The Inheritance - In Progress

    The doorbell chimed ding dong. Marcos cursed as he placed a cup of a fresh coffee on the tourmaline kitchen counter and strode to the front door. 

    “Mornin'”

    The FedEx deliveryman dropped the crate, a beaten box weighing at least sixty pounds, on the concrete porch. 

    “You Marcos Torres?”

    Marcos nodded.

    “Sign here.”

    Marcos grabbed the fake pen and scrawled his name across the mini computerized screen.

    “Have a nice day.”

    “What is it?”

    “I have no idea.”

    Marcos tried to haul the crate inside.  He got it an inch off the ground before cursing and letting it fall back to the ground.  Damn, the thing was heavy.

    He clutched the edge of the box and pulled hard, dragging it two feet inside before pausing to stretch his back.  Another foot and he could feel his back scream.  He yanked the lid but it didn’t budge. He ran his beefy fingers over the top of the box and found a keyhole.  It was small and the same color as the stain of the crate.  He cursed aloud. Where the hell was the key?

    Marcos walked to the kitchen, grabbed a knife from the drawer and a paper clip from the junk jar on the counter and returned to the box. He tried the knife first but the blade was too large for the keyhole.  His thick fingers struggled to straighten the paperclip.  He inserted the stiff wire into the lock and jiggled it before twisting it to the right.  The lock squeaked before popping open.

    An ivory envelope bearing his name rested upon a heap on chains, padlocks and handcuffs.  He tore it open and extracted the letter.

  Dear Marcos,

    If you are reading this letter, this is my last hoorah. Treat the contents with respect and they will return the favor. 

    Love,

    Great Uncle Max

    Marcos reread the letter, and then read it a third time.  He sat down on the couch, the letter still clasped in his hand and remembered the first time Uncle Max had turned his favorite hat into three dancing doves. He was five and he had been sick with the flu.  His mother had ordered strict bed rest but Uncle Max had shown up, dressed in a pressed tuxedo, and he couldn’t stop himself from fleeing from the bed and racing into his arms.  That was thirty years ago.

    Marcos peered inside the crate.  A string of chains and padlocks rested on top.  Uncle Max swore they were a gift from Harry Houdini but that came from the same man who sawed the same woman in half night after night. 

    Underneath the chains was a straightjacket, yellowed with age, three tarnished blades, great uncle Max’s tuxedo, a wooden magic wand, acrobatic silks, thumb cuffs, top hat, sword and rope. Marcos shook his head.  Uncle Max sure was old school.

    A blast of You Found Me filled the room.  Marcos grabbed his cell phone and hit the green phone icon.

    “This is Marcos.”

    “How are ya buddy?”

    Marcos rolled his eyes and slumped further into the couch.

    “Fine.”

    “Great. Great.  You ready to go on at nine?”

    “Yes.  I’ll see you then.”

    Marcos hit the red button and tossed the cell phone on the table.