Los Angeles · Colorado Avenue · Flea Market Stall No. 47
November 16, 2023 · 9:17 a.m.
Bob was late today.
He pushed through the crowd with a brown paper document envelope clutched to his chest, sweat shining on his forehead. The 1923 Patek Philippe bounced inside his shirt pocket, its chain nearly slipping out.
"Little Eli! Little Eli! Guess what I've got!"
Eli was polishing a brass table lamp with a piece of chamois leather.
Not the one from the workshop—the one he'd dug out of a junk pile that morning.
A 1912 Tiffany lamp.
The base had a chipped ceramic edge. The vendor had asked for thirty-five dollars.
Eli had glanced at the mist and paid without hesitation.
The mist said: Refurbished in 1929. Original lampshade. Estimated value: $2,700.
Bob slapped the envelope onto the counter.
On the kraft paper surface was stamped a gold-embossed crest—
a magnifying glass piercing a diamond lattice.
Eli's fingers paused.
The Blackwood family emblem.
No—he looked closer. The design was the same, but a ring of thorns surrounded it.
Another family'se variation.
Van der Meer.
"Who brought this?" Eli asked.
"An old guy in a gray coat. Waited at the alley entrance and told me to give it to you." Bob rubbed his hands nervously. "He said… he said it's an invitation from the Nine Crowns."
Eli did not open it.
He set the envelope at the corner of the stall and continued wiping the Tiffany lamp. Dust from 1929 curled into tiny gray threads beneath the cloth.
Bob waited three minutes.
"…You're not opening it?"
"No rush."
"The Nine Crowns! People in the antique circle say they're the top diamond families in the world! Don't you want to know why they're looking for you?"
"I do."
Eli reattached the lampshade and tightened the screws.
"But I want them to wait."
At ten o'clock, Elizabeth Rockwell arrived.
No Chanel suit today. She wore an ivory cashmere coat, her hair loose, no sunglasses.
Bob was drinking water when he saw her. He choked immediately.
"Cough—cough—!"
Elizabeth didn't look at him. She stopped in front of the stall and studied the Tiffany lamp in Eli's hands.
"1912?"
"Yes."
"Original shade?"
"Yes."
"How much did you pay?"
"Thirty-five."
She was silent for two seconds.
"Thirty-five dollars?"
"Yes."
"…What's it worth now?"
Eli turned the lamp so the chipped mark at the base faced her.
"Twenty-seven hundred. Three thousand five hundred after restoration."
Elizabeth said nothing. She took out a check and placed it on the counter.
"Thirty million a year. Be my chief gemstone consultant."
Bob's eyes nearly fell out of his skull.
Eli kept polishing the lamp. He didn't look at the check.
"No."
"Equity."
"No."
"What do you want?"
He stopped wiping and raised his head to look at her.
"You haven't lost enough yet."
Elizabeth froze for a second.
Then she laughed.
Not a polite smile. Not a social reflex.
A laugh that came from hearing something truly new.
"Fine," she said. "I'll come again tomorrow."
She put the check back into her bag and turned away. Her heels struck the concrete in an unhurried rhythm—like a calm declaration.
Only when she disappeared into the alley did Bob finally exhale.
"Thirty million!! You turned down thirty million!!"
Eli packed the Tiffany lamp into a cardboard box.
"She'll come again tomorrow."
"How do you know?!"
He didn't answer.
At two in the afternoon, the Nine Crowns invitation remained unopened.
Eli slid it into the bottom drawer beneath the 1923 Patek Philippe. Bob had gone out to eat. Stall 47 was empty.
Eli took out the cigar box.
Opened it.
Six velvet slots. Five still empty.
Shard I had been gone for two days.
He could still see the mist. Still hear the information whispering in his mind.
But the cut on his palm had healed completely.
As if the shard had never existed.
Where had it gone?
He closed the box and slipped it back into his pocket.
At three o'clock, a middle-aged man in a gray coat appeared.
"Mr. Elias Blackwood?"
