Short, Light, Free-Chapter 90: The Value of Art (Part 2) II

Chapter 90: The Value of Art (Part 2) II

They stared at me in surprise.

“What are you doing, Boss Chalk?” one asked.

Wordlessly, I grabbed a stool from the side.

One of them retreated a few steps before falling to the ground. The other two started to look dazed as well.

When they saw their friend on the ground, one started to shout while the other ran toward the inner part of the shop.

I smashed a chair on the noisy one’s head to knock him out. For a second, I got worried about the bruise on his forehead, but I was reassured when I heard him breathing.

I then headed to the inner room to pursue the other guy, but before I could think of ways to subdue him, he collapsed.

I dragged them all into one room before I rummaged through their belongings. I switched off all of their mobile phones and dumped it with their wallets that I’ve already gathered.

With the three thick ropes, I tied them up firmly.

I arranged three stools into a triangular shape and had them sit on top, their back facing one another.

I then tied all of them together again before stuffing towels into their mouths.

I waited for about eight hours before they regained consciousness, during which I checked for their pulses every half an hour.

I did it more cautiously for the one I smashed on the head. I took some medication out to treat his wound.

They gradually woke up and when they failed to see each other’s faces, they started mumbling nervously.

I took the towel out of one of their mouths. “Answer whatever I ask and you don’t have to get hurt.”

The man who could now speak screamed and I gave him a tight slap.

“The walls are pretty sound-proof here. I’ll give you a slap each time you make a noise. Let’s see if the police or neighbors get here first before your face gets deformed,” I warned.

“Boss… Boss Chalk. Why are you doing this? We haven’t done anything wrong, have we? We don’t have money. Let us off and we won’t call the police…” the man stuttered.

I shook my head and gave him another slap. “Just answer my questions and nothing else. I’ll let you go after so don’t worry.”

“Do you… mean what you say?” he cried.

Another slap. “Why is the program called ‘Treasure Time’ putting my ceramic pieces up for auction?”

The man kept crying as the one beside him shook his head vigorously, mumbling through the towel in his mouth.

I removed the towel and he answered, “You sold them to us so we have the rights to resell it. Just tell us if you’re angry about the price difference. Holding us hostage like this is a crime.”

I smiled. “Oh, no, that’s not all. Of course, you reselling my works is none of my business but why is there a man pretending to be me and claiming to have created those pieces on his own? What’s going on?”

The initially self-righteous man fell silent.

The one who had been crying spoke up. “It’s all our boss’ idea. We have no clue… we’re only in charge of collecting these treasures and your works. Boss happens to appreciate them.”

“You’re saying that you have no idea?”

All three nodded furiously.

I took out their name card. “Why was I given this card when I asked the station for the producer’s contact?”

Silence.

“I’m giving you one last chance to tell me the truth or I’ll leave you to rot here without any food or water,” I threatened.

Silence.

“Why? Is your boss really that great? So great that he’s more important than your lives?”

The third man who has yet to speak shook his head.

I removed the towel in his mouth.

He coughed before answering, “We know little of it. We’re merely in charge of getting the goods. We can give you our boss’ address, but you must let us go and not tell anyone how you got it. Is that okay?”

“No problem, but you must promise that you’ve been honest.”

“He makes a monthly trip to the office. He lives in a villa along Oasis Garden District A. We’re in charge of collecting antiques but he’s the one doing the business stuff. We don’t earn much. He, however, earns over a thousandfold in profit each time,” he continued.

“Who else is there in his family?” I asked.

“His grandmother, nanny, and his kids. Oh, he goes to the reservoir to fish every month,” another one added.

“Specific time?” I asked.

“Are you going to make trouble for him, Boss Chalk? We don’t like him either so don’t worry, we will tell you when he tells us. He doesn’t have a fixed time schedule.”

“Not trouble, just the truth, which is also why I called you over. Your boss will be next,” I said.

“We really can’t help you. Us staff really don’t know much about his shady business and way of doing things,” one explained.

I turned around, opened their wallets and took out their identification and bank cards. “I’ll hold on to these for the meantime. I’m not afraid that you guys will call the cops because I’m sure your boss wouldn’t want that kind of attention on him either. When you tell me when he’s going to fish, you’ll get these back.

I untied the first man.

He stood up weakly. “Don’t worry, Boss Chalk. We won’t betray you, but you mustn’t betray us as well.”

“Go out one by one. Tidy up your clothes first.”

He walked over to a side to get ready before grabbing his wallet and phone and leaving the shop.

I then untied the second man and the process repeated.

When they were all gone, I reopened my shop.

They looked at me from far away, still visibly trembling.

I made a ‘call me’ gesture and they nodded simultaneously.

The next day, I called Glasses to share the story and he told me not to act rashly.

After hanging up, I was so angry that I smashed my phone and had no choice but to get a new set from Nokia.

Four days later, the three of them appeared at my shop entrance.

Two of them pushed the other one in as they waited outside.

The one who entered said nervously, “Boss told us today that he’s going fishing tomorrow.”

“Regardless of the weather?” I asked.

“He won’t go if it rains or if it gets too hot. He’s like that,” he said while taking his phone out, the screen showing a picture of a fat man.

I committed his appearance to memory.

“He drives a Benz and his tools are in the back of his car. His car plate is 7777A,” he shared.

I retrieved their identification and bank cards from a cabinet and handed it over to him.

He said, “Just vent your anger, but don’t kill him. Bring a mask to conceal your identity.”

I nodded. “I know what to do.”