Several large, square crates were being delivered to the import warehouse. Indicating a spot in an open area for one of the boxes, Donnie Silkiss stood near it, smiling pleasantly while he signed for the delivery. When the truckers left, the handsome young importer turned to the box marked FRAGILE with anticipation. Other markings on it indicated in French that the contents were made of ‘fabrique’. Using a pry-bar, he took off the top, then pried apart the sides, dropping them to the floor to reveal an antique Regency chair upholstered in a red brocade so fade it appeared orange. Taking the packing material off of it, he knelt beside the chair and looked at it reverently. He ran his hands carefully over the arms then squeezed the deep seat cushion. Reaching into his coat, he took out a pocketknife, opened it and used the blade to rip the cushion diagonally before replacing the knife in his pocket. Then with both hands he delved into the stuffing, searching and finding.
Donnie drew out a plastic bag containing shining pearls and cradled it reverently a moment before lifting it to his lips and kissing it. Then he continued to search inside the cushion, drawing out several more bags; one was half full of beautiful black pearls which he paused momentarily to admire before probing the stuffing again. That was the last of it, so he hugged the small pile of pearl-filled bags to his chest and took them over to his desk where he placed them next to a lacquered tray.
Seating himself, he opened the bag of black pearls and poured them out into his hand. The long strand was perfect. Drawing it across his palm, he picked up a shot glass. Inverting it to use as a jeweler’s loupe, he looked at the pearls. Magnified against the grain of his hand, they shone through the faint glittering dust that covered them.
“Thirteen millimeter.” Donnie said, satisfaction ripening his voice. “Flawless!” He set the glass down and held the pearls up to the light once more before dropping them all into one hand. Unable to contain himself, he rubbed his hands together gleefully, the pearls between them. “Rock my world!” he gloated. Then he slid the pearls back into their bag and sealed it. Placing all of the bags on the tray, he took them over to a large safe sitting on the floor against one wall of the warehouse. He opened the combination lock and put his treasure safely away.

That evening at Emile’s, an expensive seafood restaurant, seven young people sat at a banquet table. Donnie Silkiss sat at the head of the table getting the attention of the other six by traditionally tapping on his wineglass.
“All right, my friends! Thank you very much for showing up this evening. … I know you guys can always use a free meal, huh?”
They all laughed and, raising their wine glasses, clinked them together in a toast to Donnie. He took a sip of his wine, murmuring, “Mmm! What a day!” just as a lovely dark-haired girl wearing a short dark brown velvet dress approached the table. Seeing her, he got to his feet to greet her with a kiss on the lips.
“Kelli! Hey, you look great,” he smiled as she sat in the chair next to him. She greeted the other members of the party as Donnie picked up a shell from his plate, waving it in her face.
“Oysters!” He said, “… Rumored to be an aphrodisiac!” The group laughed knowingly, but Kelli wrinkled her nose and grimaced.
“Confirmed as cat food!” she retorted, hanging her purse over the back of her chair.
“That’s because you’ve never tried one,” he held it up to her again as their friends urged her to try it, to take the plunge.
With a long-suffering sigh Kelli opened her mouth and Donnie tilted the shell. The oyster slid down her throat and she swallowed hurriedly, picking up her wine glass to wash the taste away as the group clapped and congratulated her.
“Did you win the lottery, Donnie?” she asked him once her throat was clear.
With a broad smile, he replied to the party in general. “I just figured my downtown friends could us a little uptown meal.” One of the guys high-fived him, and as the hand slapping continued around the table, Donnie went on, “You know how the Indians used to thank the animals they killed for sacrificing themselves so that the hunter could live?” They all looked at him questioningly. “That’s what tonight’s all about, people!” he announced, picking up a shell as a waiter placed another tray of oysters on the table. “Oyster homage!” he tipped the shellfish into his mouth. His friends saluted him again, this time with oysters on the half-shell, tipping them down their throats. Kelli drank wine in salute.
The headwaiter approached the table, a large humidor in his hands. “Sir?” he got Donnie’s attention. “I understand you’d like something special in a cigar?” He opened the box.
Donnie inspected the contents, selected a cigar and rolled it in his fingers, then sniffed it. “Very nice,” he approved, nodding. Reaching into his coat pocket he withdrew a $100 bill, which he palmed to the headwaiter amid the astonished looks and murmurs of his friends. “Keep the change,” he said magnanimously. The headwaiter smiled broadly and withdrew.
Donnie lifted his glass. “Enjoy, friends!” He saluted, and everyone in the party lifted their glasses in celebration, too.