Eli kept polishing a silver coin.
"Secretary Office of the Nine Crowns. Mr. Van der Meer sent me to deliver the invitation."
Eli set the coin down.
"I received it."
"…You haven't opened it?"
"I've read it."
The secretary froze. "When did you—"
"Nine seventeen this morning. When Bob placed it here."
He wasn't lying.
He hadn't opened it—but he had seen it.
Paper thickness: four millimeters. Letter folded twice. Gold text in the center.
The mist delivered the information faster than a blink:
Nine Crowns Annual Auction · Antwerp · Dec 1–7, 2023
Special Appraisal Consultant: Elias Blackwood
Sender: Viktor Van der Meer
The secretary was silent for three seconds.
"Mr. Van der Meer said if you attend, the Nine Crowns will provide a private jet, hotel suite, and—"
"No need."
The words jammed in the man's throat.
Eli took the Tiffany lamp from the box and placed it at the center of the stall. With a marker, he wrote four numbers on the price tag:
$3,200
"I'll attend the auction."
He adjusted the angle of the lampshade without looking at the secretary.
"But not because he invited me."
"…Then why?"
Eli straightened the lamp. The milky glass glowed softly in the afternoon light.
"Because I'm going to take back what belongs to me."
The secretary stood frozen.
He had delivered invitations for twenty-three years.
He had never met a recipient like this.
The letter unopened. The price unnegotiated. The conditions unheard.
Yet the man said he would come.
Like a master telling a servant: I'll be home for dinner.
After the secretary left, Bob returned with his lunch box.
"Holy hell, when did you get this lamp?! The base is original!"
"This morning. Thirty-five."
"Thirty-five?!" Bob nearly dropped his food. "You marked it three thousand two hundred?! Who would buy—"
"It's sold."
Bob fell silent.
"…Who?"
Eli nodded toward the alley.
Bob followed his gaze and saw only the gray raincoat disappearing into the afternoon light.
"…He bought it?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Three thousand two hundred."
Bob stared.
"You priced it three thousand two hundred."
"He paid three thousand two hundred."
"You didn't bargain?"
"Neither did he."
Bob squatted behind the stall, lunch forgotten.
"Little Eli… what the hell are you really?"
At six in the evening, Eli closed the stall.
He took the kraft envelope from the drawer and placed it into his toolbox beside the cigar box.
Bob was wiping the display case. The Patek Philippe hung around his neck on a new silver chain.
"This watch is worth $120,000. I can't just take it," Bob had said.
Eli hadn't refused.
"Little Eli," Bob said without turning around.
"You'll go?"
"Yes."
"…Is it dangerous?"
Eli didn't answer.
He slung the toolbox over his shoulder and walked into the back alley. The streetlights came on, stretching his shadow long across the concrete.
Bob shouted after him:
"Then come back alive!"
Eli didn't turn around.
"Not before I return your watch."
Late night. Workshop.
Eli turned on the 1927 brass lamp. Green glass light fell over his grandfather's workbench.
He placed the cigar box in the center and opened it.
Six empty slots.
He set the unopened envelope beside it.
He didn't touch it.
He only looked at it.
"Grandfather," he said softly.
"On March 14, 1972… when you signed that agreement at the Van der Meer estate… did you imagine today?"
The lamp glowed in silence.
"Did you think I would go?"
The solder mark from 1952 was nearly invisible now.
Eli closed the cigar box and slipped it into his pocket.
"I will go."
"And take back what is yours."
He turned off the lamp.
The workshop sank into darkness.
Outside, Los Angeles slept as usual.
But he knew—
from this moment on, nothing would ever be the same again.
End of Chapter 2
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Chapter 3 · Underground Gem Market · Blue Diamond
Elizabeth appears for the third time. Eli sweeps the gambling floor.
"Third stone on the left. Buy it."
A 23-carat fancy pink diamond. Worth $23 million.
Only he can see it.
And she begins to believe—
some people don't gamble with luck.