Snake in the Grass

     In the Warehouse district, a small antique shop opened up for the night. Odd, admittedly, for an antique store to be open only after sunset, but one of the things about Freak Central is that nocturnal activity is not restricted to sex and alcohol.

     As the "Open" sign was flipped into the window, the heavy green velvet curtain was pulled aside by a slim white hand. A man, fair of face and form, peered out at the darkened street. He was very tall and quite slender, with black hair that glinted red in the lamplight. Eyes of a deep grey were narrow as he leaned out into the picture window, tilting his head back and forth to watch the lack of activity on the pavement. Smoothing his slate blue jacket, he shifts back and lets the drape fall closed.

     Within this antique store are a handful of glass cases, all with track lighting illuminating a few select pieces of French porcelain, a beautiful silver tea service, and a stained painting of a lovely chestnut horse. While these pieces are attractive, the real draw seems to be in the decoration of the store itself. Heavy Turkish rugs hang off of wall rollers, and the small gilded chairs sitting beside a pair of black papier mache sewing tables appear to be 17th Century French. A lovely bronze goddess rests on a pedestal in the back of the main show room, with a small tarnished lamp beside her. The cream colored walls and heavy plum carpet give the room a feeling of hushed awe, and the soft Bach playing from a hidden sound system lull visitors into complacent silence. As he walked around the showroom, adjusting the lay of a rug and shifting a Chinese vase, Ishmael Relver mentally counted the number of appointments he had for the night. Considering it was a very specialized antique store, open only from nine in the evening to three in the morning, there were a surprising number of appointments to view pieces, get his expert appraisal of a client’s pieces, and his own side business. Licking his lower lip, Ishmael glanced through a heavy brown ledger, the gold tip of his fountain pen winking in the lamplight as he checked off different shipments and made payment notes beside a few names underlined in red.

     Once a successful dealer in London, he had never quite shed that elegant accent, and indeed, strove to maintain it. He found that having a British accent seemed to reassure clients that he was very educated, and when dealing with professors from Brandenburg’s University of Virginia, it helped him to make his case. Of course, there were always other ways of making the same case. His smile as he considered his first appointment was rather frightening. Slow, spreading across his face and revealing brilliantly white, albeit crooked teeth, it lit his eyes with a yellowish glow, giving him a slightly…twisted appearance. He never did his own, personal business here. Heavens no, it never did to muss one’s comfortable nest with…shady dealings. He peered at the name in the ledger, then flipped it shut and headed for the massive vault in the back.

     Miss Claire Reynolds would find him quite able to discuss the business at hand. Ishmael was always, if nothing else, quite prepared for questions.