The Moche Warrior (4 page)

Well, one: I called the police and had his spanking new BMW, which he persisted in parking illegally, towed. It was particularly satisfying to watch him sprinting down the street in a futile attempt to catch up to his car. It’s amazing, really, the depths to which we sink in dealing with an ex-spouse.

The trouble with this small victory, of course, was that while at the time it struck me as a masterful stroke, it merely escalated the conflict. He’d taken the goblets, I’d taken his snuff bottle. At that point we were more or less even. But I couldn’t let it alone, I was still so angry. In my heart I knew, of course, that there must still be something unresolved in that relationship, even though a few years and another love had gone by. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure that one out. But I kept going anyway, as petty as I knew it to be. And knowing only too well just how immature Clive was, I knew he’d figure out who had the car towed and would find a way to retaliate.

I didn’t have long to wait.

A few days after the car incident, Clive swept into the store. “Just coming to say hello to my neighbors,” he said. “The place looks very nice, Lara. And this must be your new partner. Sarah, is it?”‘ he said in his most charming voice.

Sarah murmured something polite, then disappeared in the back, wisely not wishing to be part of this little scene. I smiled weakly, then went to assist a customer in the second showroom. I heard Clive wandering around in the front room. In a few moments I heard him talking to an old customer of ours. “George!” he exclaimed. “How nice to see you again. Still collecting New World santos?” he asked. I heard George murmur a reply. “I have one you really must see, quite exceptional,” Clive went on. There was a pause. “Right across the road, George.” I could picture Clive pointing across the road, and I excused myself for a moment from my customer. But it was too late. Clive, his arm on the shoulder of one of our oldest clients, was steering him over to his shop. He’d stolen a good customer right from under my nose.

It was not until the next day that I noticed that the silver peanut was missing. I’d been working on it a bit in the shop, and I thought I’d left it either on the desk in the little office or in the small drawer behind the front counter. But it was in neither place and a search of the whole shop turned up nothing. There was, in my mind, only one possible explanation. I marched across the street.

“I didn’t think you’d stoop so low as to steal something, Clive,” I huffed. “An auction is one thing, but this petty theft—”

“What are you talking about, Lara?” Clive replied. “Surely taking a customer away is not theft. Why don’t we call it healthy competition?”

“I’m not talking about George. I’m talking about the peanut,” I replied, knowing as the words came out of my mouth that I sounded like an idiot.

“The peanut,” Clive sighed. “My God, Lara, you really are losing it. Take a vacation or a Valium or something. There’s nothing wrong with my setting up shop across the street. Why do you think the big shopping malls have competitors at either end? Why are whole streets lined with stores selling the same kind of merchandise? Because it’s good business, that’s why. With you and I both here, this could end up being the antiques center of the city. There’s business enough for both of us. So please stop this nonsense about peanuts!”

I just looked at him. “Come on,” he wheedled. “Let’s kiss and make up. Or shake hands at least. We were a good team once, weren’t we? We’re even on the auction, and I’ll forgive what you did to my car, if you’ll forgive the abduction of George.” He held out his hand. After a second or two, somewhat reluctantly, I took it.

“Welcome back to the neighborhood, Clive,” I said.

“That’s better,” he said. I mentally pictured myself spray-painting his lovely beige suit purple. It helped a lot.

There didn’t seem to be any more to be said, and so I turned to go. “I don’t suppose you’d sell me the snuff bottle?” he said.

“Sure,” I replied. “Eleven hundred dollars.”

He laughed. “Three,” he said to my retreating back. I kept going.

“Okay, okay,” he called after me as I crossed the street. “Four hundred, make that four fifty if you’ll throw in the rest of the stuff in the box.”

I ignored him.

