would’ve had plenty of time to check out the decoy room, go talk to the desk clerk, figure out what had happened, and—
The door to the room beeped. A key card in the lock.
Gina leaped off the bed. She’d bolted the door, hadn’t she? She looked around for something to use as a weapon, but the door was already clicking open. She hadn’t bolted the door.
A guy in his early thirties entered the room, wrestling two roll-on suitcases behind him. When he saw Gina standing there topless in her undies, he stopped.
“Oh,” he said.
“I’m here for the threesome your wife arranged,” Gina said.
The guy blinked.
Gina looked at her watch. “Am I early? Fuck. Sorry.”
She hurried her clothes on, grabbed her shoes, the briefcase.
Coming down the hallway toward Gina was the guy’s wife. She was walking slowly and using both thumbs to type rapidly on her BlackBerry. At the same time talking into a Bluetooth headset.
“That’s ridiculous,” the wife was saying, exasperated. She barely glanced at Gina.
“Back in an hour!” Gina called over her shoulder as she blew past and ducked into the elevator.
GINA PULLED IN TO THE PARKING LOT. The strip mall was on the sketchy side, even as strip malls went. A Laundromat, an Asian-foods grocery store, a place (disturbingly adjacent to the Asian-foods grocery store) with a sign that said SNAKES, ETC .
The place she was looking for, next to the Laundromat, was on the sketchy side, too. Grimy windows and a big rip flapping through the plastic canopy above the front door. Across the canopy, beneath the rip, was printed MARVIN OATES FINE JEWELRY AND PAWN .
On the door, painted in smaller letters, it said PURVEYOR OF RARE COINS, STAMPS, AND OTHER FINE COLLECTIBLES .
Sketchy.
This was disappointing. Gina had been expecting . . . oh, she didn’t know, maybe a cozy book-lined shop with comfy leather chairs and a Dickensian vibe. A kindly old proprietor with pince-nez and a sweet-smelling pipe.
On the other hand, though, she admitted, the sketchiness of Marvin Oates Fine Jewelry and Pawn was also promising. At least when it came to the kind of quick, cash, no-questions-asked buyer she wanted Marvin Oates to hook her up with. Gina told herself not to jinx things by thinking of a number. Good luck with that. She hoped, fingers crossed, the stamps in the briefcase might bring fifty grand. That seemed reasonable, didn’t it?
Dubai, here I come. Dubai or wherever .
She took the briefcase and locked the car behind her. On the street in front of the strip mall, a few cars whizzed by without slowing; no one, she was sure, had followed her here.
The shop door was locked, but next to it was a red button that looked sticky. Gina pushed it with her elbow. After a second, a buzzer buzzed and the door clunked open a crack.
Gina stepped inside and squeezed past a pair of dusty glass cases filled with coins, watches, rings, what looked like a couple of old bullets. At the back of the shop, sitting behind another dusty glass case, was a chubby, bug-eyed guy in his fifties who looked sour with indigestion.
“We’re closed,” he said.
“Then why’d you buzz me in?” Gina said.
“I thought mistakenly you might be a serious collector.”
“Who’s to say I’m not a serious collector?”
He grunted and picked up the book he’d been reading. A fat paperback with a dragon on the cover, and a girl in a metal bra, a tiny guy with a huge sword.
Gina wasn’t being mean, just factual—the guy’s resemblance to a bug was astounding. His big, bulging eyes were so far apart on his head that it was like they were this close to dangling on stalks.
Other than that he looked fairly normal, if you called wearing a plum-colored sweater vest and khaki shorts normal.
“Are you Marvin Oates?” Gina said. “This is your place?”
“Yes,” he said. “Now go away.”
She sneezed. All the dust. She put the briefcase on the counter in front of him.
“How’s about you take one quick peek
The door to the room beeped. A key card in the lock.
Gina leaped off the bed. She’d bolted the door, hadn’t she? She looked around for something to use as a weapon, but the door was already clicking open. She hadn’t bolted the door.
A guy in his early thirties entered the room, wrestling two roll-on suitcases behind him. When he saw Gina standing there topless in her undies, he stopped.
“Oh,” he said.
“I’m here for the threesome your wife arranged,” Gina said.
The guy blinked.
Gina looked at her watch. “Am I early? Fuck. Sorry.”
She hurried her clothes on, grabbed her shoes, the briefcase.
Coming down the hallway toward Gina was the guy’s wife. She was walking slowly and using both thumbs to type rapidly on her BlackBerry. At the same time talking into a Bluetooth headset.
“That’s ridiculous,” the wife was saying, exasperated. She barely glanced at Gina.
“Back in an hour!” Gina called over her shoulder as she blew past and ducked into the elevator.
GINA PULLED IN TO THE PARKING LOT. The strip mall was on the sketchy side, even as strip malls went. A Laundromat, an Asian-foods grocery store, a place (disturbingly adjacent to the Asian-foods grocery store) with a sign that said SNAKES, ETC .
The place she was looking for, next to the Laundromat, was on the sketchy side, too. Grimy windows and a big rip flapping through the plastic canopy above the front door. Across the canopy, beneath the rip, was printed MARVIN OATES FINE JEWELRY AND PAWN .
On the door, painted in smaller letters, it said PURVEYOR OF RARE COINS, STAMPS, AND OTHER FINE COLLECTIBLES .
Sketchy.
This was disappointing. Gina had been expecting . . . oh, she didn’t know, maybe a cozy book-lined shop with comfy leather chairs and a Dickensian vibe. A kindly old proprietor with pince-nez and a sweet-smelling pipe.
On the other hand, though, she admitted, the sketchiness of Marvin Oates Fine Jewelry and Pawn was also promising. At least when it came to the kind of quick, cash, no-questions-asked buyer she wanted Marvin Oates to hook her up with. Gina told herself not to jinx things by thinking of a number. Good luck with that. She hoped, fingers crossed, the stamps in the briefcase might bring fifty grand. That seemed reasonable, didn’t it?
Dubai, here I come. Dubai or wherever .
She took the briefcase and locked the car behind her. On the street in front of the strip mall, a few cars whizzed by without slowing; no one, she was sure, had followed her here.
The shop door was locked, but next to it was a red button that looked sticky. Gina pushed it with her elbow. After a second, a buzzer buzzed and the door clunked open a crack.
Gina stepped inside and squeezed past a pair of dusty glass cases filled with coins, watches, rings, what looked like a couple of old bullets. At the back of the shop, sitting behind another dusty glass case, was a chubby, bug-eyed guy in his fifties who looked sour with indigestion.
“We’re closed,” he said.
“Then why’d you buzz me in?” Gina said.
“I thought mistakenly you might be a serious collector.”
“Who’s to say I’m not a serious collector?”
He grunted and picked up the book he’d been reading. A fat paperback with a dragon on the cover, and a girl in a metal bra, a tiny guy with a huge sword.
Gina wasn’t being mean, just factual—the guy’s resemblance to a bug was astounding. His big, bulging eyes were so far apart on his head that it was like they were this close to dangling on stalks.
Other than that he looked fairly normal, if you called wearing a plum-colored sweater vest and khaki shorts normal.
“Are you Marvin Oates?” Gina said. “This is your place?”
“Yes,” he said. “Now go away.”
She sneezed. All the dust. She put the briefcase on the counter in front of him.
“How’s about you take one quick peek
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