Infinity Catch

It caught his eye at the swap meet, stainless steel glimmering under dusty sunlight. Here was a place anyone could go to get anything off their hands; all of it was trash, of course, but some of it was closer to treasure than the other scraps. A lot of the items there had been swiped by gypsies, and they converged at the market in hopes of making profit on others' property.

"How much?" the boy--he was hardly worthy of being called a man--asked, rifling through his wallet for loose change. "Does it even work?"

Of course, the boy owned a full-functioning compact camera, which fit inside his pocket. This rather intriguing item was not close to pocket-size, and it was long ago made obsolete by the compact--but that didn't stop him from looking it over very carefully. It was, he supposed, an antique.

"Ten pounds, but I can't tell you yea or nay." This man didn't seem like the typical salesman, not at this market, anyway; he was clean-shaven and neatly dressed. In other words, he didn't look so much like a gypsy.

The boy furrowed his brow, stole another glance at the object, then returned his attention to the salesman. "Then I'll give you five for it."

"You're joking, kid," he sighed. "I have to make a living."

"If it doesn't work, then I'm paying for scrap metal," the boy argued. He became quite animated during confrontations, and had already begun to speak more with his hands than his voice. "Look at it--that is a sorry specimen."

"Sorry or not, metal's going for a fair amount these days. You don't have to use it as a camera, you know. The mines are just about wiped out. I'm giving you a deal on that thing, even if it is just for the steel," the salesman replied. "Ten pounds."

"If I'm going to spend a week's worth of work on something, I want to be certain my purchase functions as expressed by its manufacturer. Good day to you, sir." The boy, quite flustered, turned his back to the salesman and went on his way.

"Wait!" he called, when his customer was just on the brink of earshot. "Fine! Five pounds! But that's the lowest I'll go--I swear to ya!"

"Oh?" the boy smiled. "Wonderful." He withdrew five pounds--all paper currency--from his wallet, and handed it to his acquaintance. "I hope you don't mind paper."

"Just take it."

"Happy to." Victorious, the young man picked up his trophy, dodging swarms of people on his way back down the street. He simply couldn't wait to show his dear Alexandria.

Whitaker's story was one of remorse; when he came home to the lovely Alexandria with yet another gadget, she was, of course, surprised. But they were quite the inquisitive couple, and naturally, set right to their work.

"What is this, Whitaker?" she questioned as he fiddled with the focus ring. "Where did you find it?"

"At the swap meet," he answered, standing back to look at his prize. "What a wreck! I'll be lucky if the shutter snaps once!"

Alexandria tilted her head, green gaze flitting to the camera and back to Whitaker. "I know it's your money, and not really my business, but how much did you pay for that thing?"

Whitaker hesitated. Five pounds was a reasonable amount of change, but paper currency was somehow worth less than coins. Now in reality, this was not the case, but there was security in gold and silver. "I paid five for it and I have five more to spend. Let's have brunch, Alexandria."

"Ooh, brunch. And flowers at the table?" Alexandria smiled, tilting her head. "Carnations, and it's a deal."

"Why would I give you anything less than carnations, darling? We should go before the lunch rush."

"Let me put on something decent. I'll be right back. Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone," Alexandria warned, smiling that dazzling white smile of hers. She gave Whitaker a kiss on the cheek and hurried to their room, leaving him in heavy silence with only the camera for company.

"Excuse me, excuse me!" came a sudden, desperate cry from the front door. Whitaker turned to face it, startled by this stranger behind the glass. "Open up! This is urgent!"

Whitaker was not the sort of fellow to give into demands; a simple "please" would have changed his first impression of this newcomer, but the man at the door had already left a foul taste in his mouth. So he didn't answer the call.

But the commotion didn't cease.

"Whitaker Blackwood, I know you're in there! You have something of mine!"

Addressing Whitaker by name certainly caught his attention. His cheeks flushed red. He glanced at the camera before warily making his way to the door. When he reached it, he stopped, fingers closed around the handle. Taking a deep breath, he cautiously pulled the door open.

"You have something of mine," said the stranger, before anything else. He forewent a greeting--in his case, an introduction--and cut right to the chase. "I want it back."

"How could I have something of yours? I've never seen you before in my life," Whitaker told the devilishly handsome stranger. "And I am certainly not a thief."

