Most of it was undeliverable. Dropped in the Arcane night box by an anonymous donor, marked for pickup at the office and never claimed, or the destination wouldn’t accept. Clay said they would always contact the client where possible, but sometimes the sender had moved on, or refused to take an item back.
Once a year or so Clay would have a few customers in to scan the collection and take what they wanted. But over twenty-six years, they had collected a lot of junk.
Kara said the charms were in the glass cabinet. The ‘safe’ stuff was laid out on a green felt mat. The rest was housed in a jewelry box with a lock.
After a few moments of perusing, I selected a coin. It was bigger than a quarter, more the size of a Canadian toonie. One face read “Republica de Colombia — Lazaretto — 1921.” The other said “5 °Centavos”. It was cool to the touch, but not unpleasant.
Just to be safe, I went back to check with Kara.
“This one OK?”
Kara reached for the coin, then smiled.
“That one has a neat history.”
“Columbian? Some drug lord own it?”
“No.” She chuckled and shook her head, one eyebrow raised. Aparently I had a unique view of the world. “It’s a leper colony coin.”
“What?”
“I did some research on it when we couldn’t locate the owner. I guess a bunch of countries confined people with leprosy in the 1920s and 30s, to avoid spreading the disease. They were so concerned they printed special money for the colonies, so that they wouldn’t enter general circulation. A lot of collectors wouldn’t handle them for years afterwards.”
“Hm. Cool.”
“Yeah. Not for the people in the colonies, though. Professor Irving says the coin itself is not worth much nowadays. I guess there’s still a fair number around. But there are apparently stories about a witch doctor who blessed coins for family members confined to one of the colonies, and he thinks this might be one of them.”
Sol Irving was a professor at the University of Toronto, and a long-time friend of Clay’s. They tended to call on him once every few months, for help with some of the more difficult deliveries.
“A witch doctor, huh?” I chuckled. Weirder and weirder. “Thanks.”
I dropped the coin into my pocket and it slapped against my thigh with a solid thump. I wasn’t convinced it was magic. But lucky? I believed in luck. How else could anyone explain Ted’s occasional success with women?
The first solo ride of my career started with a pick-up. Old World Treasures, a curio shoppe in Oakville.
The ride west wasn’t bad. Tuesday morning was a good day for a drive out of the city. The eastbound lanes were already packed, cars lined up back-to-back as far as the eye could see. What a waste of humanity, all that waiting. Clay had the radio tuned to an all-news network, to monitor the highways. I left it, feeling a bit odd about tampering with things with Clay in the hospital.
OWT, as it was referred to in the pick-up description on my handheld, took up half of a Century home just east of the oldest part of town. Parking was shared with a Tim Hortons donut shop and an English pub. Fortunately, it was still early enough that I didn’t have to battle with caffeine-starved commuters loading up for the drive in to Toronto.
A sleek black cat rested on his haunches beside the door to the shop. I inched up the stairs, trying to avoid spurring the feline into moving across my path. I’m not superstitious by nature, but there’s no point in being reckless.
The cat watched me warily as I mounted the stairs. When I leaned down to scrub behind its ears, though, a rumbling purr resulted.
The door in front of me jingled, and a hand reached out, sliding a metal bowl of water in front of the cat.
“Oh! Hey — sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
When I’d seen the name Old World Treasures, I had expected an older bookish fellow. Sixties, hair mostly gone. Or an accountant-type. Short sleeve white dress shirt, pocket protector, blue tie and a pair of loafers.
Instead, I found myself staring at a tattooed tough guy, receding hairline pulled back in a ponytail.
He pulled the door wide and glanced down at the company logo on my polo shirt.
“Arcane? “
“That’s right. I’m Donnie. Donnie Elder.”
I held out my hand, and it was engulfed in a mitt with fingers the size of pork sausages. The man could crush me in an instant.
“Nice to meet you. C’mon in.”
Pasquale DeMarco preferred to be called Pask. And despite his appearance, he was a pleasant enough fellow. He gave me a quick tour of the store without even being asked. Antique maps and shipping documents behind glass, old globes, compasses, a pair of harpoons mounted on a wall, several sturdy banded chests. The place belonged at the end of a weathered wooden pier, open to the ocean wind.
Pask’s delivery was a three day ride. Deliver within the week. I watched as the big man took a white item from one of the cabinets at the back of the room, then placed it gently in a felt-lined box.
“Serpent’s tooth. Worn on a necklace or chain it can help treat malaria and certain fevers.”
“Serpent. You mean like a snake?” I eyed the item skeptically. It looked like an oversized golf tee.
Pask raised an eyebrow at me, then returned to his wrapping.
“You a skeptic?”
“Skeptic?” I eyed the man’s thick forearms. “No. Call me agnostic.”
The big man nodded and continued packing the very large white tooth. It was engraved with the image of a naval cannon, the detailing remarkable. The base of the tooth was capped in silver, carved in a swirl as though it was a cyclone rising from the sea.
“Well, I used to feel the same way.” He closed the lid, and began to wrap the box in bubble wrap. “Then my wife and I decided to sail the world, just the two of us.”
The bubble wrap was taped shut, then stuffed into a small carton, then a thick envelope, address marked on the front. Pask taped the envelope shut, then handed it over to me so I could confirm the label against the delivery information on my handheld.
“A few months sailing on the open sea, just two of you and the night — you see a lot of things you can’t explain.”
“I’ll bet.” I figured they probably got a little tired of singing ‘Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum’, too.
“So you’re helping Clay out with the business, are you?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure you know, but Clay had a heart attack yesterday.”
“Really?” He seemed genuinely concerned.
I recounted the story of the mugging, Pask perched
on a feeble-looking stool.
“Unbelievable. Madness, really.” I eyed the stool, convinced it would explode into splinters. “You know, this is a very small community, and Clay is well-liked. Whose delivery was it?”
I paused, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the question.
“I can’t say. Confidentiality.”
“Oh, of course!” The big man blushed, and I realized he had been asking out of concern, rather than any malicious intent.
“It was one of our regulars, though. Clay was surprised. I guess he’s never had anything like this happen before.”
“No? Well, that makes sense. Clay’s always been seen as… I guess neutral is the best word, though that’s not quite right. I mean, people aren’t on sides per se, but he’s managed to stay out of the petty squabbles. Kind of a trusted intermediary. For someone to go after you guys — I’d be surprised if BOA doesn’t look into it.”
BOA? I had a vague memory of Clay mentioning the name. Might be worthwhile following up with him, to get a better feel for the politics of the occult world. Were there parties? Leaders? God forbid, elections?