup and stared out of the window. The view from the executive lounge of the Cherry Tree Towers Hotel was spectacular. The capital city appeared to twinkle and sparkle as dusk darkened into night.
Her mind went back to the first time she had sat in this room, over ten years ago. The city was smaller back then, the night lights not so bright. She'd met Gwen Williams that day. They'd hit it off immediately, became instant friends. Marge introduced Gwen to Rodin's work and the possibility of acquiring his creations at auction houses. The two friends laughed and giggled their way through the first Austin annual antiques convention. It had been fun.
Marge lifted her eyes from the view at the sound of a faint click. Flickering lights, like that of a Roman candle, came on. The dim glow enhanced the feeling of luxury and exclusivity in the exquisitely decorated, lavishly furnished lounge.
During Marge's annual pilgrimage to Austin, she had been the professor, explaining to Gwen the finer points of Rodin's work. "It's all in the details," she had said with enthusiasm. "After all is said and done, it is the challenge of ownership that draws me to his work. When I see a piece I like, I must have it."
Marge settled deep into the plush leather cushions of a Herman Miller lounge chair, her feet resting lightly on the ottoman. For an instant, a feeling of childlike wonder washed over her at the soothing ambience created by the flickering light—the same type of wonder she felt when bidding on a Rodin and winning. She had taught Gwen the mechanics of auction houses and connected her to an exclusive network of art dealers. Gwen Williams took to art collecting with the same ruthless focus that she had when stripping wealth from her ex-husbands. At first, that fascinated Marge.
The lounge was empty. Six p.m. was too early for the road-warrior executives who appeared later in the evening, bleary-eyed, ready for a caffeine jolt to propel them through the hours of preparation for a business meeting. It was too late for the wealthy vacationers who, in the Cherry Tree Towers luxury suits, were preparing for a night out at an exclusive, restaurant then on to the theater or Bass Concert Hall.
"Must have been four or five years ago," Marge murmured, taking another sip, "that Gwen double-crossed me."
Rodin's exquisitely crafted L'Éternal Printemps miniature sculpture came up for sale. Marge remembered it vividly. She told Gwen, in hushed confidential tones, it was like one of her babies, and she must have it. Gwen Williams greeted this with a crow of delight and outbid Marge.
And at every auction since.
Marge's mouth went dry at the thought of Rodin's handcrafted masterpieces, by the handful, in Gwen's grubby hands. They were her babies.
But on this trip, an idea had sprung into her mind. It grew and blossomed as she sat in her first-class seat, staring out of the window into the glittering city night; the jet circling Austin. By the time it touched down, Marge had worked out a plan.
Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, recognized the number—her insurance agent. For several moments she let it ring, debating whether to answer.
"Hello, Mr. Stagford… Well, given the circumstances… No injuries… A little, I guess, but still disturbed by the whole incident… A Tin Man of all things...happens all the time you say...rarely recovered...sold on black market… No… Uh-huh… Uh-huh�
�� I guess… Uh-huh… I'm covered for the full amount… Okay… Cash will be in my account tomorrow… Okay. I will… I know… I know… Bye."
Marge hung up, rolled her eyes as if seeking inspiration from the heavens, and wagging her finger at the window, growled, "Gwen Williams has attended her last visit to the annual antiques convention."
"Ma'am?" A tall, lean man pushing sixty, wearing an expensive dark blue suit and steel-rimmed glasses, peered at Gwen. He held a silver platter of cookies in one hand. On his lapel, a name badge—Mr. Patrick Crenshaw.
"Oh, I didn’t see you there!"
"Sorry, ma'am, just refreshing the cookies."
"I was admiring the view."
"Wonderful, isn't it?"
Marge turned to glance at the man. She felt confident and generous. "Mr. Crenshaw, I'd like to commend you and this hotel for your excellent service. I'm here for the annual antiques auction. I stay in this hotel every year."
Mr. Crenshaw placed the tray on a table, pushed a hand through his crisp-gray hair and gazed for a moment at Marge. "Mrs. Christopher, isn't it? Welcome back. I trust you are enjoying your stay?" He bowed from the waist.
"Indeed I am."
"If there is anything I can do to enhance the comfort of your visit, please let me know." Mr. Crenshaw straightened the tray and left the room as silently as he had entered.
Marge visited the hotel once a year, yet the staff remembered her name, her preference for steel-cut oats and black coffee for breakfast, and they always ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame Vintage on her final evening. The little details made all the difference.
Marge stood up and pushed the armchair away resolutely. "It's the little details that make all the difference. After the funeral, when Gwen Williams’ private collection comes up for sale, I'll get my babies back."
Chapter 14
