My Wife Set My Toolbox Beside The Workshop Sale Papers

Simone put my toolbox on the conference table as if it were a cake.

"That's your share," she said.

The red box had a bent handle and a burn mark from a soldering iron. I'd bought it before we'd met. Now my wife had placed a yellow inventory sticker on it.

"Of what?" I asked.

"The business, Keoni. Please keep up."

Outside our Henderson workshop off Boulder Highway, wind pushed sand against the loading door. Inside, a half-built escape cabinet stood on blocks. Its false back needed another sixteenth of an inch. I could hear the loose hinge when the roof fan turned.

My name was Keoni Kalama. I was thirty-eight, a Native Hawaiian stage-illusion fabricator who tested every hinge with my eyes closed. I had broad shoulders, brown skin, close-cut black hair, and a pale scar across my left thumb.

Simone Varela was thirty-seven and Cuban American. Simone had sleek dark hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and a red mouth that stayed neat even when she raised her voice.

She ran our accounts and bookings. I built things that let people vanish without getting hurt. We each owned half of Kalama Varela Stageworks.

"We're insolvent," she said. "We owe $84,700. The checking account has $1,140."

She slid over a sheet with one large number at the bottom.

"Where are the statements?"

"I gave you a summary."

"I asked for the statements."

She took off her glasses. That usually meant I was supposed to feel slow.

"There's a buyer for the design library. Six thousand dollars. He assumes none of our debts. That's better than an auction."

The buyer's name was Copper Veil Assets LLC. Its address was a rented mailbox in Las Vegas.

"Who's he?"

"A company."

"You said he."

Before she could answer, Evan Saye walked in through the office door. He'd been our booking consultant for five months. He wore clean suede shoes in a room full of metal dust.

"Bad timing?" he asked.

"Perfect timing," Simone said.

His hand settled at the small of her back. Neither of them moved it away when I looked.

I'd spent weeks explaining the late dinners to myself. There had been a hotel receipt tucked into a supplier folder. Two dinners. One room. Simone had told me clients expected privacy.

Now she watched me notice his hand.

"Our marriage is a separate conversation," she said.

"It looks like it's on this table too."

Evan lifted his hand.

"Let's protect what value is left," he said.

I opened the proposed sale. The list included Stillwater, my cabinet that made an empty chair seem to sink through a solid floor. It had paid more than our other designs put together.

"This says the company owns every performance right."

"Standard wording," Simone said.

"It also says there are no outside licenses."

"The buyer understands the business."

I touched the page edge. Years earlier, she'd called me fussy for insisting that the attachments travel with every contract. Then she'd charged clients extra for my fussiness.

There were three originals of those attachments. One had stayed with the client. One should have stayed in our files. My set rested in a flat steel case under the bottom drawer of my drafting bench.

The case held drawings, signed schedules, and a notary's stamp on pages Simone had stopped thinking about.

"I'll need time," I said.

"You have until Friday," she said. "Copper Veil won't wait forever."

It was Tuesday.

My brother came through the loading door carrying a sheet of birch plywood. Ikaika was thirty-four, Native Hawaiian like me, and a stage carpenter. He could cut a perfect stair stringer and lose his temper over a parking meter.

"Why's your box in here?" he asked.

"Apparently I won it."

He looked from me to Evan.

"Put the plywood down," I said.

He did. Carefully. That was how I knew he was angry.

Simone pushed a pen toward me.

"You always hated the money side. Take your tools. Build scenery for someone else. You might finally get some sleep."

I lifted the toolbox off the sale papers.

"These are mine already."

"Then you shouldn't mind signing."

I left the pen where it was.

After they went into her office, I stood beside Stillwater and closed my eyes. I swung its service hatch once. The upper hinge clicked, then the lower hinge answered.

Two small sounds. I could tell where the weight was pulling.

Ikaika waited until I opened my eyes.

"Tell me we're doing something."

"We're making copies."

I unlocked the steel case. He saw the signed pages and let out a slow breath.

Then the mail slot struck the concrete behind us.

An envelope had fallen through. It was addressed to Harbor Basin Consulting, care of Simone Varela, at our shop.

Through its torn window, I could read four words: Stillwater Quarterly Royalty Statement.