Faust

Food for late night thoughts

Most times, my works are compensated with hard cash or transfer. But ever so often some fucker would try to pay me with his watch, his wife's jewelry, or throw in some 'bonus' that are too hot for them to handle. In another type of instance, sometimes things just happen to..... fall in my hand during a job, intentionally or unintentionally.

Vera calls them possessions obtained by unorthodox means, or stolen for short. I prefer collaterals.

Half the times when I ought to find Javier he's either taking the longest nap in history or about to close. Knowing the old bastard he's probably doing that on purpose. Despite all that, he's the first I think of when I have to get collaterals off my hands quick. Second used guns the luthier would spit on, antiques without a proper testimonial, even cars with meth scraps in every seam and corner. As long as you can prove its value, Javier's got a way to close a deal and profit out of it. (Yet he still refuses to take the record player in my living room)

Four maybe five months since the last visit, I'd guess the business is pretty fucking good lately. Judging from the place's even denser than before. The old man got a habit of throwing the most valuable stuff around his shop, to the point no one's certain what they would found in this place. Though he's always able to find them when a potential buyer is at the counter.

Viaja Tórtola is a hallway pathed by exotic, occult, and eccentric objects. At first glance it looks like a cave, you can hardly spot the counter by the east wall, two meters vertical to the front door. Two rows of iron railings above the counter with jars of untraceable coins and a small statue of the three magi pointing at the red neon flex web on the railing which spells
'Equal value. Quid pro quo.'

Behind the counter hang a set of 5 single-edged, curved Bolos from Philippines that's been hanging there for as long as I can remember. Ask me, I'd say even Javier himself forgot those are for sale.

Across the counter are locked wooden cabinets by the wall, inside sit alligator leather strap watches, plain-looking stainless steel models that stop production since decades ago...and baseball cards, lots of them.

Victorian nightstands of all heights lined up together to a long table in the middle with sapphires the size of sand by the lamps and gold twined bracelets or chokers hanging by the handles or draping down the edge onto another platform.

Here, items glint a dullness in the poor lighting and worse surroundings. Most of the things here ain't much different from the ones in gold trim window shops of vía Martinase, except a much lower market price and a richer, more twisted history behind it.

Sure, you can find hexagon watches and blood diamonds shroud in fine twine in bulletproof glass boxes closer to the counter.

But the real stuff are at the back, where the hallway narrows and the poor LED lights are incapable of fully illuminating by design. Old lamps from customers that failed to come back in 30 days lit a dotted trail across the dark, like late night highway. Pay close enough tension, you'll find a hint of red light at the end of the hallway. That would be the fourth camera. (and the furthest I've counted)

Dusty vinyl in cardboard boxes, 2 decades old yellow pulp readings in open drawers, and a strap on that were found in the Palace of Versailles during the pillaging of the French Revolution according to his words. (Of which I remain skeptical and uninterested in finding the truth)

The further you dig in viaja tórtola, the more it reshapes itself into an antique. Less lighting, fewer security measures and far less predictable.

I once questioned the lack of locks and cases at the back. To it, he responded with a hum and bantered. "If someone could sorts out what's what back there, he can have it!"
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