"The gypsies at that swap meet are! Check your back pocket, Blackwood. I can almost guarantee your wallet is missing." The stranger folded his well-muscled arms and nodded to Whitaker. "Go ahead."

With some hesitation, Whitaker put a hand in his pocket. He realized this man was quite correct, and, panicked, patted his jacket pockets as well. "How could you know? Who are you?"

"I'm looking out for you, Whitaker." The stranger reached inside his own pocket and handed the wallet back to a very puzzled Mr. Blackwood. "I need that camera, understand?"

"How do I know you didn't take my wallet, eh?" Whitaker snapped. "What did you do? Did you hunt down the gypsy who stole it, just so you could return it to a man you don't even know? Likely story. Goodbye."

"Mr. Blackwood--"

Whitaker didn't bother listening to whatever this fellow had left to say. He'd already slammed the door the stranger's face and pressed his back to it, heart pounding.

"Who was at the door, Whitaker?" Alexandria asked, appearing in the hallway. "Have they already gone?"

"I don't know who he was, but he's still out there," Whitaker told her quietly. "I think he wanted the camera."

"What's so special about that old thing?"

"I don't know," Whitaker sighed, "But we'd best take it with us. I don't want anyone breaking in while we're away."

They waited a few minutes, just to be certain the stranger had really gone. It was dead silent in the house, save for the sound of Whitaker's uneven breaths.

When he decided enough time had passed, Whitaker picked up the great, heavy thing by its legs and dragged it out the front door. Cautiously, he scanned the yard, but the stranger had left no sign of his presence there. He supposed he could beat the man over the head with his new find, anyway. A good blow to the back of the skull could easily kill someone. Whitaker was afraid to drop it on the sidewalk, for fear of taking a chunk out of the cement. There had to be something more than mirrors beneath the camera's paneling.

Alexandria and Whitaker ate lunch peacefully and without interruption. There were carnations on the table--white--just as Alexandria requested. Cars puttered happily by on the cobbled streets; no one was in a hurry today, for today was Saturday, and no one had anywhere to be. A general feeling of contentment had settled over the city. All memory of the confrontation faded from Whitaker's mind.

Until that evening.

There came a terrible rapping on the window pane and he assumed it was the owl that sometimes appeared in the big oak tree outside. Alexandria left breadcrumbs outside for the mice in hopes of drawing it near, and every once in awhile--the owl was a cheeky thing--it would try to flutter inside the house.

"Alexandria!" he called, laughing, "I think your friend has come back!" He had a newspaper on his lap and read by light of candle as the stars emerged.

One could imagine Whitaker's surprise when he recognized the stranger from earlier peering through the window. He started, practically jumping out of his chair, and dropped the newspaper on the floor. "Alexandria, be a dear and phone the police!"

The man outside gave Whitaker a frosty glare. He staggered backwards and snatched up the candle, eyes fixed on the window. The two men simply held their ground for a few moments, before the stranger, the first to move, withdrew a slip of paper from his coat pocket. He raised it just over his head so Whitaker could see it clearly, then slowly placed it beneath a potted plant on the window sill.

"What was that, Whitaker?" Alexandria called from the other room. "Did you need something?"

The faint sound of swing music drifted into the hallway. He was lucky she heard him at all. "Never mind," Whitaker sighed, as the stranger backed into the shadows. "Something startled me, that's all." And just as quickly as he had appeared, the stranger was gone again.

Whitaker paced the living room, hands quivering. The candle's flame shook and shivered with him, as though aware of his uneasiness. Eventually, his curiosity grew to the point of bursting, and Whitaker rushed outside.

He found the note under the flowerpot, fluttering in the evening breeze. Noticing the flame had nearly been snuffed by it, Whitaker raised a hand to guard his source of light.

Mr. Blackwood,
I only have good intentions, I promise you. If I could steal that camera back, I would. Unfortunately, I am not allowed--actually, that isn't completely correct--I am unable to enter your home. That being said, I will take back what is mine; your will is none of my concern. If you wish to return the item graciously, let's meet at Parliament tomorrow night, 7:15.

Cheers.

Whitaker might have been a little more willing if the stranger had asked nicely, but he was quite unsettled after a man he'd never met addressed him by name. Something about this wasn't right.

Crumpling the note in his free hand, Whitaker heaved a sigh and trudged back inside. He tossed it in the bin as he passed it. There was nothing left to do now but try to sleep, and pay a visit to that salesman in the morning.