Seattle Delivery (1)
Jake pulled up in front of the Austin logistics center.
It was 8 a.m. Morning sunlight reflected off the building's glass windows, dazzling in the light.
Even at this early hour, the center was already buzzing. Forklifts rumbled low as they shuttled back and forth, and the sounds of workers dragging and stacking pallets echoed from all directions.
Drag—
He headed to the back of the truck and swung open the container door.
A blast of cold air rushed out. The refrigeration system had run flawlessly overnight.
Checking the control panel, it read 0°F—eighteen below zero Celsius. Perfect.
“Jake!”
Turning around, he saw Manager Devin waving as he approached.
“Right on time. We've got a hefty load today.”
“How much?”
“Beef: 25,000 pounds. Chicken: 15,000 pounds. Refrigerated veggies: about 10,000 pounds. It's all for a Seattle restaurant chain.”
“Got it.”
The workers started moving pallets with the forklifts.
The beef crates went on first. Vacuum-packed meat was neatly arranged inside.
Jake pitched in from inside the trailer, organizing the load.
With frozen goods, balance was key. If it shifted to one side, it could make driving dangerous.
“Push it a bit more this way.”
“You got it.”
The chicken pallets slid in next, followed by layers of vegetables on top.
About an hour and a half later, loading was nearly complete.
He double-checked the panel temperature one last time.
Still holding steady at 0°F. More than enough to keep everything fresh for the two-day haul to Seattle.
Devin approached with the paperwork.
“Load's all set. Just need your final sign-off.”
Jake meticulously verified the weights, quantities, and shipping times on the manifest.
Everything checked out. He signed it.
“Thanks for the help.”
“No sweat. Drive safe out there. Seattle's a long way.”
“Don't worry.”
They shook hands, and Jake returned to the truck.
Firing up the engine, it rumbled to life with a low growl. He could hear the trailer's compressor humming too.
The heavy cargo's weight settled solidly into the suspension.
“Alright, everything's good to go.”
Before hitting the road, he planned a quick stop at Bill's shop.
A small antique store on the outskirts of Austin, right off Highway 290.
As he left the city center, the scenery shifted fast.
Low buildings and empty lots gave way to the stark, open plains of Texas.
Nothing but flat emptiness, old warehouses, and the occasional passing car.
About twenty-five minutes in, Bill's place came into view.
A weathered wooden building with a faded sign reading Bill's Antiques. He knew the inside was packed with treasures.
He parked the truck on the nearby lot and stepped out.
Even with the engine off, the trailer's reefer unit would keep running on its own power.
Only after confirming all was well did he grab his bag from the passenger seat.
“About time I brought these by.”
It was the bag of items he'd picked up at the Melrose Flea Market during his LA trip.
Life had been too hectic to drop them off sooner.
Ding-a-ling—
Pushing open the door set off the familiar bell.
The scent of aged wood filled the air, comforting now.
“Oh, Jake!”
Bill looked up from his workbench.
A white guy in his mid-sixties, with a gray beard reaching his jaw and sharp eyes behind thick glasses.
“Bill, long time no see.”
“Haha, damn right it has! Almost a month, huh?”
“Yeah, about that. It's been crazy, man. Whew.”
Bill cleared some space on the workbench, setting aside an old clock.
“Still making headlines, I hear? So, what treasures has our hero hauled in this time?”
His teasing words drew a laugh from Jake.
This was his element: worn relics, rough-around-the-edges friends with warm hearts...
He set the bag on the workbench.
“Snagged a few from California last time.”
“California? You went all the way out there.”
“Delivery run.”
Bill adjusted his glasses and opened the bag.
First out was a wooden box, small but intricately carved.
Bill's eyes lit up the moment he saw it.
“Hmm...”
He examined it slowly, lifting it carefully to gauge the weight, tracing the carvings with his fingertips.
Checking the lock, he shook his head.
“It's locked.”
“Yeah, no key.”
“California... Melrose Flea Market?”
“Spot on.”
“Hm... This carving style looks mid-19th century.”
Bill pulled out a loupe and peered at the bottom.
“No maker's mark. But it's hand-carved, not machined.”
“Valuable?”
“The box itself has value. The real question is what's inside.”
Bill fetched a small toolkit, stocked with picks and lockpicks.
“Whoa, lockpicking a hobby? You've got quite the setup.”
“Ha, essential skill for an antique dealer. You wouldn't believe how many locked boxes I see.”
With deft fingers, he worked the lock, inserting a pick and gently turning.
Click. Click.
The internal pins shifted.
About thirty seconds later...
Click.
It sprang open.
Bill eased the lid up.
His eyebrows shot up.
“Well, I'll be...”
Inside were old coins, silver and copper gleaming together. Heavy pouches full of them.
He carefully lifted one out and studied it through the loupe, holding his breath.
“Hmmm...”
A long silence stretched between them.
Jake waited quietly. Bill's expression said it all—this was no ordinary find.
Time crawled by.
Bill inspected each coin meticulously—front, back, even holding some to the light.
Five minutes or so passed.
“Genuine.”
He held one up gingerly.
“1879 Morgan silver dollar. CC mint mark too—Carson City minted.”
Jake's heart picked up speed.
“Nice? Valuable?”
“Carson City Mint only ran from the 1870s to 1890s. Low production, so yeah, pretty rare.”
Bill scrutinized it closer.
