\/ Conrad Selingren \/
Once, back when he was still a hotshot in juniors hockey, Conrad's billet mother had informed him that if he was going to get into anything weird, he'd better not travel to a secret, secondary location to do it. Mrs. Gainsley had been right about most things in life, and had probably been right about this thing, but that didn't mean Conrad always listened. After all, he still forgot to fold his laundry right when it came out of the dryer sometimes. And he'd gone into accounting instead of computer science, the major she had advised he pick.
So here he was, following Red Shirt and the nice lady and the teenager out of Red Shirt's ostentatious red tesla and down a short, half-story flight of concrete stairs, to a steel door to a basement restaurant simply called 'On Tapas'.
Red Shirt held the door open for them all, and the trio walked into a dimly lit room filled with bar tables and ringed by booths. The walls were dark. The ceiling was an inky void. Navy blue fabric covered every horizontal surface. The only light seemed to come from tiny hanging bulbs that shed barely-noticeable orange cones over each table.
Despite the hour being just a tad early for office lunch, the place was already hopping. Men in clean, white button-ups and sharply-ironed chinos leaned over standing room tables, joking over their phones and laughing. Women in smart-looking business suits smiled wryly at their coworkers. Every plate in view was smaller than Conrad's hands. Though to be fair, he was a bit of a giant.
The hostess led the group in a circuitous path around the restaurant before gesturing to a booth in the farthest corner from the door. The girls piled in, and Conrad tried to squeeze in on the side of the table facing the rest of the room. He always felt better with his back to a wall.
Red Shirt ordered something with a Spanish name, and the nice lady ordered more things on top of that, and the teenager made a covert face of disgust, and Conrad wondered what was so secret about this object they were supposed to get back that they had to meet like this. And then, when the ordering was done and the waitress had left, Red Shirt clasped his hands together and leaned over the table, a smile on his face.
"Well," he started, "I'm very pleased that you all have agreed to this... task."
"No problem dude," Conrad said.
The teenager nodded, looking like she was trying a bit too hard to look professional.
"Yes, well. The two million up front has been deposited into your accounts, as promised. So perhaps you'd all like to get to know each other while we wait for our food to arrive?"
The nice lady quirked an eyebrow. "Well, that has to be a first. You're asking us to tell each other our real names? What is this, your first time?"
Conrad looked to the teenager and together they cringed.
Red Shirt coughed. "Ah, well, no, but my employer wants to build trust on the team."
"Trust or reassurance that we won't betray you?" Dwyn fired back, then smiled pleasantly. "You know what? You're right, we should introduce ourselves! Do you want to go first, Red Shirt? I'm taking a wild guess that that isn't your real name."
"I am under instruction to remain anonymous," Red Shirt said, "and I can assure you three that you all have our deepest confidence and trust. Speaking of which, Miss Dwyn, if you would please give me my wallet back?"
The woman pulled a wallet out of her pocket, an intelligent grin on her face as she handed it over. "So sorry, of course! It fell behind the booth cushion when you sat down and I didn't want you to leave it here accidentally!"
"Of course," Red Shirt replied dryly as he took his wallet back.
The woman turned her smile to the rest of the group. "You can call me Dwyn," she said, "and that's all you really need to know about me."
When she finished, several seconds of silence lapsed as Conrad made awkward eye contact with the teenager to see which one of them would have to go first. He finally he caved. "Uh, well," he tried. "I'm Conrad. My teammates call me Rad sometimes though if you're a nicknames kind of person. I'm helping the University of Chicago out with some pro-bono accounting work right now." He looked to the teenager and tried desperately to communicate that she should step in now. If they let him talk any longer he was going to bring up his hockey stats.
The teenager gulped, probably realizing she was now the only one left and couldn't escape this.
"I'm Luna," she managed, voice almost squeaky.
The whole party looked at each other, sizing one another up in the kind of awkward silence that Conrad usually only experienced when his team played against particularly unsportsman-like opponents, and then the waitress pulled up to their table with a tray of tiny plates.
She unloaded them with frightening efficiency, like a forward taking shot after shot on a goalie, and Conrad's heart sank when he saw the offerings.
One plate had three tiny burgers on it. They were cute, he had to admit, with the fancy toothpicks and well-buttered buns, but he was pretty sure all three would fit in his mouth at the same time. Another plate held a handful of deep-fried dumplings, and another was a miniscule bowl of some rice dish with shrimp and clams in it.
