The Stranger

“But you can’t fire me--you can’t!”

Mr. Butterman avoided eye contact and shuffled the papers on his large mahogany desk. His second in command, Joanna Brecht stood behind him like a statue, guarding her master.

“You’re done here, Wendell. I told you I needed 3.4 mill for that last stone and it only sold for 2.1”. The color from Wendell’s round face drained and Mr. Butterman’s voice echoed in his ear.

“But sir! That’s my job, I could get kicked out of the Appraisal Association if I don’t report a flaw!”

“Gather your things and leave the premises immediately or I will call the police.” Mr. Butterman said ambivalently as if he was completing a routine task --- but this was highly unusual.

“You can’t do this to me!” Wendell bellowed.

“Sure I can. I can replace you in five minutes. And ohh-- don’t bother asking for a reference or we’ll tell people you were fired for peeping in the lady’s lavetories”. Joanna Brecht’s eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. She thought her master was laying it on too thick, but she kept it to herself to address later.

There was a cold fire hardening in Wendell’s chest--he was fired--But he had done everything right. He spent fifteen years with Leucadia Diamond Company, at the same desk, examining the color, cut, carat and clarity and of gemstones day in and day out. Though the company bought gorgeous stones from a handful of suppliers, Wendell believed that the tiny worlds inside made their way to him, mapping their orbits around him and cluing him into the joke with a wink.

Out of the corner of the marbled room, two giant men in black suits and ear pieces appeared, and grabbed Wendell by the shoulders and escorted him out of the room.

Though Leucadia Diamonds had an elegant showroom of high ceilings, marble pillars and crystal chandeliers, Wendell’s desk was in a windowless barred alcove at the top of the vault. He sat there alone most days, in dim light with a coffee stained tie and big eyes.

Today he was there with a broken heart and a box. The two guards watched him closely as he emptied his desk of cleaning tools, scale and his black notebook.

Wendell Young was not an interesting man. At dinner parties his most fun anecdote was about the time a horse kicked him in the groin. He liked to wear khakis because the pleats were crisp. He revered Buster Keaton for his showmanship. He had gotten this job through his cousin Gabe but he really it was never his passion. He dreamed of a life on a beach somewhere, but he didn’t think there was a world in which he could do something like that.

One guard touched his ear, held it there a moment and made eye contact with the bearded guard and nodded. The bearded guard changed his weight and threw his fat ass into the desk, knocking a jar of pens to the ground, scattering around Wendell like a halo.

Wendell, still in half shock, slumped over to pick it all up. As he was down on his knees reaching for the last pen under the desk, the bearded guard came behind and slipped a glimmering diamond the size of a cherry into Wendell’s sport coat. Wendell couldn’t feel such a slight change under the weight that had already taken residency on his shoulders.

-- -- -- --

“Sire, that was a bit theatrical for our purpose here today,” Joanna Brecht said without glancing away from her computer. She was typing out instructions in an encrypted code.

“I know, won’t you forgive me? I must say with where we are today, I just couldn’t resist playing into my role. You know I was in a community theatre production of Annie?” Mr. Butterman said as he twirled in his chair.

“You’ve mentioned it. Sire, Gustav is on the move. The mark is headed into Chinatown, to his favorite bar, no doubt.”

“Good, keep Wendell in our sights. Make sure when Gregor plants the evidence, it’s not too obvious. We need the FBI to actually believe Wendell could be a somewhat clever jewel thief”.

“That’s a challenging task sir, have you seen him?” Joanna retorted.

“Goddammit you’re right. His mug today said, ‘Garfield hates Mondays’. It was atrocious.” Mr. Butterman sneered.

“Luckily for his sake, he will be dead by this time tomorrow. And the FBI will believe it was a deal gone bad.”

“Indeed. Okay-- it’s almost five o’clock time to alert the authorities”

-- -- -- --

Wendell had dumped his box in a random alley. The devastation had taken hold of his motor functions, he limped and stumbled toward the small comfort of his favorite pub on H street. As he neared it, he noticed the lanterns in the window were dark and there wasn’t the customary glare of karaoke songs echoing in and out as people came and left.

“Awe, NO NO NO!” Wendell shot out. Everything was falling to pieces. He couldn’t even get his meager Tom Collins from the one place he didn’t feel so alone.

In this state, everything was so cerebral to Wendell. The lights were brighter, traffic sounded harsher. But there was something pleasant there. The warm smell of baked goods crossed his path. Without a thought, he followed it. Only somewhat conscious of the fruit markets he passed he didn’t notice when the trail took him down an alley unknown.

He walked beside dumpsters and trash. A car screeched loudly behind him, and shocked him into turning around. The car had stalled but then drove away in a cloud of exhaust. When Wendell turned around, from out of nowhere several young people emerged and began funnelling into a black door. As people passed the threshold, a rich emerald light was cast onto their faces and into the gutter water by Wendell’s feet.

He entered and observed the crowd was a lot younger and hipper than he was. They all wore black dark makeup and the music was angry but he didn’t care---he could smell alcohol.

As Wendell bumbled his way to the bar, he noticed another man closer to his age sitting there. This man had a very unique face. His profile was anchored by roman nose with tanned skin that was a bit leathery where his mustache ended on his cheek. His dark shoulder length hair was covered by a light yellow panama hat and a pinstripe suit. He looked out of place yet completely comfortable by his surroundings.

Wendell was in awe. This man looked so familiar but he couldn’t place him. He figured he would remember someone so distinctive. The man stared ahead and sipped a cocktail that matched his hat.

“Quite a lively bunch, aren’t they?” the man spoke. Wendell realized he had been staring rather rudely.

“Yes, they must like this kind of music,” Wendell replied.

“Aye, it’s good to let aggression out.” The man said deliberately.

“I hear that, speaking of--- I need a drink.”

The man turned, “Since we’re the only distinguished gentlemen of a certain era, let me buy you a drink.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he gestured towards the barkeep, “Two Tom Collins”.

Wendell was aghast, “How did you know that’s my drink?”

“I didn’t, it’s my favorite drink as well.” The barkeep sets down two classes with cherries peeking out the top.

“I think we’ll get along,” smiled Wendell, “Chin, chin!”

-- -- -- --

“Sire, Gustav has lost him. He was trailing the target and went around back of the karaoke bar he likes, to avert suspicion. But the bar was closed---and by the time he made it to the front, Mr. Young was gone.”

“He can’t be far! Get Gregor over there now! There must be some sad hot dog stand he must've found. Check every bar, restaurant in a four block radius that he must’ve wandered into Hurry you morons!

-- -- -- --

Wendell sat over the bar, sloppily peering up at the man in the panama hat, eyeing him as if he were a stone. “You know I never even wanted that job, I always wanted to open a little cantina somewhere in Central America--but I never got the chance.”

“You know Mr. Young, many things appear to be out of someone’s reach, until the extend their hand and grasp for it." Spoke the man with no inclination he was three tom's deep. Wendell slammed his glass and swerved off his bar stool landing splat on the sticky floor. He clammered up, and swiped his hands through his hair. "I'm okay" But then fell flat on his face.

Just then Gregor ducked his thick head into the bar, peering over the youngsters and examining all the faces. The stranger draped his coat over Wendells head and took a step and shielded his body and he laid a small deck of cash on the bar. Wendell couldn't feel a thing and he liked it that way.

A gust of wind woke him. He lay there on a boat with nothing but ocean ahead and a cherry in his jacket.