Be careful what you hunt for...
"He said he hasn’t been overseas, so this shouldn’t be so hard."
Nigel glanced up at his boss and reminded himself that he’d agreed to help. Inside the doughboy’s untidy apartment, they rifled through records that Little hoped would lead them to a "cure". Little was gone for the moment, at least, much to the Englishman’s relief. It did ungodly things to Nigel’s digestive system to see Sydney fawning over their "client", as she now referred to Dick Little.
Suddenly, a new thought emerged. "Sydney, how are you going to justify this to the university?" he asked with a smug grin.
"Karen’s already taken care of it. I mean, we know there’s a relic, right?"
"No," he countered, "We don’t. All we know is that Mr. Little says he’s cursed. Maybe he is, I dunno. Maybe he crossed a voodoo practitioner, or a disgruntled wizard. Perhaps he infuriated some mystical creature we never even heard of. Or maybe he’s just plain nuts!"
She pouted. "You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like Dickie. I allow for some jealousy, but I won’t have you saying negative things about him.."
"I am not jealous of Mr. Little… Dickie!" he shrieked. He slammed his palms onto the desk, setting off a whirlwind of receipts and fast-food wrappers. "I don’t truly even dislike him." Loath him, revile him, despise him. Nope, no dislike on the list.
"Oh, wait. He went to San Francisco a couple of months ago. Here’s his credit card record." Sydney pushed the page into Nigel’s hand, pointing to a line near the bottom.
Sure enough, sandwiched between a long list of charges for 900 numbers, the statement recorded round-trip airline tickets. If the guy’s so good with women, what’s with the high-toll calls? "Isn’t that when he said all of this began?" Nigel asked. In spite of himself, the first bit of tangible evidence intrigued him. "San Francisco... What’s there?" His mind spun through the possibilities. He had to admit, the City by the Bay held more than its share of secrets.
All sorts of secrets.
"Sydney, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco?" The first glimmer of memory sent him back to her bookshelf. Withdrawing a heavy text on China, he performed a quick search through the index. "Aha! The Ai is the Chinese symbol of love. I recognize it. Your 'Dickie' had one of these attached to an ID bracelet, on a small pendant of some sort. If he visited the museum or Chinatown, he might have purchased it there."
"Mmmmm... I like the sound of that," Sydney purred, stretching her limbs.
"The sound of what?"
She giggled, "My Dickie."
Nigel’s midsection lurched in protest.
The further removed from Trinity University, the more Sydney felt like herself. By the time their plane landed in San Francisco, the old Sydney was back in full force.
"I said that?" she asked, appalled. "Please tell me it was under hypnosis. Or that I was drugged. Or held at gunpoint, and and hysterical amnesia blocked out the terror!" If she hadn’t heard the micro-cassette recording, she wouldn’t have believed it. Even with the tape, she wasn’t altogether convinced. Then again, if Nigel was pulling her leg, he was doing a perfect job of hiding it. She buried her face in her hands, shuddering, glad her colleague was driving.
"Not as far as I know. Certainly not at gunpoint, though I hadn’t thought of drugs or hypnosis. But Little didn’t strike me as the sort to deal with any sort of drugs, and if there were hypnosis involved I think someone would have noticed. I think it’s the charm. He said he bought it from a little Chinese grocery in Sausalito." Nigel reached out and touched her shoulder. "Are you all right? Do I need to pull over?"
She was feeling a little queasy and light-headed, but chalked it up to the distressing revelations. "I’m okay. It’s just… so bizarre. What about Karen?"
"She’s as enthralled by our Casanova impostor as you were. I couldn’t even pry her away, since she wanted to be there if ‘Dickie’ came back." He gave her a lopsided smile. "When I grilled her about it, she said the same thing you did, that I was jealous. It was really quite nauseating."
Their rental jeep wove through heavy traffic, undulating over the steep hills of San Francisco. Every once in a while they caught a breathtaking view of the Bay. A brisk wind whipped the water into froth-topped waves. Finally, they pulled onto the Golden Gate Bridge, unable to ignore the crimson swoops and lines of its construction. Its grandeur against a perfect blue sky required admiration, relics be damned. Just beyond the bridge, city gave way to redwood splendor as thick stands of the evergreens speared up from the earth.
Fresh air poured through the windows, its ocean-tinged scent fresh and clean, and Sydney didn’t mind the traffic delays that let them drink in the natural beauty of the region.
"Penny for your thoughts." Nigel prompted. She sensed that he, too, was more at ease now than when they left.
From the time she was a child, she loved traveling the mid- and northern Pacific coast. "My dad used to drive us up the Pacific Coast Highway at least once every summer. I never told anyone, but a little part of me still believes that the natural wonders here cleanse some buried part of my soul. If I come here enough, I feel like it would wash away every fault, every base instinct, every sin. Silly, isn’t it?"