Make no mistake, it all looked good. It was just... tiny. Conrad was usually pretty okay with being twice the size of everyone around him, but being here in his ruined shirt and taking up half a booth seat while he contemplated eating every morsel of food from what was supposed to be a shared set of appetizers, made him feel just a little out of sorts. Delicately, he picked up a burger and tried to take as small a bite as he could.
As everyone dug in, Red Shirt pulled out his phone. "Now that we're all acquainted," he said, "we can get to the real business."
Conrad abandoned his food to pay attention. He had a sandwich at his desk anyway, so Luna and Dwyn could take whatever they wanted here.
Red Shirt tapped a few things on the screen, then placed the phone on the table for everyone to see. "This here," he explained, gesturing at a grainy image of a square of ancient writing, "is one of the artifacts Dedd donated to the University of Chicago in his will."
"You have the money to give us two million upfront each but you can't get a better picture than that?" Dwyn said, then muttered under her breath, "foda-me."
Red Shirt ignored her and continued talking. "My employer, you see, is the rightful owner of this object. It was taken from... them... several decades ago, when Dedd was still a young man. Unfortunately, we were never able to retrieve the object through the legal system, and now that Dedd is, well, dead, we have very little proof of ownership."
"The statute of limitations is probably over," Conrad pointed out. "It legally did belong to Dedd for a while, if it was taken decades ago."
Red Shirt glared. "Regardless of the legal status, the fact remains that it is rightfully the property of my employer. Thus, you have been enlisted to help get it back."
Well, never let it be said that the law could be wrong sometimes. And this was totally up Conrad's alley. Helping someone get their stuff back sounded great!
"So... what is it, exactly? Because I've already told you this picture is--" Dwyn stopped, glancing at the girl before continuing, "...garbage." Her hands reached forward to angle Red Shirt's phone towards her.
Before she could get to it, Red Shirt snatched the phone away and tucked it back into a pocket, on the side away from Dwyn. "It has sentimental value," he said. "And it doesn't matter what it is. You're just meant to get it back."
"Como diabos você espera que nós voltá-lo se--" Dwyn started angrily, then caught herself and smiled, wiping away any tension or displeasure on her face. She said carefully and slowly, "How do you expect us to retrieve it if you won't tell us what it is?"
"You are the professional," Red Shirt said. "Surely you can figure something out."
Conrad picked up a dumpling and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. He hoped they weren't going to split the check on this place.
"Are you going to send us the picture?" Luna asked, as Red Shirt scooped a tiny pile of the rice dish onto his plate. "Just so we can be one-hundred-percent sure we get the right artifact?"
Red Shirt grumbled his assent.
"And where exactly are we supposed to go when we have it?" She continued.
"I will send you coordinates when you confirm you have the object in your possession."
Luna pushed a tiny plate of julienned fries out of her way and pulled out a notebook, removing a pen clipped to its front page and chewing thoughtfully on the end. "Right. Is there anything we need to know about the object before we get to it? Is it fragile? Will fingerprints damage it? Anything?"
Red Shirt sighed, and Conrad emptied the fries into his mouth straight from the plate.
"I will send you whatever other pertinent information comes to mind," the man said. "Just... here's my phone number."
Conrad picked up the plate of dumplings and ate them all too. He raised his hand like a grade schooler and tried not to cringe when Dwyn laughed at him, though she covered it up quickly with a cough. "Uh, I have to get back to work soon. Can we finish this up some other time?"
"I have an idea," Dwyn put in. "We all know this food sucks so let's skip the pleasantries next time and go to a place with actual food."
Clearly at the end of his patience, Red Shirt opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and sighed again. He settled with a firm glare at Dwyn, before redirecting his attention to Conrad. "Fine. Fine. I will take you all back. Just let me know what questions you have by phone. Guess I should leave this to the pros and let you do whatever you're going to do."
Red got the check, and despite being two million dollars richer, Conrad was grateful that he wouldn't have to waste his money on that fancy crap. When they finally all made it back to the university, he stopped the girls and pointed out his car in the lot.
"Look, I'll be off work at 6. We can get burgers or something and talk without that guy on our backs, yeah?"
Luna perked up in interest, and Dwyn's casual smile turned just a little bit terrifying.
"And trust me," Conrad said. "I know the best cheap restaurants in Chicagoland."
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