Chapter 5
A few minutes later, Hank's Pawn was swarming with girls searching high and low for their favorite celebrity. Meanwhile, a very different looking Conrad Birdie slipped out the front door, unnoticed. Once back outside, he paused for a moment to adjust his lengthy blue jeans and red flannel shirt, careful not to let even the tiniest bit of gold from the outfit they covered show through. Then, pulling the battered cowboy hat down to hide his eyes, he continued on his way.
No one gave Conrad a second glance as he meandered down the sidewalk in his disguise. He was especially amused, if not a little disappointed, when the mob of girls that had been chasing him walked past without a word. If only they knew. He continued on down the street for about an hour, not really doing anything in particular, before he finally decided to head back to the hotel. After all, the whole purpose of getting out had been to relax and get away from Mr. Bergman, and, while he'd managed to succeed in the latter, he certainly hadn't found the outing overly relaxing. No, it was more like pandemonium; a pandemonium which was quickly overcome by the overwhelming sense of boredom that was now driving him back to Mr. Bergman. As he turned to head back, he quietly whistled a tune by The Rolling Stones. They were right, satisfaction was a thing not easily grasped.
When Conrad opened the door to his hotel suite, he was surprised to see Mr. Bergman reclined in an overstuffed chair, reading the paper, and enjoying a hot cup of coffee and some shortbread cookies. He seemed unusually calm considering the angry send off he'd given Conrad only a couple of hours earlier.
"Bergman?" Conrad slowly walked over to where his manager was seated.
Mr. Bergman didn't look up. "Hmm?" The answer was more of a grunt than a question.
"Uh, well man, I'm back now, so what am I s'posed to wear to this concert tonight?" Man, I hope it's not the gold suit.
"What kind of a question is that?" Mr. Bergman set his newspaper aside as he sat upright in the chair and turned to face Conrad. "You'll wear the same thing you always-" The rotund manager gasped, his eyes blinking in disbelief at the spectacle before him. "What the heck are you wearing?"
"What does it look like, man?" Conrad smiled smugly. Conrad tried to stay cool. He was the celebrity after all, why should he worry?
Mr. Bergman's eyes looked like they were going to pop right out of his head, "Don't get smart! You're not a country singer; you're a rock and roll star! Now, where are your clothes?"
Oh great...there he goes! Conrad raised an eyebrow, trying hard to hide his nervousness, "Man, what kind of a question is that?" Conrad rolled his eyes, "I'm obviously wearin' my clothes."
"Cute, real cute!" Sweat was beading on the scarlet forehead of the exasperated manager, "Don't play Mr. Innocent with me Birdie! You know what I mean. Where's your gold suit and custom belt?"
"Oh, uh, those clothes..." Maybe he won't notice that the buckle's missing.
"Well? Where'd you leave them?" Mr. Bergman leaned forward in his chair.
"Why does it matter so much? They're my clothes!" Maybe if he thinks I've lost the whole outfit, he won't ask me to wear it and he'll never know about the buckle...Just maybe...
Mr. Bergman stood and jabbed a pudgy finger into Conrad's chest, "And until your contract run's out, you belong to me! So, I'll ask you one more time, where's the gold suit?"
"Alright, alright. Chill out man." Conrad began hastily unbuttoning the flannel shirt, revealing the shimmery golden material of the suit in question. "See, I have it right here. No big deal."
Michael Bergman lowered his hand and sighed in relief at the sight of the familiar gold material, "Why didn't you just tell me that to begin with? What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?"
Conrad stole a glance at the buttery shortbread cookies on the table beside the chair in which Mr. Bergman had been sitting. He doesn't need me to give him a heart attack. He can manage that by himself.
"Well, then I assume you are still wearing your belt buckle too under that hillbilly getup."
Conrad didn't answer, he didn't even move, but something in his eyes must have betrayed him.
"Oh no, don't tell me you don't have the belt buckle."
Why does he have to make such a big deal out of everything? "Forget it man, it's just a buckle." Conrad tried to act nonchalant, but he knew that the belt buckle meant more than that. It was fourteen karat gold; custom made and very valuable.
"That's where you're wrong, Conrad. Those clothes, and that buckle in particular, are a major part of your image! Without that image, you're a nobody! A worthless, pathetic, useless-"
Conrad didn't want to hear how Mr. Bergman might finish that statement, "Okay, alright man! It's over there...That place across the street." He pointed out the window on the far wall.
Mr. Bergman rushed to the window as quickly as his legs would carry him. When he saw the sign reading "Hank's Pawn," he was furious. "Oh, no, you didn't... "He turned to face Conrad, "You pawned that belt buckle didn't you?"
Conrad averted his gaze, suddenly finding an interest in the appearance of his shoes. "Well, not exactly..."
"How much did you get for it? What did you do with the money? Now I know you spend money like it's going out of style, but what kind of debt could you possibly have that would cause you to-"
"No. Uh, there's no debt. No money either, I just sorta traded it."
Mr. Bergman's face wrinkled in confusion, "Well what the heck did you trade it-" He paused, looking at the flannel shirt, blue jeans, and battered hat, "Listen, I don't know why you traded 14 karat gold for some lousy hand me downs, and quite frankly, I don't have time for your explanations, but I have one thing to say to you; Get over to that shop and 'trade' back, right NOW!"