It was one in the morning. I’d been up all night bidding on an eBay item, watching the minutes tick off to the end, and then it simply disappeared from auction. My last bid ended at $16,550, but it still had not hit the reserve price. I decided this item was mine in no uncertain terms, so I sent a quick email to the seller. “What is the price?” was simple enough to get to the point.
The next morning his reply sat in my inbox. “$18,000 firm,” it read. “Where can I see it?” I replied. I was not thrilled at the location, but agreed to meet him that night. It felt as perilous as a drug deal and that rather appealed to my risky side. I could feel the adrenaline rising as I prepared for the journey into one of the worst neighborhoods in Los Angeles.
Carefully lining a briefcase full of $100 bills, I counted to eighteen grand and rested a loaded 38 mm pistol atop the stack and closed the lid. I am not new to these kinds of deals and take nothing for granted as safe or sure. I am also determined not to be parted from my money without my consent and have no resistance to using the unpopular, but necessary option.
This was July, so the sun was still high, to my relief, as the hour grew near. As I pulled off the freeway, an older community of pawnshops, Carcineros, auto repairs, and street vendors in refrigerated carts unfolded. The 1950s stucco homes tightly embraced the main street. His street was only a few blocks from the freeway off ramp on the right. This would make for an easy escape.
The street that once was lined with trees now held only vehicles tightly packed on either side. Brown lawns and gated driveways lay before grated windowed houses. One wonders who is afraid of whom here.
I pull into the exposed four feet of driveway and call him from my cell. He has positioned the prize outside and within the gates as tempting bait. I am instantly hooked and quickly lose objective procedures of deciding after the examination of authenticity.
