Chance by Kem Nunn Page A

“What happened?”
    Carl waved it off. “A minor mishap,” he said. “I’ll be right as rain in no time at all.” He went on before Chance could say more. “I was pleased to see you brought your pieces in. I’ve already spoken to two buyers who may be interested.”
    Interested in what, Chance wondered, copies or originals? Were the buyers in question private parties or dealers? Perhaps he should inquire. But then he had brought the stuff in. A course had been charted, and looking about him there in the alley, he felt himself, for what must have been the first time in a life noteworthy for its adherenceto convention, a partner in crime. There followed a momentary, unaccountable elation and he looked once more to his co-conspirators, the one the size of Texas just now making gurgling noises with his straw as he sucked down the last of an enormous Diet Coke, the other rail thin in a plaid sharkskin jacket, head wrapped in gauze—desperadoes beneath the eaves.
    “You’re done out here,” Carl said, interrupting his reverie, “come inside. I need you to fill out a couple of papers.”
    “Papers?” Chance asked. He was not sure he cared for the sound of it.
    “We’ll want to document the pieces,” Carl told him. “We’ll want your signature.”
    The idea of actually attaching his signature to something was sufficient to stifle his momentary elation. Signing papers evoked the specter of attorneys and courts of law, the stuff of life, as opposed to fantasy. D chose this moment to repeat the gurgling sound with his straw. My God, Chance thought suddenly, what have I done? Surely this was the very kind of poor judgment his father had so often warned of. The deal would sour. It was so written. He would be found out. Additional lawsuits would be added to those in which he was already mired. His life would turn to shit.
    “You youngsters keep right on talking,” Carl said. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.” He turned unsteadily in the doorway. Chance watched as he walked away, leaning heavily on the cane. “The hell happened?” he asked of D, not quite able to mask his own sense of desperation.
    “Kid took him off.”
    “That kid I saw in here? Leather pants and pointed boots?”
    “I guess.”
    “There’s more than one?”
    D laughed. “The old man has a weakness, I guess you could say, but yeah, it was probably that one you saw, flavor of the fucking month. Kid wanted money. Carl said no. Kid came in here with two of his pals, beat him up pretty good and stole some shit.”
    “Christ.” Chance seated himself once more on the step. “What didthey take?” He supposed he was imagining how it would have been had his furniture been here a week earlier, and how it might be if they came back wanting more.
    “Couple of antique chairs, some money was in that desk up front . . .”
    “Did he go to the police?”
    “He came to me. What pisses me off, I wasn’t here when they came around but I guess that’s how they planned it. Little prick knew his routine. Knew mine too, I suppose. You gotta watch it with that shit.”
    “What shit would that be?” Chance asked. “I’m not sure I follow.”
    D just looked at him. “Having a routine, ” he said. “Same place, same time every day? Like walking around with a fucking target on your back.”
    D was, Chance thought, beginning to sound uncomfortably like certain of his patients, the ones with delusional paranoia. He kept the observation to himself and nodded, as if to confirm the position’s fundamental soundness.
    D waved toward the building at his back. “Stuff’s all back in there, is what I was about to say.”
    “The stuff that was stolen?”
    D nodded.
    “You got it back?”
    “That and then some.”
    Chance waited.
    “I needed to make it worth my while.”
    Chance shook his head, imagining what that might mean. “You make it sound easy,” he said.
    “Pretty easy.”
    “They weren’t armed? They didn’t want to fight you for