Don't Check My Pockets

“We will open the bidding,” cried the auctioneer, ”at ten-thousand dollars.”

Sotheby’s Auction House in Beverly Hills. Pollock and Rothko selling for private jets and vacation homes. Tiffany and Cartier selling for luxury cars and yachts. The bargain bin measured in ounces of gold.

And now, finally on the block, the Eye of Cheops.

The auction catalog reads: The Eye of Cheops. Unknown provenance. Unknown origin. Circa 3,500 BC. Stones are turning dark red with age.

A description of omissions. Dark red with age? Not exactly.

“Ten-thousand dollars?” the auctioneer repeats scanning the audience, searching for an uninformed sucker. No such luck.

The Sotheby’s auction crowd. Attired in Oscar de la Renta and Marc Jacobs. Decorated with Gucci and Prada. They sit on their hands. This superstitious crowd whose only life improvement is longevity. They fear the Eye.

Text: ‘I have to work late again tonight,’ my wife says.

She thinks I’m out with the boys.

“The Eye of Cheops is bad juju,” the Christian Dior sweater next to me whispers. “Jayne Mansfield died wearing it. Poor girl ate the back of a semi for her last meal.”

“One-thousand dollars,” the auctioneer drops the ask from ten.

Text: ‘Working late again?’ I ask my wife.

Text: ‘Sorry, you know deadlines…’ she embellishes the lie.

The tracker I installed on her phone shows she’s at his house again. Drinking wine on his back patio. A trip to the bedroom soon to follow. The precision of GPS.

“I don’t like being in the same room with the Eye,” the Armani sport jacket sucks his teeth. “Black Dahlia’s corpse was found with it.”

“Which half of the corpse?” Dior wants clarity.

He shrugs, “Top half?”

“Five-hundred dollars?” the auctioneer drops the ask again.

It’s the fifth time this month my wife is working “late”. Fifth time at his house. Fifth time on the back patio. Last time in his bedroom.

The auction crowd is all library conversations. Nobody fidgets. Fearful an innocent swipe of the nose or scratch of an ear might be confused for a bid. Whispering statues.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears.

“John Lennon had it in his pocket when he was shot,” the satin Burberry dress explains. “A surprise for Yoko of course.”

“Five-hundred dollars?” the auctioneer repeats.

“They all died with it,” the Ralph Lauren pantsuit warns, squeezing her praying palms between her knees. “Peg Entwistle too. On her swan dive off the H.”

“It used to be light pink,” the Chanel sequined jacket mumbles. “But with all that death it’s blood red now.”

“We will literally accept any opening bid,” the auctioneer now begs. ”There is no reserve.”

“Thirty dollars!” I offer, hand flying up.

Gasps.

The crowd spins.

The Christian Dior sweater recoils.

The Armani sport jacket hugs Dior tight.

The Chanel sequined jacket drops her jaw.

“Sold!” the auctioneer shouts. Relieved.

The drive to his house, my car a guided missile homing in on the tracker. My wife’s car parked casually in his driveway; a brazen indifference. My heart races. The door handle on his Mercedes clicks. I pop the trunk and disappear the Eye of Cheops into the spare tire well.

The drive home on total autopilot. I don’t remember a stoplight or stop sign or bend in the road. Not my driveway. Not entering my house. Not taking my shoes off or showering.

Text: ‘Home soon?’ I ask her.

No reply.

The tracker stops moving in the middle of an intersection. Then disconnects. Signal lost.

Red lights mean nothing. Stop signs are invisible. In the time it takes to fry an egg I’m there. Transmission and brakes overheated. The smell of burnt rubber. A potpourri of anxious fumes.

His Mercedes is cracked in half. Green fluid on the ground. Steam from the engine block. T-boned on the passenger side. My wife badged and ended by the grill of an Expedition. Red fluid cascading from her hairline down her gray face. He’s still alive. Spectators keep me from finishing the job.

The twisted trunk wrenched open. An insatiable maw. On the pavement, in the litter of broken glass and plastic and fluids, incriminating evidence. On my knee to fake tie my shoe. The Eye of Cheops is darker now. Redder. Angrier. It won’t slide into my pocket, the sharp edges catch soft lining. Standing, it finally slides in. Hidden. Concealed. Nothing to see, your Honor.

All brake squeals and horns. This middle of a busy intersection. A distracted driver glues my shoes to the pavement and sends the rest of me flying.

Don’t check my pockets.