JADE SUNSET - Part II

I had paid for an hourly motel room with cash. I wasn’t going to stay overnight and only needed a sink to shave, a shower to clean, and a room to change. If I could have paid for fifteen minutes, I would have. 

In order to get to the gala, I needed to drop my old clothes back in the trunk of the Chevelle and then make double time the four blocks to the service entrance. Thankfully it was on the way. I tucked the Polaroids into the inside breast pocket of my coat along with my caterer's name badge. That would be a last-minute addition. 

The important people attending the gala will be fashionably late. The real important people won’t be there at all. They’ll have proxy bidders on the phone to do their bidding. The main guest entrance was bustling with men and women decked out to the nines. Black tuxedos, sharp bow ties, and polished shoes on one side of the green carpet. On the other, women in elegant form fitting dresses and red bottom heels. Neither side had much movement to their facial muscles. Dr. Botox was a well-paid physician. 

Flashing lights and excitement gave way to a dark alley filled with box trucks and security guys shaped like the box trucks. Heads so square thuds were heard when they rolled over on their pillows. 

A group of security guards were huddled up over a smart phone watching a game. One broke off and approached me. 

“Entrance is up front. You got credentials?” His head looked like a rock you’d find along a path that featured sorcerers on horseback. A big block with patches of moss for hair. 

Quickly, I retrieved my caterer badge from my jacket pocket and was careful to not pull one of the Polaroids out with it. 

“I’m running trays tonight. You know what’s on the menu?” I hoped the industry lingo would be a good enough cover. Nobody wanted to be a caterer. 

Knucklehead checked over the badge and handed it back. “Most the workers are going in through the front.” 

“That’s not what I was told.” 

“No. You’re right. Finally, somebody following the rules.” He pointed me into the space with the deliveries. He jump-scared an alley cat on his way back to the huddle with the other square bodies.  

If he only knew I was the biggest rule breaker of the lot. 

The rear entrance put me in the back of the kitchen. It didn’t take me long to realize I was over dressed. Jacket was one step too many. I pulled the Polaroids and relocated them to my back pocket. I clipped my badge onto a belt loop off my hip. Low and away like a good fastball looking for a called third strike. I’d carry a tray. Any suspicious eyes would see a badge. Nobody would ask questions. As the saying goes, walk fast and act like you know what you’re doing. It’s amazing how far you can get with that motto. There was a small alcove with a half dozen lockers and a coat rack. I tossed the top of my monkey suit in with the rest and moved on. 

Kitchen workers are loud and action snaps at the pace of a summer bug zapper. Be quick and get to the other side. I needed to get onto the floor.  

Confirm the layout of the auction room and the stagging of the items for bid. Attendees get to walk amongst the prestigious items for an hour while sipping mediocre sparkling wine that would ensure their voice of reason was washed away. There’s no room for people thinking about Junior’s private school tuition and not on being the proud owner of Audrey Hepburn’s gloves from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.  

There was a full tray of Champagne flutes loaded and ready when I got to the bar. I hoisted it up on to my shoulder and hoped my balance would be good enough. Last thing I needed was to spill and bring attention to the fact I wasn’t invited.  

A voice caught me just as I was about to mix in with the early arrivals. “Excuse me. You. With the Champagne.” 

I stopped slow and spun slow. “Yes.” The woman held a tablet and had an ear bud in. Official business. 

“Do you know where you’re going?” She eyed me looking for my badge. She spotted it on my hip and knelt down. “Casey.” She straightened up. “Casey. I need you making figure eights. Don’t just stand in one spot.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Mess up number one. OC women never wanted to be called ma’am. I needed a quick pivot. “I worked the Paul Frank event with you last summer.” I tapped my temple with two fingers. “Mind like a steel trap.” That was a boldfaced lie, but there’s no chance she remembered. Few people are more forgettable than caterers. 

“It’s Stacy, not ma’am.” Her correction was predictable. 

“Sorry, Stacy. Military upbringing.” Another lie, but I wasn’t even a caterer so what was the harm. A message must have cracked through her ear piece because she waved me away with a hand and disappeared into the sea of bodies. 

My tray was more than half empty before I made the auction room. And I had only a silver tray in hand by the time I saw the Newman Rolexes. Another heist and they would be my target. Where was the necklace?  

A scream of excitement from a group of patrons pulled my attention. The necklace was out. I moved through the swarm of bodies with careful precision. Couldn’t give up my status as a caterer.   

The over reliance on perfume and cologne was a problem for this section of the world. Another status symbol to announce their presence. The cloud of fragrance was so thick I could feel it on my freshly shaved jawline. At least it wasn’t going to be absorbed by my beard which would have forced me to shave anyways.  

The necklace was lit to perfection and the glass case housing it was so spotless and pure it was damn near invisible. There was a raised platform in the case hoisting the jade up to display her beauty. My money was that it doubled as a security measure. Necklace gets lifted and an alarm would trigger.  

Three Polaroids and one of them had an image of the jade and another of the case. The real case. Too often high-end jewelry is toured around under false pretenses. Be on loan at a museum and it wouldn’t be the real one. A fine replica certainly worth its own fair share, but nothing compared to the actual value. Insured or not, owners aren’t taking that risk. It’s what made the auction so exciting. The real one was here.  

Back in the kitchen I found a small alcove to review the Polaroids. Everything matched. So far. So good.  

An expeditor in a white jacket saw me walking out and handed me another tray. Instead of champagne flutes, this one had chunks of tuna tartar on wafer so invisible it had to of been made by the same place that made the glass around the necklace. 

“Run this out to the bar,” the expeditor said. I grabbed the tray and kept my head low as I headed out.  

It worked perfectly since I wanted to be at the bar. Staged for the next phase. Polaroid number three. 

