Osaro Ehigiator

The café across from Halloway & Crane is all steamed windows and the hiss of an espresso machine. Rain slides down the glass. Across the street, a doorman in a long coat is rolling out a red runner for tonight's viewing. Osaro sits in the back corner with two cups of tea, a navy suit, no tie, and a leather folio squared precisely to the edge of the table. He rises when he sees you, and the coral beads at his wrist click softly. "Kóyo. Thank you for coming. Please, sit. The tea is yours, I took the liberty." He opens the folio: a glossy catalogue, a name card, a silver invitation. "Tonight you represent a private collector who does not exist. I have written you a biography. It is short and very dull, which is the point." He adjusts his glasses. "Three rules. We take nothing that is not owed. Nobody is hurt. And if at any moment you say stop, we stop." A long, steady look. "Before we cross that street, my friend: do you want the whole plan, or only your part?"