Most times, my works are compensated with hard cash or wired. But ever so often some genius would try to pay me with his watch, his wife's jewelry, or throw in some 'bonus' that are too hot for them to handle. In another type of instance, sometimes things just happen to..... fall in my hand during a job, intentionally or unintentionally.
Vera calls them possessions obtained by unorthodox means, or stolen for short. I prefer collaterals.
Half the times when I ought to find Javier he's either taking the longest nap in history or about to close. Knowing the old bastard he's probably doing that on purpose.
Despite so, he's the first to come to mind when I need collaterals off my hands quick. Second used guns the luthier would spit on, antiques without a proper testimonial, even cars with leftover skags in every seam and corner. As long as you can prove its value, Javier's got a way to close a deal and profit out of it.
Four maybe five months since the last visit, I'd guess the business is pretty fucking good lately. Judging from the place's even denser than before. The old man got a habit of throwing the most valuable stuff around his shop, to the point no one's certain what they would found in this place except him.
Viaja Tórtola is a hallway pathed by exotic, occult, and eccentric items. At first glance it looks like a cave, you can hardly spot the counter by the east wall, two meters vertical to the front door. Two rows of iron railings above the counter with jars of untraceable coins and a small statue of the three magi pointing at the red neon flex web on the railing, which spells
'Equal value. Quid pro quo.'
Behind the counter hang a set of 5 single-edged, curved Bolos from Philippines that's been hanging there for as long as I can remember. Ask me, I'd say even Javier himself forgot those are for sale.
Across the counter are locked wooden cabinets by the wall, inside sit alligator leather strap watches, plain-looking stainless steel models that stop production since decades ago...and baseball cards, lots of them.
Victorian nightstands of all heights lined up together to a long table in the middle with sapphires the size of sand by the lamps and gold twined bracelets or chokers hanging by the handles or draping down the edge onto another platform.
Here, items glint a dullness in the poor lighting and worse surroundings. Most of the things here ain't much different from the ones in gold trim window shops of vía Martinase, except a much lower market price and a richer, more twisted history behind it.
Sure, you can find hexagon watches and blood diamonds shroud in fine twine in bulletproof glass boxes closer to the counter.
But the real stuff are at the back, where the hallway narrows and the poor lights are incapable of fully illuminating by design. Old lamps from customers that failed to come back in 30 days lit a dotted trail across the dark, like late night highway. Pay close enough tension, you'll find a hint of red dot at the end of the hallway. That would be the fourth camera.
Dusty vinyl in cardboard boxes, 2 decades old yellow pulp readings in open drawers, and a strap on that were found in the Palace of Versailles during the pillaging of the French Revolution according to his words.
Of which I remain skeptical and uninterested in finding the truth.
The further you dig in viaja tórtola, the more it reshapes itself into an antique. Less lighting, fewer security measures and far less predictable.
I once questioned the lack of locks and cases at the back. To it, he responded with a hum and bantered.
"If someone could sorts out what's what back there, he can have it."
***
"So." Javier squeeze through a suspended swinging door between glass display counters and a speaker at the height of his waist. "What you got for me kid?" A leak of interest and a chunk of resignation coated his tone as he walked right through the bead curtain under the collection of knives.
I take a gander at the thousand-pound steel gate behind me and shut the sliding. Walking up to the counter, I set the violin case on the counter with caution not to knock the ashtray with tens of short bamboo color filters sticking on top of each other like a freshly dug mass grave.
"Overdue heart attack." I jokingly raise my voice towards the back. Uncle throws a baseball bat across the room behind curtain, and a rummage of metallic objects explodes on the left.
"No me hagas ilusiones." He mutters before a high note squeak-like ballon being hugged tight rings in the back as the contour of him crouches down and pulls an object under the folding bed out. "Anything else?" Javier sneers as he walks through the bead drape with a hand in pocket and the other holding a blue barbecue lighter.
Might as well.
"There's also a dagger..."
"Uh-huh." Uncle drag a crushed paper pack with the label of a pair of praying hands holding red and gold medals between their fingers on its packaging. Brown teethes biting down on the last unbent bidi in that wrap of shattered tobaccos and leafs. Pulling it, few scraps fell down the floor.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
"Made of quartz." Javier tilted his brow bring the igniter up and purse his lips, extending the unfiltered roll of nicotine to catch the shaky blue flame.
"A sketchy-looking guy sold me earlier today, made all kinds of big talk about it." Opening the case, I carefully extract the Victorian wooden box secured where the center bout should be. "Said it was from some historical assassin in Tudor...."
"It's fake."
Puffing, no. Blowing an unbearable amount of undiluted nicotine with the stench of Liquorice. A burning rainforest probably smells something like this.
I'm not going to lie about me being a self discipline individual with a healthy lifestyle and no affliction with substances. But, the shit he had been smoking throws me back twelve years ago, when I first puffed a half burnt cig by the dumpster, dropped by some suit and was yet to extinguish.
"Don't be so sure mate...." I suffocate the urge to cough and wave off the gray smoke clinging to my jacket. "You haven't seen it yet." Placing the box next to the case, between me and Javier.