Later that night Kelli was lying on her bed still in her velvet dress when the pains began. She curled up, groaning, and held her stomach. There were some dry patches on her face and throat. Sitting partially up, she reached for the bottle of water on her nightstand and drank thirstily. She scratched her chest, her fingertips leaving bloody indentations. Still groaning and rocking back and forth slightly, she cried, “What’s happening to me?” She reached for the phone and dialed.
“911 Emergency. May I help you?”
She was gasping for air, and couldn’t speak.
The operator asked, “Is anyone there?”
She finally managed to say weakly, “Help me!” before she collapsed, the phone dangling as the operator repeated, “Hello? Is anyone there? Hello??”

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

The limousine moved smoothly through the evening streets. Wearing their tuxes, Dr. Daniel Cassian and Mr. Michael Hailey sat comfortably on the rear seat while Dr. Brian Taft squirmed about on the side bench, fiddling with his cummerbund and tux jacket.
“I don’t understand why people think they’re getting all dressed up when they put one of these things on!” he complained, continuing to wiggle while struggling to get the tuxedo to feel comfortable.
Cassian and Hailey exchanged amused glances, then Cassian turned to look out the window as Brian continued, “The whole thing is held together with …” he paused to adjust the suit jacket by shrugging and shaking his shoulders and back, “umph! … elastic and polyester!” A raised eyebrow indicated that Cassian was still listening.
“But you are the guest of honor,” Michael attempted to placate Brian.
“Yeah … and I like being the guest of honor,” he retorted, shooting his cuffs and squirming again in another attempt to get the coat to sit right. “I just don’t like strapping on this monkey suit!”
“Well … you rented a cheap suit.” Hailey said.
“Oh, you call $95 cheap??” Taft demanded.
Hailey nodded, “Yeah.”
Cassian turned back to the conversation. “Ninety-five?” he asked dubiously.
“Yeah,” Brian replied, proud of the deal he’d gotten.
“Oh! You rented the shoes, huh?”
“No, I didn’t rent the shoes! I had the shoes! … Why? Did you rent your shoes?”
Cassian smiled tolerantly. “I own mine,” he admitted modestly.
Brian chuckled at himself, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered, thinking, ‘the guy probably owns his suit, too—maybe more than one.’ “God!” he said aloud then he took out his invitation to admire. It’s elegance made him feel distinguished.
Cassian turned back to the window just as his beeper sounded. Frowning slightly, he picked up the small device and read the message, his left eyebrow rising again. “Code Red.”
Leaning over to look at the message, Hailey commented, “Hmm.”
“Detroit,” continued Cassian. “There’s a plane waiting for us at O’Hare.”
Brian looked up in protest. “Oh, come on, now! I’m supposed to get an award!”
Hailey said, “Aw!” in a mock-sorry voice as Cassian handed Taft the beeper so he could see for himself.
Taft read the message then tossed the instrument back to Cassian. “Oh, man!” he grumbled.
“Well, look at it this way,” Cassian leaned forward to reach the car phone. “You can get out of the ‘monkey suit’ that much sooner!” He sat back and pushed the intercom button on the phone as Brian complained,
“But I’m the guest of honor!”
“We’ll toast you on the plane,” Cassian replied dryly, then quietly spoke into the phone to the driver, “Jimmy … O’Hare please.”
With a frown, Brian looked back down at the invitation, shaking his head in regret. “My mom was going to be so proud!”
The engraved note read,