The locket waited for Gus in the small, corner room on the second story. Packed beneath old quilts, the locket waited for hands to regard it, for eyes to consider its glimmer. It waited to be admired.
Gus Holcombe had hustled for every dollar his hands had ever grasped. Over a quarter of a century ago, when he had been younger, harder and meaner, Gus was one of the sharp men organized crime appointed to rule the street. He had trafficked narcotics across the southern and northern borders. He had opened doughnut shops through which he and his associates laundered their wealth. He had pimped women, had knifed snitches and pummeled strangers. Treasure came easily to him in those years. Gus wore the most expensive suits, owned the most luxurious of cars, and bedded beautiful women during the afternoon. He had worshiped the value of every commodity, but he never recognized much worth in simple life itself.
The wealth Gus loved most abandoned him. A whisper in the night, a rumor planted by a rival, one day transformed Gus Holcombe from a trusted player into a marked man. So Gus fled into the center of the country. He shrouded himself with cornfields and timid people. And he hid himself so well, that Gus Holcombe lived to become old.