Oliver couldn’t believe how smoothly the thing had gone. He hadn’t held this much cash in his hands in years. He’d forgotten the rush of carrying around that kind of money. Its dizzying potential.
He’d gotten to the bar across from the alley an hour early and snagged the front booth facing the window, a perfect view. By the time the sleek Audi turned in and parked, he had a nice buzz going. He watched Guidry leave the car with a bag, return without it a moment later, and steer up the street. Oliver finished his drink, paid his tab, and ambled across to the mouth of the alley. There, on the ground behind an unused Dumpster, was the canvas bag. He scooped it up and circled the block to his car.
He counted the money once, then again. Ten thousand, in hundreds, exactly like he’d instructed. He wanted to spend it immediately. He took the freeway out to Metairie and parked in front of Causeway Coin. The place looked like a dump from the outside, but they had a reputation for being fair. Inside Oliver went straight to the counter of luxury watches.
They had plenty of vintage Rolexes and Patek Philippes, but Oliver was immediately drawn to a Vacheron Constantin Patrimony with a platinum case, taupe face, and black alligator band. It was superb. Oliver could never have afforded it new, but pre-owned, it was a possibility. They had it listed at $11,500, but Oliver talked them down. They were persuaded by the bag of cash. He handed it over and watched the owner fuss over the watch, polishing its perfectly polished face, fitting it into a gift box, polishing it again. Oliver ached to have his hands on it, he had to restrain himself from reaching across the counter and grabbing it from the guy. Finally the man handed him the box and he was out of there, driving, the watch tucked in his lap.
When he got to John’s store it was nearly five, but John was stuck with a customer. Oliver waited, the box in his hand. The customer was one of those smooth-haired older ladies weighed down with chunks of jewelry. She was giving John a lecture on silver marks, as though John didn’t know all about them. He was patient, even with these arrogant clients, people with fragile egos and money to spend. He’d imitate the worst ones over dinner with impressions so accurate he could make Oliver weep with laughter.
Finally they finished up. The lady left without buying anything.
“How do you not strangle them?” Oliver said.
John smiled. “She’ll be back. She’s going to buy the Swedish armoire.”
“The painted one?” The armoire would bring twenty grand at least, and selling it would free up valuable space in the shop. It had been there four years already.
“She has taste, at least,” John said.
“Hey, I got you something,” Oliver said, as though he’d forgotten and just remembered.
“Please say it’s candy, I’m starving.”
“Sorry. It’s not candy. Here.”
Oliver handed John the box and held his breath while John opened it. He was half-afraid the box would be empty, the watch still back in Metairie, the stacks of cash a figment of his imagination. But there it was, the gleaming Vacheron Constantin, sleek and elegant.
“Oh my god,” John said. “Oliver, are you serious?”
“Like it?” Oliver said.
“It’s the Patrimony,” he said. “Manual wind?”
Oliver nodded.
John took it out of the box and turned it over. “It’s gorgeous. The weight of it. My god. Transparent caseback. Look.”
“Let me help you put it on.”
Oliver stepped in close, took the watch from John, and buckled it around his wrist. The leather offset the platinum buckle exquisitely. John held his arm out, turning it this way and that, admiring.
“Jesus,” Oliver said. “That is one sexy watch. It’s perfect on you.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off John, Oliver’s gift strapped to his wrist. Nervous energy roved through him. He touched John, bewitched by the image of his own hand on John’s tanned forearm, the platinum case flashing. He tightened his grip, a new feeling of ownership building. It was after five, past closing time. Oliver went to the door, bolted it, and flipped the CLOSED sign out, then returned to John, who watched with interest, taking surreptitious glances at the watch on his wrist. They’d never fucked in the store before but Oliver wanted to now. He rarely thought of himself as John’s equal, but the gift gave him a new sense that anything was possible.
Later, they went to Red’s Chinese for dinner and sat at the bar.
“But how could you afford it?” John asked.
“You worry too much. I got a little bonus.”
“It’s too much,” John said.
“Hey, don’t flatter yourself, dude. It’s pre-owned.”
John laughed. “I love it.”
“Good. Me, too. Listen, I’ve been thinking about something. You know I haven’t taken a vacation in like two years. We could go out of town. She owes me some days off.”
“What about that weekend at False River?” John said.
“Ah, yes. The wondrous False River.” It was a joke between them, a god-awful two days at John’s friends’ lake cabin. On the inside their place resembled a suburban condo, outfitted with cast-off furniture that was still nicer than anything Oliver could afford for his apartment. The lake was peaceful, he guessed, but it smelled like fish guts and there was nothing else around besides a Walmart.
“Let’s take a week. Go to the Caymans,” John said. “Or Hawaii. Or New York.”
“New York,” Oliver said. “I’m into that idea.”
“I haven’t been to New York in, what? Five years? Can you really get away?”
“Now that Ava is here, I feel better leaving Lane. She won’t be on her own.”
“Good. She’s a grown woman, you know. She managed to survive without you for decades.”
“I know, I know. And the kid will help out.”
Oliver deserved a break from both of them. He was worn out by Ava’s sadness, it was starting to affect his mood. She’d lost her mother, sure, but it was a drag to be around someone so morose. Who wasn’t fucking sad? Life was shitty for everyone, and Oliver was no babysitter, no therapist. They’d be okay on their own for a week.