The Buyer Read The Inventory And Left His Truck Empty

“Don't block his truck,” I told Alma. “Ask him to wait while I bring the records.”

“Already asked. He's having coffee with Ben. Russell looks like he swallowed a tent peg.”

I photographed the lease, the last inventory, and the mail receipt on the motel desk. Then I called a local lawyer whose office number appeared on the county bar referral sheet at the front desk.

Her name was Ruth Bell. She asked me three questions before she asked about payment.

“Where are the puppets? Who has them? Is anyone moving them now?”

I answered. She told me to send the papers and keep my hands off the locks.

“Owning property doesn't make every way of taking it back a good idea,” she said.

Her first hour cost $275. I paid with the card I used for wood orders.

At the tent, the buyer sat on a folding chair beside a steaming paper cup. His name was Owen Marsh. He supplied small theaters with used gear.

“I haven't paid,” he said quickly. “I came to inspect.”

“Then this can still be a short visit.”

Russell came out smiling.

“Jian gets attached. Artists do.”

I opened the blue case on a clean equipment trunk.

“Attachment isn't the issue. This is the signed lease. This is the current list of eighteen figures.”

Owen bent over the page.

Each figure had a name, a small brass number, and a drawing of its control bar. I recorded repairs too. A replaced foot did not make a new puppet any more than a new tire made a new truck.

Russell's signature sat beneath these words: Property Of Jian Luo; Received On Rental Only.

“That's for insurance,” Russell said again.

Owen tapped the separate column showing the insured value.

“This part's for insurance.”

Ruth arrived forty minutes later with a printed copy of the lease. I had expected someone grand. She wore muddy ankle boots and carried a plain folder.

She read the termination notice aloud. It gave ten days to pay the overdue rent. The delivery record showed Russell had received it twelve days earlier.

“Did you pay?” she asked.

“I put money into repairs.”

He produced a company receipt for $186 in cord, paint, and hinges.

I turned to the matching workshop entry.

“Repairs were the company's duty under paragraph six. Buying cord didn't buy the hands it moved.”

Ruth laid the pages side by side.

“The records support Mr. Luo's ownership. If you dispute return, we can ask a court to decide it. Meanwhile, selling these would create another problem.”

Owen stood.

“I'm not buying a lawsuit with wooden feet.”

He left his coffee cup in the trash and drove away.

Russell waited until the truck reached the road.

“You want to kill the tour over late rent?”

“You locked out its puppeteer and tried to sell its rented figures.”

For once, his answer did not come right away.

Ruth offered a narrow agreement. The eighteen listed figures and my personal tools would leave with me. We would count everything together. The company would keep its tent, lights, trailer, and records. The unpaid money and other disputes would remain open.

Russell signed after Ruth said the buyer could be asked to describe their conversation in court.

We carried the figures into the daylight one at a time.

Alma read each brass number. Ben photographed it. Tess checked the strings for cuts. Eli held the control bars level so the legs would not tangle.

When my king reached me, I fitted the repaired thumb against his hand.

“Still needs glue,” Eli said.

“So do most kingdoms.”

Alma snorted. The sound loosened something in the crew.

We put the six cases in a storage room rented in my name. The owner gave me two keys. I kept one and gave Alma the other.

“Tonight's audience?” Tess asked.

Ruth had Russell issue a cancellation notice. Ticket buyers would receive refunds through the ticket office. I would not use my figures to cover his claim that nothing had happened.

The crew sat with me at a diner afterward. Their unpaid wages came to $6,840. Alma had written every shift in a pocket calendar.

“I can offer a new tour,” I said. “New contracts. Clear pay dates. But first I need to know what promises are already walking around with our name on them.”

My phone lit up between the sugar jar and my thimble.

An events manager in Aurora had sent a poster.

It showed my king above our company name, with a Saturday date from the week before.

That Saturday, every one of us had been performing in Gothenburg.

Below the poster was a short message.

Your replacement crew damaged our screen. Please call before we file our claim.