The address was right but it struck Wyatt as peculiar. Why would a grocery store request a food delivery to the premises? Sure, the bodega was small but even places such as these had their own delivery systems.
“Hello?” Wyatt called as he opened the door. “Someone call for a delivery?”
The clerk at the counter snorted, “Delivery? What kind of delivery?”
“Oh, it’s me that called,” said a customer lurking in the second aisle. “I’m Sydney Westcott.”
Wyatt shook the man’s hand, taking in his polished appearance. “You’re not my usual client, Mr. Westcott. I assume you’re buying my services for someone else.”
“Not at all. I have my own job for you.” He steered Wyatt towards the door, one eye on the clerk. “Step outside and let me give you the details.”
The pair retired to the sidewalk, just under the awning. Passersby were few and mostly in a hurry. Nevertheless, Sydney lowered his voice as he spoke. “I have an item I need help recovering.”
“You should hire a detective, Mr. Westcott. I don’t do that sort of thing.”
“I need a finer touch. As a lawyer, I work with private detectives all the time and they are not the most subtle people you’d ever want to meet. Plus, my wife can spot one from three blocks away. She grew up in the biz.”
“I’m to deliver something to your house and then spirit the object away?”
“That’s the idea.”
“And you can’t do this yourself?”
“There’s a restraining order.”
Wyatt took in a sharp breath and chewed his lip a moment. “This sounds like a situation I don’t really want to mess with.”
“It’s perfectly legal…in a sense. I mean, it’s technically still my house and I was the one who purchased the item. Fair is fair.”
“You’d pay…”
“Whatever you ask. Name your price. I’m pretty flush with cash and lots of credit cards with high limits. Have at me.”
“One Hundred Thousand.”
“Done. I can do that.”
“I was kidding you on that fee, you know. I can’t take that much money. It would look suspicious.”
“I can find a way to get it to you that won’t raise eyebrows. Believe me. This is what I do.”
“So, what’s this object, then?”
“A bowl. I’ll draw you a picture. It’s an antique bowl from Mexico.”
“Valuable?”
“Just don’t drop it. The thing’s priceless.”
“What is my excuse for getting in? What’s my story?”
“That’s your own job. You’re a creative guy, right?”
Wyatt thought of the half-written novel and all the short stories that had absorbed him between his deliveries. Weren’t they the whole point of taking on this new life? Sydney had a point. It was just another story to tell, his wife just another audience. Wyatt shook Sydney’s hand.
