Bull markets always attracted the least trustworthy people. Dragon markets were routinely expensive but reliable. Bear markets were cheap but required a keen eye to spot good value. Carp markets, being clearance markets, were the best but also the most rare. Bull markets were the most common and, therefore, the least savory.
Lauk wasn’t after anything in particular. He had been advised, before wading into the abandoned lot surrounded on all sides by empty warehouses, to come without an agenda. Buyers with an agenda needed something, and the sellers at Bull markets could smell that need like sharks tracking blood in the water. Lauk wanted something good for cheap. This was the only safe way to shop at these things.
He walked past stall after stall of nonsense. Drones that could pause time, weasels trained to pick any kind of lock, disguises that were impenetrable. None of it was worth more than the change in his pocket. Lauk, like Bull markets sellers, knew a sucker when he saw one. He also knew the worthwhile on those rare occasions it crept near.
“Illusions! High-end illusions here! The best of kind of diversion is a fake distraction, the best kind of theft is one that never happened. We have all the tools you need to turn the eye of the unsuspectin’ away from their prize possession.”
Normally, sellers were men. So Lauk was immediately intrigued when he heard the time-honored tradition of shouting out rhymed marketing materials coming from the mouth of a woman. Without hurry, he worked his way through the crowds toward her stall. It sat at the end of a row, and it came complete with a demonstration.
A young man, shirtless, stood to the side of her open-air booth. He had a few long, thin sticks pierced through his face. With a deft touch, he extracted one stick from his ear lobe and eased it through his top lip. He removed his hand, letting the stick hang from his mouth and grinned devilishly.
“You there!” the woman called, seeing Lauk’s interest. “You look a practiced sort. Need a few diversion pieces for your next job?”
“Job?” Lauk said, sarcasm dripping from his mouth. “I’m a painter. What use would I have for these tools?”
The woman laughed, deep and fake. “You’re a painter on the same day I’m a priest. You here to buy something or to taunt an honest businesswoman?”
“You’re an honest businesswoman on the same day I’m a painter,” Lauk said with a grin. He turned and began to walk away.
“Hang on, love. What’s your poison?” she said, hurrying after him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Burglary? The art of the con? A seduction gone wrong, at least for the jewelry closet of the seducee?” She ran a finger down his arm and winked lasciviously. Lauk realized that she might be attractive if she wasn’t a sleazy salesman.
“Honestly, just a painter,” Lauk said. Then he added, “But even painters need to divert attention every now & then.”
“Of course they do, love.” She looped her arm into Lauk’s and motioned her demonstrator closer.
“How does it work?”
“Well you’d need an accomplice, which is to say a second painter on the crew. But the idea is to get everyone looking at the piercing of painter number 1 while painter number 2 attends to the business at hand.” She made a motion to her henchman.
With a flourish, the shirtless man began to pop sticks straight out from his face. Were they real sticks actually pierced through his face, they would have torn the flesh to shreds. As it was, they came clear with nary a mark left behind. In moments, the man stood with half a dozen sticks clutched in his right hand and a face devoid of any ancillary holes.
“Not a charm, is it?” Lauk asked. Amateurs at these markets didn’t know the difference between charms, enchantments, incantations and old-world magicks. This bit of showmanship was very much done with a charm, which was much cheaper than its brethren. He wanted to know how the seller might react.
“Hardly. Pure enchantment, this,” she answered. Lauk laughed and shook his head.
“And I was so close.” He slipped free of her grasp and nodded his thanks.
“Ok, ok, let’s be reasonable,” the woman said, and the lilting saleswoman affectation slid off. “You can’t blame a girl for trying to turn a profit.”
“I won’t,” Lauk answered. “If you won’t blame a guy for price shopping.”
“No need for that. What’s it worth to you?”
“It looks like eastern work. You get it done locally or imported?” Lauk dropped the innocent act to match her own turn toward hammering out a legitimate deal.
“Yeah, old guy from Mumbai. Came over with his son a few months ago. Making me a fortune. He’s first-rate, and that’s not a pitch.” She thumbed her nose to show she wasn’t lying.
“Comes as a pack?”
“However many you want, I have.”
“I can see the value. I could see myself going home with six for twenty-five.”
She tutted and pursed her lips. “You must mean pieces, because dollars isn’t even close.”
“You want pieces, I could do twelve. No more.”
“Can’t do it,” she said and shrugged.
“Twelve isn’t an unfair offer,” Lauk defended. “I don’t know you. This isn’t like buying a shirt from a chain store. I don’t know the quality I’m getting.”
“Well I appreciate the insult to my professionalism,” she answered. “But I told you the old guy’s running the charms. Cost me almost two each for me. Maybe you’re better off down another aisle.”
She blew a big kiss toward Lauk and instructed her demonstrator to get back to it. Lauk laughed and dug into his pocket. He pulled out a bag, tugged it open and pulled out eighteen tiny bars. They appeared to be made out of a plain grey stone polished to a high sheen.
He dropped them onto the stall table. They clinked like a brief, unimpressive rainstorm. The saleswoman turned and gave a quick count.
“I can do that for five,” she said, scooping the pieces up into her palm.
“Eighteen bars and a promise to come back to you if these work as well as you claim.” Lauk tapped his nose, mirroring her earlier motion. “But that’s for six.”
“They’ll work just how I claim.”
“You can only hope that’s true,” Lauk said without menace. But it was a clear message nonetheless.
For a moment, the woman appraised him with an eyebrow raised. She deftly maneuvered the small bars through his fingers, then tapped one on the stall table. Lauk held her gaze the whole time.
“You’ve got a deal,” she said, pushing six of the illusion sticks toward him. “And when that next coat of paint goes on just right, you can come back and make an honest businesswoman out of me.” She winked and just like that turned her saleswoman shtick back on.
“Illusion sticks and moving tricks, here’s hoping that necklace won’t soon be missed!”
Lauk tucked the six-pack into his jacket’s inner pocket. He nodded to the demonstrator who, once again, had a face full of pretend piercings. The young man nodded back, gingerly, careful not to let the illusion break for the next potential buyer.
Bull markets were full of the untrustworthy. Lauk made a mental note to tell his CO to check all of the recent immigrant records from the subcontinent and Middle East. There was no value in taking down the saleswoman, but the old charmer would be a valuable asset to the force.
Alas. There really wasn’t anyone an honest criminal could trust at these things.
The Tall Tale Year 