Tarnished and Torn Read Online Free PDF Page A

he was so entranced with his incongruous little-kid slushy I couldn’t help but return his smile.
    “Jelly Belly?” He extracted a bag of brightly colored jelly beans from his suit pocket.
    “Oh, no, thank you.” After a youth spent being shunned by virtually everyone in my small West Texas hometown, I was always a little surprised when strangers struck up conversations.
    Maya had told me recently that I had to learn to flirt with men, to engage them in “
normal
interactions that don’t include witchcraft or murder.” It was good advice. She and Bronwyn were trying to get me to stop moping over a certain dark-eyed psychic named Sailor, who had dropped out of my life several weeks ago. Our brief affair had flamed so hot and intense that I feared I had scared him off. Or maybe the problem was that Sailor and I were forever dealing with witchcraft and murder.
    “They’ve got a factory not too far from here,” the man in the suit continued, popping a few candies in his mouth. “Went on the tour. Never occurred to me that jelly beans were made in factories. Kind of always assumed there were elves involved somehow.”
    “I’ve been meaning to take that tour.”
    “Highly recommend it. Dropped a few bucks at the retail shop, too, obviously.” He held the bag out and shook it as though to entice me. “Go on, help yourself. There’s a million flavors in here.”
    “No, really. I’ll be getting lunch soon.”
    He gave a conciliatory shrug. “You come to these shows before?”
    I shook my head. “First timer. It’s . . . wonderful.”
    He looked at me, a questioning half smile on his face.
    I shrugged. “Maybe a little bit overwhelming.”
    “You don’t like crowds.” It was a statement, not a question. His tone was understanding, his light brown eyes soft. But there was something about him . . . His guard was up. He was good at covering up. Like me.
    “You from around here?” he continued.
    My stubborn Texas twang usually warded off such inquiries. “Not originally, but I moved here a while back.”
    “Like it?”
    “Very much.”
    “Me, I’m not from here,” he said unnecessarily. Definitely an East Coast accent, probably the Bronx. “Makes me a little nervous, all this”—he made a circular gesture with his free hand—“artsy whatnot, and everybody’s so . . . healthy. What’s with
wheatgrass
? And that whaddayacallit?
Gluten
?” he scoffed. “Don’t get me started.”
    I smiled, remembering being taken aback by such things when I first arrived in California, too. Even here at the Cow Palace, alongside the typical junk food—like bright red slushies—the refreshment stand offered several vegetarian options, including one particularly dubious item labeled V EGAN BBQR IB-ETTES . I was afraid to ask.
    “They do have their own way of doing things. So, what brings you to San Francisco?”
    He hesitated, just a fraction of a second. “Business. I’m Gene, by the way. I’d shake, but . . .” He held up a palm stained bright colors from the jelly beans. He gestured with his head to the beat-up cardboard box. “What’s in the box?”
    “Junk jewelry. I have a resale shop.”
    “Yeah? Where’d you find the junk? Thought everything out here was a, whaddayacall? Like a treasure.”
    “One person’s junk is another’s treasure, as they say.” I was tiring of our conversation, and figured I had practiced my flirting plenty for one day. I wanted to examine my new purchases, but hesitated to do so in front of Gene. Just in case. I don’t know what I thought I’d find in the box, but as my mother used to say,
“Don’t count your change in front of the poor.”
Not that the man looked deprived . . . but figuratively speaking.
    A loud gurgle signaled that Gene had finished his slushy.
    A woman screamed.
    Out on the exhibit-hall floor, people started shouting and jumping. A display of pearls was knocked over, hundreds of the exquisite gems skittering out in all directions. A