Los Angeles, nine hours later, the parking lot of Circus Baby's, July of whenever the hell, two years before Giorno suspiciously watched a truck rattle down the alley.
"If I may have a word?" The voice slithered out of the heat of Los Angeles like silken rope. There was a faint accent to it, British, no, Japanese?
Barry Ogden, "B.O." to his friends, a permanently disheveled short, stocky man well past fifty in bright green sneakers, a loud Hawaiian shirt and worn plaid slacks, turned, to face a tall man, dark hair a black halo against the noonday sun. Squinting, he could make out an impeccably tailored suit and dark glasses, but little more.
"Whaddya want?" B.O. squinted harder. There was a shadowy dazzle to his accoster, like dark spots against the sun. B.O. reached into his hip pocket for his cell phone. Nutcases generally weren't that well-dressed, but it never hurt to be ready to call the cops. It could be a drug dealer, or some religious nut by that black suit. But don't those types usually travel in pairs?
"I believe that you've recently acquired a collection of unique items of considerable size and value?" it was more a statement of fact than a query.
"What's it to you? Bought 'em on auction, fair and square. The entire national chain is up for liquidation – stupid bitch drove it into the ground!"
For some reason, B.O. stopped sweating. He added, "U-ugly things - all but fallin' apart. Stank like Hell. I'll make back three times what I paid for the gold in the motherboards alone!"
"I. See." His accoster purred. "Sooooo, what did you pay, this amazing price?"
Marvin froze, blinked, and then pulled out the damp, sweaty receipt, and handed it to the stranger while nervously stepping back, stumbling slightly on the curb behind him.
Face blank, the stranger studied the invoice through impossibly dark glasses, nodding thoughtfully. He returned the receipt to B.O., who noticed that it was now a dry, pale brown, as if it had been set alight and then quickly blown out before it could be completely consumed.
B.O. stared up at the stranger, wrinkling his broad, deeply creased forehead as fragments of receipt danced around the two men in the slow, hot breeze of L.A..
"What would you say, if…" The stranger drawled, displaying teeth that belonged in the mouth of a shark, "...my employer were to offer you the anticipated salvage amount, plus original bid, plus a ten percent increase in small, used bills?"
B.O., a businessman despite his lousy dress sense, opened his mouth.
And closed it.
And opened it.
And closed it.
Finally, stained dentures rattling, B.O. squeaked, "I'd say we had a deal… sir?"
"Excellent."
The stranger turned and began to walk away, impeccable snakeskin boots striking sharp on the hot pavement. His voice trailed back to B.O. who was suddenly drenched in cold sweat, "A delivery truck will arrive at the loading dock in the back in exactly…" the stranger pulled out a large, old fashioned gold watch and studying it, "Fifteen minutes. And then you will list your windfall on your taxes at the end of the year as a loss because you will have forgotten all about this transaction. Do we have a deal?"
"Yes." B.O. whispered, reeling in the unreality of this encounter. The stranger snapped the watch shut, sliding it back into his jacket pocket, a pocket so exactly tailored that it didn't ruin the line of the suit whatsoever.
"Yes?" the stranger gave a small, sharp smile.
"…sir?" B.O. gasped, realizing that he was working on a doozy of a migraine headache.
Funny thing was, at the age of 62, this was the first one he'd ever had in his life.
And that he'd wet his pants...