The appetizer tray cleared out faster than the champagne. People were sweeping the tuna off with their top teeth and discarding the wafer plate. Can’t add anymore carbs to the diet. Not in these form fitting dresses and tailored tuxedos. Ditched the tray and tucked my caterer badge into my back breast pocket.  

A woman approached me almost immediately and I thought I was cooked. Back to running bubbly and I wouldn’t be able to breakaway. 

“What brings you in?” she asked.  

Her red hair spiraled down in layers that pointed down at her tan shoulders and a sparkling emerald dress. Unlike many of the women in attendance, her dress gave her legs room to move. The slit showing off her thigh certainly had my attention. She completed her ensemble with elbow length satin gloves and a small clutch that hung off her shoulders like a long whip.  

“The Newman watches are pretty cool.” I grabbed two glasses off one of the real caterers and presented one to her. “How about you?” 

She took the flute, but didn’t take a sip. “The jadeite necklace. Of course.” 

“It does look like that’s the one thing you’re missing. Would match perfectly with that dress.” 

“That’s not the only thing it would match.” Her flirtatious efforts were not wasted. 

There was something familiar about her that I couldn’t quite place. Her smile pleasant. Her playful nature refreshing. Not now. Once the auction started items would be removed from the common areas and taken to the main stage. Block headed security guys would be stationed to handle the goods. 

“Will you be bidding or just checking out the merchandise?” A pour attempt to flirt back. 

“The merchandise is fun to look at. But I play for keeps.” She finally took a sip of champagne but it was so small I wasn’t convinced. “Thanks for the chat and drink. Time to get ready.” She pulled a tube of red lipstick from her clutch and expertly applied it to her lips. Stunning. “How do I look?” 

I stammered and fought to pull the words forward. “Um. The belle of the ball.” Stupid. Couldn’t come up with anything more original. 

She batted her eyes catching my lack of creativity. “I’ll see you around.” 

While I rolled my jaw up off the floor, I lost sight of her as the crowd swelled toward the auction dais. There’s a frenetic energy when people are on the verge of spending big sums of cash. Sellers get paid. Auction house gets paid. Buyers feel like the biggest swinging Tom there is.  

They’ll pad the opening of the auction to get the juices flowing and allow the less financially sound an opportunity to play the game. A couple non-profit good causes that you can raise your paddle for a few hundred dollars. Give an under-served community school supplies or a year of groceries. You didn’t get dressed up for nothing.  

With the jadeite necklace and the box confirmed, I needed to study the third Polaroid. The woman. 

The woman had dark raven colored hair cut short into a pixie. Her facial features were angular and could easily have been a model pedaling any one of the perfumes that wafted in the air. Renee Sexton was scribbled in my handwriting at the bottom of the Polaroid. The name didn’t ring a bell in my head, but Renee’s face hung in my mind like a ghost who had visited from a past life.  

The blockhead security wasn’t a threat. Too meaty to understand the sleight of hand and elusive nature of what I do. Renee was the problem. So far, there wasn’t any woman in the room that matched her picture. No pixie cuts. No raven-colored hair. This was Orange County and blond was the price of admission. 

Music came from a string quartet. Sounded like they were playing the best of Hanz Zimmer and John Williams. My very own movie soundtrack for the night. If I had any idea of the set list I could time this appropriately. I didn’t. 

When I heard the first gunshot, I thought it was one of the thousands of balloons popping. Then the second pop. Then the screams. Then the panicked movements. Frenzied black clad bodies moving to whatever available space was next to them. Like somebody had shaken an ant farm. I ducked behind the bar for cover. 

Over the screams I could still hear music playing. Couldn’t help but think of those playing on the deck of the Titanic as the ship sank. My mind came to ease when a gap in the scene showed a sloppy array of instruments and music stands left deserted.  

Where were the shots coming from? I listened and studied. There was no consistent direction of fleeing bodies. I couldn’t hear any shots. Smoke pillowed up from the auction stage like a haunted house. A hit of green movement was almost hidden, but I spotted the movement. The woman with the red hair and green dress. I had to get there. 

My foot searched for the wheel at the corner of the bar for a lock. Catered events never had anything permanent. I flipped the lever up with my toe and did so with the wheel on the other side. We were rolling. I clipped a couple bodies, but the resistance was minimal. No shots fired. No broken glass. No bloody bodies. I rolled onto the stage and stayed low in the smoke. Looking for any sign of movement. Of the flirtatious woman who played me. Where was Renee? 

The answer came in the form of a sharp kick to my ribs. The wind and air shot out of my insides with such speed and veracity my eyes welled up with tears. I could make out a pair of blurry high heels next to me. Renee’s, and they weren’t flirtatious at all. 

“This is no way to greet someone,” I said. Ouch. I reached for my side. 

She kicked me again. My ribs contracted inward forcing me onto my back. The smoke mixed with my tears formed a sediment on my cheeks. She straddled me. This should have been more pleasant. Her dress allowing more leg movement suddenly made sense. 

Maybe if I flirted, she’d stop the beating. “That’s more like it.”  

Crickets. 

She remained silent. Her hands dug through my pockets. She was all business. The keys to my Chevelle jingled against the keychain as she stripped them out of my pants. 

“I told you it was a nice car,” she said. “You and that car almost stole my attention from the jadeite.” She tapped the case of the necklace on my forehead. “Thanks for the distraction.” 

The blond from earlier. How? 

I felt the tackiness of her lipstick touch my ear as she whispered. “We all have our secrets.” 

My face became covered in red hair like walking through a spiderweb at sunset. I ignored the pain in my side to remove the mess. Renee’s red wig was left in my hands. Not the treasure I was after. She was gone and there were twenty-seven million reasons I had to chase her.

Continued in Part III >>>

<<< Part I