2
Instead of Chaquille’s apartment near the university, where Chaquille was studying aerospace engineering—when he wasn’t getting high or helping other people get high—Jem drove to Sugarhouse.
It was one of those cute, walkable communities with lots of niche-y shops, lots of Mormon moms, and lots of places to eat.
Chaquille’s directions took Jem to a strip mall. One of the stores was called Adaptation Comics. Jem parked at the end of the lot. He spotted Chaquille’s van. And then he went inside.
Once or twice, Jem had been inside hobby stores or collectible stores, places that sold comics along with a lot of other stuff, but never anywhere that called itself an actual comics store.
A bell jingled as he opened the door, and the hum of a radio met him as he stepped inside, the music too quiet for him to make out the song.
Display shelves featured comics, of course, but also cardboard cutouts of superheroes, packs of collectible cards, even an autographed skateboard.
The shop’s main area was made up of aisles of bankers boxes filled with more comics.
A twentysomething girl in jackboots, fishnets, and a corset stood near the back, flipping through one of the boxes.
She seemed to have forgotten about the old-fashioned cigarette holder hanging from her free hand.
The air smelled faintly like old paper, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
Chaquille leaned on a display counter near the front, and behind the register sat a man—White, probably in his late thirties or early forties, with dark hair and a beard.
When Chaquille motioned, Jem joined them at the counter.
“What up,” Chaquille said, and then he nodded to the man behind the register. “This is Jim Rockford.”
“Parents were mega fans,” Rockford said with a laugh.
“We’re almost a match,” Jem said. He offered his hand. “Jem.”
“Jim’s got a bit of a situation,” Chaquille said. “I was thinking you might be able to help.”
“Yeah, sure. What’s going on?”
“Uh—” Rockford glanced at Chaquille as though seeking confirmation. “I think I might have been, um, taken advantage of.”
Jem’s eyebrows shot up. “Like, a roofie?”
“No, dumbass,” Chaquille said. To Rockford, he said, “Just tell him what happened.”
Rockford gave a nervous laugh. “Right. Well, a couple of weeks ago, this woman brought in a bunch of comics she wanted to sell. They were definitely vintage, so I was interested, and I took a look.”
“Is that normal?” Jem asked. “People walk in off the street like that?”
“Yeah, sometimes.” Rockford shifted on his stool.
“It’s not that big of a community, so a lot of the time, I know them, or I’ve heard of them.
But sometimes you get someone new, like this lady.
They might have inherited a collection—that’s usually what it is.
And they don’t know what to do with it, but they don’t want to throw it away. ”
“What happens if they’ve got something good?” Jem asked.
“I make them a fair offer. And I make sure they know what they’ve got and why it’s valuable.”
“Okay. So, what happened?”
“She had a copy of Amazing Fantasy fifteen.” And then, like he was explaining something: “It’s the first appearance of Spider-Man.”
Chaquille whistled. At the other end of the store, the girl glanced over before returning to the bins.
“That sounds like it’s worth a lot of money,” Jem said.
“It is,” Rockford said. “This one was mid-grade, hadn’t been restored. But to the right collector, it might be worth close to a quarter of a million dollars.”
“Holy shit.”
Rockford nodded. “The rest of what she brought in didn’t even come close to that one issue.
I told her I was interested in buying the lot, because she wanted to get rid of it; her son had died, she said, and she didn’t know what to do with it.
I made her an offer—a hundred thousand dollars.
I told her she could probably get more if she sold it herself on Heritage Auctions or ComicLink, but she said no, she appreciated that I was being honest with her, and she just wanted to be done with it. ”
Quietly, Chaquille added, “And she said she liked you, right?”
“Well, yeah. She said I’d been so kind, and I was doing her a favor. Which, I wasn’t, really, because I was getting a great deal.”
Jem made a pained face.
“What?” Rockford asked.
But Jem only asked, “Do you normally pay that kind of money for comics?”
A hint of color rose in Rockford’s cheeks.
He shook his head. “But you’ve got to understand, that kind of stuff never comes through here.
I do a pretty good trade in collectibles, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I had a friend come over, and she checked it out, and we both agreed it was authentic.
I had to move some money around, but I got enough together, and I paid the woman, and she left. ”
“And then?” Jem said.
“And then her son walked in here the next week. He wasn’t dead. He said she stole his comics, and he said I was trafficking in illegal goods, and he was going to call the police and sue.”
But even as he said it, Rockford wouldn’t quite meet Jem’s eyes, so Jem asked, “What else?”
Rockford hesitated, his mouth opening and closing. Finally, he said, “He just took it.”
“He took it?”
“He grabbed it and walked off.” Before Jem could ask, Rockford said, “First, he told me he was looking for a specific comic, and he’d heard I had it, and he wanted to see it, so I brought it out—” Rockford broke off.
“I can’t afford to lose the money I spent on acquiring that comic, but what am I going to do?
Sue him? Sue his mom? How much would that cost?
And that’s if I can even find them again.
I tried calling the mom all day yesterday, and the number she gave me is bogus—it’s some family out in West Jordan.
” He rubbed one hand across his mouth. “I’m such an idiot. ”
“You’re not an idiot,” Jem said. “It’s a con, and it’s an old one.”
Rockford’s hand slowed.
“They planned it,” Jem said. “The two of them. They’re working together, and that’s how they wanted it to go. I doubt they’re even mother and son.”
But Jem had to admit, considering his own family, it wasn’t out of the question.
“But—but that’s crazy. Who would do that?”
Jem scratched one eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”
“He can get it back for you,” Chaquille said. “If that’s what you want.”
“How?” Rockford asked, swiveling his gaze from Chaquille to Jem. “Like, legally? Or…”
Jem waited and then said dryly, “Or.”
After considering that for a moment, Rockford said, “But what if they go to the police?”
“They’re not going to go to the police. If the police start digging around, their whole story will come apart.”
“But what if they do?”
Chaquille laughed. “What if they don’t?”
Rockford pushed a pen across the counter. His gaze moved to the girl in the back. In a mumble, he asked, “So, like, how much?”
Jem took half a second. A thousand dollars had a nice, round ring to it.
Before he could open his mouth, though, Chaquille said, “Fifty percent.”
“Fifty percent?” Rockford forgot about the pen. “That’s insane.”
“It’s a finder’s fee.”
“I know, but fifty percent? That’s—that’s half!”
Jem started to say something—he wasn’t sure what—but Chaquille kicked his foot, and he shut his mouth again.
“It’s either fifty percent,” Chaquille said, “or it’s nothing, and you get a lawyer, and you see what you can get that way.”
Rockford scanned the room as though looking for another way out. Then he sagged on the stool. “Fifty percent.”
“Give us a minute,” Chaquille said.
Outside, the January day felt like break-in-case-of-emergency glass. Jem laughed—low, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Fifty percent. Are you insane? That’s fifty thousand dollars.”
“And half of that,” Chaquille said, “is my commission. Get it?”
“Fuck off,” Jem said and laughed again. But when Chaquille started to argue, he sliced a hand through the air and said, “Yeah, yeah.”
“You do this in a day, that’s more than you make in half a year.”
Not quite, but it was pretty damn close.
“Since you’re earning a commission,” Jem said, “any idea where to start on this couple that we don’t have an address or telephone number for?”
In the middle of taking a joint out of his pocket, Chaquille looked up and pointed.
Above them, a security camera looked out on the parking lot.