The Weasel’s Play
Weasel and the big man talked for a while. Weasel was all smiles and easy conversation, but I could see the wheels turning behind those shifty eyes. He was trying to figure out the right angle, a way to get a hook in. He finally settled on a line that was as old as the hills.
“You know,” Weasel said, his voice a low purr. “That’s a hell of a piece of jewelry. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Brutus took a slow sip of his beer and nodded. “Picked it up in a place nobody’s ever heard of. A little rock of a town on the other side of the world. It was a trade.”
Act One
Weasel’s eyes flickered. This was his chance. “Would you… consider selling it? For the right price, of course.”
Brutus laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the small space. “Son, I’m a traveler, not a salesman. It’s not for sale. But… a man can always use a little more walking-around money, can’t he? If you could put a proper sum of cash in my hand, I suppose I could be convinced.”
I watched Weasel’s face. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. He knew he had a live one on the line. He excused himself, his nervous energy a stark contrast to Brutus’s easy calm. He went to the payphone, and made a quick call. He wasn’t talking, just listening. He ended the call, and stood by the door, waiting, his eyes darting back and forth between Brutus, who was still rambling about his travels, and the parking lot.
Act Two
Weasel’s back straightened as he saw what he was waiting for, the shimmering silver limo of Lenny Bent the fence.
