| The Money Question By Kuzibah |
| Disclaimer: Angel and his world are still not mine. Archive- Sure, but email me and let me know where it�s going. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* Angel and Whistler exited the Bleecker Street St. Vincent de Paul Shop, Angel clad in a maroon shirt and dark suit, the first clothes he had actually purchased in decades, and a pair of decent shoes. Whistler looked him over in the open street and nodded slowly. "I have to say," he said, "you do clean up good." Angel touched his hair self-consciously. He had never worn it this short before, and the hair gel Whistler had suggested to tame its curliness had made it stiff and sharp. Of course, the fact that he had absolutely no way to check his reflection only compounded his concern. "Do you think so?" he said. "Do you think I can 'pass?'" "I'll be honest," Whistler said as they started walking, "you've been out of the game a long time. You can dress like them, but if you spend any time with them, they'll see you're different. Probably chalk it up to a touch of insanity, but...No, there..." He patted Angel on the shoulder, "you'll learn. Don't worry. You'll be fine." "It's been so long," Angel said quietly. "I can forget for a while, but then..." "I get it," Whistler said. "You've got a lot of catching up to do." He stopped in front of an antiques shop, catching Angel by the arm. "One thing I do know, is you're gonna need cash, my friend, and bringing you into the 20th century has almost exhausted my discretionary funds. Here's where immortality starts working for you." They entered the shop. It was dim and cluttered, with several glass cases labeled "Estate Jewelry." An older woman sat behind the counter. "Hey, there," she said as the two entered, "how you doin'? You lookin' to sell today?" "No, my friend here's looking for some jewelry for his girlfriend," Whistler answered. Angel froze in surprise. "She likes that ornate, Victorian-looking stuff, ain't that right, Angel?" Whistler elbowed Angel's arm, and the vampire nodded quickly. "Yeah, that's right," he agreed. "Well, take your time," the woman said. "Yell if you need anything." Whistler pulled Angel to a case near the back. "Alright," he said, his voice low. "You lived through this era, and you lived the good life. Anything here look like the genuine article?" Angel crouched down and peered through the smudged glass. His vampire eyes could immediately see that almost every piece was glass or paste, the settings tin or brass. But one... he recognized the style almost at once. It was a design by Michaud, a French jeweler much favored by Drusilla, in fact. To his sight, the diamonds and opals refracted the light into tiny spectrums and the gold glowed like fire. "That one," he said, pointing. "It's a Michaud." "You sure?" Whistler said. "Positive." "I think we've decided," Whistler called, and the woman came over with the key. "Oh, that's a pretty one," she said. "I'm sure she'll like that." She placed the pendant into Angel's palm. "It's twenty-five dollars. Plus tax, of course." Whistler reached into his jacket and handed her three tens. "Here," she said, taking the jewelry back from Angel. "Let me wrap that up for you." A few minutes later they were walking through the streets again. "Little shops like Amelia's," Whistler said, "they pick up stuff cheap from people who don't know any better. And they really don't either. Always two or three pieces floating around that they have no idea is valuable because it came in a box with a bunch of junk. Mostly jewelry, occasionally a porcelain piece or decorative object. The kind of thing you probably owned dozens of in your day." They turned onto a more fashionable street, with stylish boutiques and trendy restaurants. "The people selling them in the first place," Whistler went on, "they're happy to get the few bucks. The shop owner sells it at a three, four hundred percent profit, so they're happy. We pick it up for a song, fence it for twenty times what we paid for it. Personally, I'm ecstatic. And the guy we're selling it to? Chances are he's shafting us on account of we look so shady. So everybody's happy." They walked into a marble fronted shop, an antique jewelry dealer with only a few cases and pieces displayed on black velvet and lit by small spotlights. Two men in dark suits looked up as Whistler and Angel entered, and Whistler approached one. "I've recently purchased a Michaud pendant," he said in a serious, hushed voice, "and I was looking for a buyer." The jeweler removed a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and examined the piece closely. "I can offer you five hundred," he said. Whistler cleared his throat. "I'm told it's worth at least nine hundred," he said. After a few minutes of "discussion," the jeweler paid Whistler six hundred and fifty dollars. "You have to haggle a little," Whistler explained to Angel as they left the shop. "If you seem too desperate, they'll think it's stolen. That's not a rep you want." He sighed heavily and led Angel up the avenue. "Enough errands for tonight," he said. "I need to teach you a few more things. Let's go." Angel followed, a gnawing suspicion in his stomach. As they got close to the demon's apartment, he finally voiced it. "What's the money for, Whistler?" "How do you think we're going to get to Los Angeles," Whistler replied, "our good looks? Although in your case, I'll admit, it's not entirely outside the realm..." "Los Angeles?" Angel gasped, "I can't..." "You can," Whistler said sternly. "We're not taking no, here.� Angel�s shoulders slumped resignedly. Maybe this demon was telling the truth. Or some kind of truth. At any rate, he had already helped Angel, and maybe he was owed something for that, at least. �Anyway,� Whistler went on, �I�ve had my eye on this Chevy Impala. Trust me, Angel, those things are freakin� tanks. And the best part. Enormous amounts of trunk space�� Main Menu ~ Return to Stand Alone Menu |