The next few days were quiet, if you don’t count the arrival at our front door of the resident nutbar with his news of impending doom. In fact, his presence made the store so quiet that Sarah decided to take a few days vacation, right in the middle of tourist season, leaving the shop to the care of Alex and me. I heard nothing more from Clive. I still didn’t trust him, in fact I never would, but so far the cease-fire seemed to be holding. There was no sign of the peanut. Alex and I both looked for it, and I still was not entirely convinced Clive hadn’t taken it, holding it hostage for the snuff bottle or something. But Clive said no more on that subject, and finally I had to conclude it had been stolen. Shoplifting is a disagreeable fact of life when you own a store, and the peanut would be very easy to snatch, particularly if I had been careless enough to leave it out on the counter, which I supposed I must have done. Just in case, though, I took the little gold and turquoise ear ornament home with me while I decided what to do with it.

One evening, my little group of friends decided to get together for a drink. We went to the bar in the Four Seasons, just down the street from our shops. Moira, who changes her hairdos and her men the way the rest of us change socks, brought her new man, whose name was Brian. Brian was subjected to a baptism of fire, if ever there was one. Elena, the craft store owner who rather fancies herself as an amateur therapist, did a snap psychological profile of him to his face; Dan, tall, thin, scholarly, the perfect bookseller, interrogated him about his reading habits; and Moira and I talked shop most of the time. Brian seemed very nice, but had he asked me, I wouldn’t have held out much hope for him.

It was a pleasant outing for me, until Clive arrived and pulled up a chair, leaving me wondering if this was coincidence, or if one of the group, a traitor, had invited him. After a few minutes of watching him being charming, ingratiating himself with my friends, most particularly Moira, I decided it was time to go, and headed for my car. Only then did I realize I’d left my keys—car, home, shop, all of them—at the store. I was damned if I was going back into the bar to ask for help with Clive there.

I looked at my watch. The store was open until eight, and it was now about eight-thirty. With any luck, if it had been a bit busy, Alex would still be there, doing the paperwork, putting the cash in the safe, and generally straightening up the place.

I went first to the main door. The shop was dark, and since it was just twilight it was difficult for me to see in, particularly since we had a metal gate that we pulled in front of the glass doors when we closed as an extra security precaution. Disappointed, I turned to leave. Perhaps, I hoped, Alex had found the keys and, not knowing where I’d gone for a drink, had taken them home with him. He lived just three doors from me, so I would be all set. I’d cab it to Alex’s and leave my car in the parking lot overnight.

Just then, I heard a clunk against the door behind me. I turned back in time to see Diesel pawing at the glass in some agitation. I went back to the door and tried to peer in. Diesel turned and disappeared into the gloom, but I could see him framed against the light from the small window in the back door opposite me, circling and circling in the middle of the room.

Gradually my eyes adjusted, and I saw what had upset Diesel. Someone—it could only be Alex—was wandering erratically around the store. I rattled the gate as hard as I could, but it wouldn’t budge, and Alex, if that was who it was, did not appear to notice me. There had to be something seriously the matter with him. I ran down the alleyway beside the shop and around to the back door. It too was locked.

There was a wrought iron chair and table out on a tiny patio where we occasionally take a coffee or lunch break. I picked up the chair and heaved it at the back door. The glass in the little panel in the door shattered, and I was able to reach through the small opening and unlock the door. Instantly the alarm went off, but I didn’t stop. I figured that would bring help faster than a phone call. I raced up the four steps to the main floor.

It was, as I had feared, Alex. He was wobbling a little, almost staggering, and muttering to himself. A stroke, I thought. He’s had a stroke or something. But then I noticed there was blood in his hair, and a bruise was forming on the side of his head above one ear. He’s fallen, I concluded, and hit his head.

I went over to him, being careful not to startle him. “What happened, Alex?” I said, taking his arm as gently as I could. He looked toward me, but his eyes were not focusing properly. “Let’s go,” I said gently. “I’m going to take you to the doctor, okay?”

“Can’t,” he said finally, the first intelligible words I’d heard him say. “Not finished. Something I have to do.” He mumbled incoherently for a moment, then said, “I have an account to settle with…” He looked confused. “With someone,” he said vaguely.

“I’m sure it can wait until later,” I said soothingly. “Now you just come along with me.” It was hopeless though. He wasn’t going to leave. I knew I would have to get help. I gently eased him into a chair and headed for the desk.