“Condition's solid. MS-62 grade easy... maybe even 63.”
“MS-62?”
“Coin grading scale. MS means Mint State—uncirculated. 62 is minor marks but overall excellent.”
Bill checked the others one by one.
His face grew more serious.
“1880 here too. 1881... All from the 1870s to early 80s. Mostly Carson City.”
The vision from touching the box at Melrose flashed back: a dark room, someone counting coins, aged hands trembling.
Something unspoken hit him then—attachment, heavy with weight.
“So... total value?”
Bill grabbed a calculator and punched numbers.
“Market price per coin... varies by condition, but average $300 to $400. Let's see... one... twelve coins.”
He counted with his fingers.
“Market value around $4,800. I'll give you $3,500 cash.”
Thirty bucks turned into $3,500.
Jake drew a slow breath. Heart racing. He should be used to this by now, but it still thrilled him.
“Deal.”
Bill nodded, pleased.
“Anything else?”
Next, the vintage radio—a 1950s tabletop model with a Bakelite case and gold dial.
Bill's eyes sparkled.
“Oh, nice one.”
He turned it over, popped the back cover.
Peering inside intently.
“Philco. 1952 model—52-540.”
“Does it work?”
“Let's see.”
He plugged in an extension cord from the workbench outlet and twisted the dial.
Nothing at first.
Bill gave it a light tap.
Static—crackle.
Noise filtered out, then faint music. Country tunes.
“Whoa, tubes are intact. Impressive for seventy-plus years old.”
He tweaked the volume.
Sound sharpened.
“Swap a few condensers, and it'll be perfect. Case is great too.”
“What's it worth?”
Bill examined it thoroughly, then calculated.
“Collectors love these. Good shape... $180.”
Twenty bucks to $180.
Nine times the investment. Solid profit.
“Sold.”
Bill powered it down and set it aside carefully.
“Last one.”
The pendant—a small silver necklace with delicate floral engravings and a tiny gem-like stone.
Bill inspected it under the loupe.
“Sterling silver.”
He held it to the light.
Tiny hallmark inside.
“925 mark—92.5% pure. Style's...”
Bill tilted his head.
“Art Nouveau. Popular from 1890s to 1910s. All flowing curves.”
“Bill, that center stone—what is it?”
“Hm... Looks like agate. Not a real gem, but a trendy decorative stone back then.”
He turned it over.
“Antique, sure, but not super pricey. $90. Not the most exciting, but I'll take it with the others.”
Another thirty-buck buy.
Three times over. Not bad, if a little underwhelming.
“Perfect. Thanks, Bill.”
Bill tapped the calculator again.
“Box: 3,500. Radio: 180. Pendant: 90. Total: $3,770. Cash okay?”
“Yeah, please.”
Bill stood, headed to the back, and opened the safe.
Moments later, he returned with a thick wad of bills.
“Count it.”
Crisp hundreds stacked up.
Exactly $3,770.
Eighty bucks invested, now $3,770.
Forty-seven times return.
The weight felt good in his pocket.
“Always appreciate it, Bill.”
With a little time to spare, they chatted.
The serial killer bust that had dominated recent talk, bragging about the new truck.
Bill paused thoughtfully.
“Hey, Jake—you're heading to Seattle, right?”
“Yep.”
“Passes through Portland... Take this.”
He pulled a worn business card from a drawer.
Edges frayed with age.
Leonard Washington
Fine Art Appraiser & Conservator
Portland, OR
“Fine art appraiser?”
“Yeah. You're getting serious about this—thought art might be a good next step.”
Bill crossed his arms.
“You nail coins and radios, but art's a whole other league. Paintings, sculptures, ceramics... Big money moves there.”
“True, but I know zilch about it.”
“That's why you learn. Leonard's an old friend—worked Sotheby's in New York, now runs his own place in Portland.”
“He teach a newbie?”
“My intro? He'll bite. Bit of a grump, but top-notch skills. Stop by—you won't regret it.”
Bill pointed to the card.
“Pearl District address. Right on your route. Day's all you need.”
Jake pocketed it.
No reason to pass up Bill going this far.
“I'll make it happen.”
“Good. One more thing...”
Bill met his eyes squarely.
“Jake, you've got a real gift. Whatever it is, to thrive in this game, you need knowledge. Art especially—one piece can swing hundreds of thousands.”
“Point taken.”
“Alright then.”
They shook hands.
As Jake headed for the door, Bill called out.
“And Jake.”
He turned.
“Safe trip to Seattle. Heard about some wrecks on the interstate lately. New Mexico stretch is dicey.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“Truck tire blowouts. Roadwork debris everywhere. Reefer rigs like yours are heavy—extra careful, right? Safety first, always.”
“Got it. I'll take it easy.”
Bill fussed like a dad sending off his son, full of earnest advice.
The genuine concern warmed Jake's chest.
“Alright, hit the road. And tell Leonard hi for me.”
“Haha, will do. Thanks, Bill.”
Outside, the dry Texas wind whipped up.
The thick cash roll weighed heavy in his pocket, now joined by the card.
Walking to the truck, he mused.
Fine art appraising...
Bill was right. To max out his ability, he needed more knowledge.
Especially for the high-value stuff.
Portland. Leonard Washington.
Worth a detour.
“Time to roll for real.”
He climbed in and turned the key.
Seattle awaited.