"Not at all. I think it’s rather poetic. I can understand why you love it. You know, I love England, too. I love the home where I grew up. But this..." His eyes flickered between the road and the magnificent forest. "This is magical. I don’t know any other word for it."
This time it was Sydney who reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. "I think magical pretty well sums it up."
The turnoff to Sausalito took them back into the urban world, a world of stairstep homes built with geometric precision over the slopes, and of small shops and boutiques tucked alongside the narrow roads. "Is that it?" he asked, tilting his chin to indicate a small storefront, its weathered shingles brightened by a red sign written both in English and in Chinese.
"That’s it. Let’s hope they can help us, and that they have the antidote."
Nigel’s agreed, "I hope so, too. I don’t think my stomach will take much more of Dickie."
"Oh my God…" Inside the shop, literally thousands of silver charms hung from wires that stretched along the outer walls. Sydney exchanged a glance with Nigel, a wordless communication that said: Hope somebody has a map for these things! They moved down along the far left wall, eyes skimming over small hand-lettered signs that marked off the categories.
Peace. Home. Wealth. Health. Revenge. Strength. Honor... Each framed square identified some intangible facet of life. Sydney couldn’t help wondering who would purchase some of them. She brushed her fingernails through a selection beneath the sign that read, Love. Was it her imagination, or did her fingertips tingle? Then, recalling the extreme effect of the charm on Dick Little, she yanked her fingers back and looked around desperately for a charm for solitude!
"Can I help you?" A tiny middle-aged Asian woman greeted them, smiling broadly. "You looking for something special? We have all sorts of beautiful things. Books on fung shui, lots of charms and potions, lots of luck. You need luck, yes?" Her glossy black hair was rolled into an intricate knot at the back of her head, secured with a set of carved ivory chopsticks. Sydney suspected they were real ivory, very old and very valuable. The shopkeeper wore deep burguundy silk, a flowing tunic and trousers more reminiscent of Chinese style than truly authentic.
Nigel interrupted, "Actually we’re looking for a charm. A love charm, looks like this?" He held out a sketch of the symbol. He held his fingers a short distance apart. "It’s about this big, roughly five millimeters thick."
The light from the front window barely made it past the front register. Further back, paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, delicate paintings on rice paper that framed modern bulbs. The effect was pretty, but not very practical. Near the back wall, it was like working in candlelight. Then again, at the moment, there enough wattage in her assistant’s shy smile to illuminate everything around him.
The Asian woman looked at him askance. "You need a love charm? You don’t look like you need a love charm. Is something wrong with you? We have ginsing and other medicine, will fix you right up!"
Sydney turned away, suddenly focused on a shelf full of jade frogs. She smothered the urge to giggle.
"No, no, there’s nothing wrong with me," Nigel countered with a nervous laugh. "We’re looking something for a friend."
The shopkeeper rolled her eyes and sniffed, "Always for a friend. I tell you, you don’t need that love charm. That’s for the hopeless. You’re not hopeless."
"Thank you," he sighed. Did Sydney detect weariness, or was it something more? "Glad to hear it. It really isn’t for me, though. I give you my word."
"Your girlfriend is no ugly mug, either. Something wrong with her?"
That was Sydney’s clue to step in. "No, nothing wrong with me either. We know someone who purchased one of these industrial strength charms. It does seem to have lived up to its name. He calls it a curse. He said it doesn’t matter whether he wears it or not now. What I’m hoping is that you know a way to counter it. It is becoming a real problem."
"Ah. The doughboy."
"You remember him?" Sydney asked, surprised. It had to be the same person.
"Remember him? You could say that. He pissed me off. He was very annoying. He was driving me nuts. He asked for the maximum charm. I tried to talk him out of it, but the customer is always right. But I wonder, because my husband - who made the charm using authentic ancient Chinese spells –" her quick interjection was pure salesmanship " - was acting very funny. Said he didn’t like that man. Said the doughboy didn’t need a woman, he needed a harem, and wouldn’t know what to do with them when he had them. Very odd thing for him to say."
"Maybe not so odd," Nigel mused. He smiled again at their hostess. "Listen, do you suppose we could speak to your husband?" He was really turning on the charm, Sydney noticed. He could certainly do a number on a woman when he wanted to, despite his occasional fumble in matters of the heart.
The shopkeeper shook her head. "No. I will soon close the store. No more charms. He doesn’t make them any more. No more husband."
Sydney’s face fell. "We’re so sorry for your loss," she said softly.
"What loss? He moved in with his cheap girlfriend. She can have him, the cantankerous old fart. I got the house and the car and the shop, and he got the bills. I sold the shop and am going to Bermuda with my hot young boyrfriend!" The older woman leaned forward and winked at Sydney. "Trust me. Always get a good lawyer!"
Go to Page Three.