Throughout our conversation, if you can call it that, the alarm was making a terrible racket, which struck me as a bit odd. I didn’t think Alex would have set the security system until he was ready to leave the shop. The reason for the alarm would soon become clear.

As I reached for the phone, there was a roar, then a crash, and I was thrown backward as the storage room door just a few feet away from me was blasted off its hinges. Dense, black smoke filled the air. The sprinkler system activated. There was smoke, there was water, Diesel was circling my legs, howling in terror, the alarm rang on and on. Fire, I thought, it’s the fire alarm.

But it was even worse than that. Crumpled just inside the storage room was a man. He lay on his side, his back to me, knees drawn up a little, not quite in a fetal position, and his hands had been tied behind his back. I couldn’t see his face, and I couldn’t bring myself to look. He did not move at all. I thought I could see blood, though, on the side of his neck and his hands. For a second, I had this vision of a man on his knees, begging his executioner to spare him, then falling over into the position in which he now lay.

I had a decision to make, and I made it. I couldn’t get all of us out. I left the man in the storage room, who was, I reasoned, almost certainly dead, and grabbing Alex, who was now unconscious, heaved him up into my arms like a child. Yelling at Diesel to come with me, I tried to make my way to the back door. I couldn’t see where I was going, and I started to choke and gag. I hit my shins on some furniture, ran into the side of something, and, still holding Alex, fell to my knees. Down low, the air wasn’t quite so thick, and I could see a tiny shadow just ahead of me. It was Diesel. I pulled Alex up on my back, his arms draped over my shoulders, and, following the cat, crawled to the back steps, then to safety, the sound of a distant siren moving toward us.

“Help’s coming, help’s coming,” I said over and over to Alex’s unconscious figure until the police and firemen arrived.

3

What would follow were some of the blackest days of my life.

I spent the night in the hospital, under observation, it was explained to me, because of all the smoke I’d inhaled. Being under observation extended beyond the medical, I quickly ascertained, to the presence of a policewoman by the name of Constable Margo Chu, who, having little if anything to say for herself, sat in the only chair in the room, leafing through fashion magazines by the hour.

I was a mess, as even the most cursory exploration and a mere glance in the bathroom mirror made clear. My knees looked like raw meat, a gash on my left hand had required several stitches, and with a severe muscle spasm in my back, and ribs sore from coughing, I could barely stand up straight.

Nevertheless, I was still much better off than Alex, who drifted in and out of consciousness, the result of a bad concussion. His condition was described as “guarded,” whatever that means. I knew what they were worried about. I’d overheard the nurses talking about him: swelling of the brain.

I kept seeing him in the ambulance, the mask over his face, and tubes running from his arms. He was so still, his face the color of chalk: the man who’d befriended me after my divorce, a kind of second father to me, who’d made me feel at home in a new neighborhood, looked after my house while I traveled, who was indispensable now, in the shop, and who, more than anything else, was my friend, in such distress.

And that other fellow, who was he? What was he doing there? Was this a robbery gone wrong? Who had done what to whom? Had the man in the storage room hit Alex? It could not possibly, knowing Alex, have been the other way around. And if he had hit Alex, what then had happened to him? He hadn’t tied his own hands behind his back. My head hurt thinking about it, and none of it made any sense.

I was allowed to leave the hospital late the next morning. I asked to see Alex before I left, but they wouldn’t let me. He was in intensive care, and only relatives were allowed in. I pointed out that I was the closest thing to a relative he had, but even then they suggested I come back the following day and they’d consider my request. PC Chu drove me home, where Moira was waiting for me. She bustled around very efficiently, getting me settled in my favorite armchair, bringing me lunch, and trying to make me laugh.

“In case you’re too traumatized to figure it out,” she said, “the tempura shrimp, the California rolls, and the yellow fin tuna sushi are for you. The yuppie deluxe, organic, gourmet cat food in this lovely jar with the darling little hat on it is for Diesel. You may share the single malt scotch.”

I tried to smile to please her, I really did, but gave it up. I felt close to tears most of the time, and anyway my face, like every other part of my body, hurt. And there was much to be done.