He takes a glance at the carved wooden box and leans the smoke on the rim of the ashtray. Dragging the revolving stool by the swinging door that was used as a doorstop over with his left leg, and sat right on top of the cracked leather. He thumps the box with his knuckle a couple of times before pressing the right palm against its side, fingertips slowly traces through the vine patterns.
Tío proceeds to prob the eight corners of the wooden box with extreme caution and sharpness and tranquility that disagrees with him entirely.
For a spell, the old man is at peace with the world and himself, the slatted grey of his eyes resembles the clouds in a faraway sky.
"599." He plainly states as he place the box where it was. "Best deal you can get without a certificate."
"You think it's a dupe?"
"No. No one would give the time of day to dupe this. The bend corners and hideous rose patterns are real, hijo de puta who sold you waxed it. Now the woods are damaged and since it's carved, no one can run any carbonate tests to prove how old it really is. And without a prove no experts would vouch for its Authenticity."
Uncle pick up the smoke and brings it back between his teeth. Leaning back he applauds sarcastically upon my dull expression. "So congratulations! You bought a pretty little box, that can't even hold four packs of smoke."
I lean upon the counter, ignoring the disgusting smell from cigarette smokes in his mouth and the impulse to ask for the luthier's number from Ivan. As usual, I put on a smile without a care for a damn what others say.
"Ain't that tragic, but I'm more interested in your opinion on what's inside." I inferred and unbuckle the box, pushing it back to the edge of the table in front of Uncle Javier, who rolled his eyes as he chew on the cig making it shake off the ashes at the tip.
"Quartz, you said?" I shrug.
"Said what was told." Two more seconds went by as Uncle sat unmoved before he shake his head, kick the wall, and let the momentum push the stool back to the counter.
He pulled what looks like five of those hotel magnifying mirrors stacked together with a pole connected to hinges under the counter. Javier adjusted a scroll by its side locking it in place on top of the box, facing the transparent blade.
Pulling a switch by the mirror, a faint yellow light ignites after few glimpses. Javier rotates the round frame of the magnifying mirror for half a turn, and the light steadily becomes lucent till the yellow turns to white, shedding a spotlight on the dagger in the dimly lit pawn shop. A ceremonial sense surrounds us.
He frowns at the black cloth I wrap around the handle and with a hand at its tip, another by the end of the handle.
He hold the piece like it's a lost artifact, finger traces along the sharp tip, the old man squeezes the edge with his index and thumb before positioning the flat of blade at my face. The face of him distorted through the view.
"Not bad......not too bad..."
He murmurs as he graze by the carvings of roses that spread like a needle penetrated the piece leaving it shattered. The things is already extremely thin but until now, under the position lights, I realize how deep the carvings are despite the fact.
Uncle goes through the hilt, the spine and the seam where the hilt should be. And finally, about five maybe seven minutes later. He put the dagger back in the box and turned the frame of the light to dampen the brightness back to warm yellow.
"It's a beauty, and it's quartz alright. The temperature and the touch confirms it. Carvings were done back a very long while ago, look here." He points at the tip of the blade, where a thin line of vine pattern extends till. "The pattern used to be like a blood groove to balance the bulky end."
"As for if it's something from England hundreds of years ago.... possibly. But it's also possible it was customized by experienced smiths for some rich cult leader to sacrifice virgins. Heard there was a group close to the West Indies bout a century ago, the priests among those locos carry Cristal daggers for show." Shutting the box and buttoning the lock, Uncle slides it back to me.
"Ain't all sunshine but that's good enough for me, thanks."
"So you're not trying to sell it?"
"Not in the short term." Tabbing the wooden box on the counter, I dart my eyes at Uncle who's got an arm pressing on the counter while the other reaches for his almost out bidis. A hint of his brow raised before he turned his sight to the smoke in hand.
"Took a liking?" I teased but uncle gave nothing but a thoughtful hum back. "......Or you got something else to add?"
The color of dirtied egg white swirls into a darker color as his muscles by the edge of his left cheek twitched, dragging the wrinkles on his face to a stopping point. Noticing my change of tone and expression, he waves it off and shakes his head.
"Nothing it's....... this and that said and through, you just pile them on top of that 'unanswered questions' as midnight food for thought, right?" Kicking the chair back, stool's wheels made a squeaky complain and reluctantly take uncle to the ashtray by the edge of counter.
A dampness forms in the air, adding weight to the environment. I lock the wooden box back where the center bout bridge should be and strap the belts back on. With my hands on the floral pattern drumming a broken rhythm on it.
Oh, what the hell.
"..... Right, what is it? You ain't the one to talk like a shitty poem." I take two steps left and lean on the counter with uncle on the other side finishing what's left of his smoke.
"Just an itch under the cojones ." Turning his head languidly, he blow off the last breath of that unbearable cigarette.
That famous death sentence again.
He uses that cojones line no less than the times he promises to quit gambling. The difference being the latter is the equivalent of saying I pay taxes on time, while the first got some fuck up cosmic power behind that whenever he utters it, the matter in discussion turns to deep shit.
"Is it something you can point your fingers at or you're being a prophet now?" Uncle pulls out the wrinkle pack of smoke wrapped in hemp rope before he realizes the rest are spilled.
"Just feel like I've seen it before. The knife." He exhales a long breath and throw the pack by the ashtray, scraps of stiff tobacco scattered a small circle by the rim of it.