UNDERHILL & OVERMOOR

In a grey, dingy café in a grey, dull corner of London, on a grey, dreary November morning, sat Mr. Underhill, in a white linen suit and a white Panama hat. He read the Times, occasionally pausing for a contemplative nod or tap on the chin, every so often stirring his tea, pinky thoughtfully extended. But upon closer inspection, one notices that the suit is actually not so much white as it is a whitish shade of tobacco and sweat stains, the teacup has been empty for over an hour, and the Times is dated two days previous.
"Will that be all, sir?" the landlord asked, in a tone clearly intended to mean that it was time to go.
"Yes, my good man," replied Mr. Underhill, glancing at his wrist. There was nothing on it. "I shall be vacating your splendid establishment shortly. The day awaits!" he said dramatically, removing a rumpled handkerchief from his breast pocket with great flourish before using it to wipe away the beads of sweat which were beginning to form on his upper lip despite the damp chill of the English morning. He clearly had nowhere to go.
"Five minutes, Your Lordship," said the landlord grimly, turning away abruptly.
Mr. Underhill stirred the empty cup, absent-mindedly. He seemed to be finding himself in positions like this more and more often these days, especially in the six months since the money had run out. He had always thought that half a lifetime at boarding school in Kensington and four years at Eton would be all he needed. The right club tie and all the right doors would open for him. Turns out that in the real world of the 21st-century, the real money was hiding behind doors which required more than a mediocre pedigree to unlock.  
His parents had died during his last year at college, a well-meaning, if dull, couple, who had gradually been squandering what remained of a 15th-century family fortune. The Crown took possession of the house after that, with the inevitable claim of back taxes and whatever else the lawyers could come up with. After a 600-year legacy had been auctioned off piece by piece to the highest bidder and all the barristers and bastards had fed to their fill, he had been left with a few hundred thousand Pounds and a set of handmade Italian luggage only half filled with clothes. 
It had taken twenty years to bring him here since then: one suit, one hat, and he had just spent his last Pound on a cup of watery tea.
He stood up, tucked the acrid handkerchief back into his breast pocket, folded the two day old newspaper under his arm, and walked out of the café with as much dignity as a man like Mr. Underhill could muster. His grimy white suit stood out among the sea of Saville Row black and bowler hats scurrying off to cubicles at investment firms and insurance companies in the city, rather like a styrofoam cup floating in a koi pond.
Two blocks away stands Mr. Overmoor. It's rather difficult to know for sure what Mr. Overmoor is actually doing, or what he might be up to. It seems entirely possible that Mr. Overmoor himself isn't quite certain what he's doing at the moment. This, however, is not a problem for Mr. Overmoor, since living in a perpetual state of dull bewilderment is more or less an everyday thing for him. Mr. Overmoor is, for lack of a better term, a bloody stupid idiot. 
Unfortunately for Mr. Overmoor, he lacks any of the redeeming qualities or characteristics which might lead people to use a kinder, less judgemental term like "challenged" or "learning disabled". He shows no kindness, no gentle good humor, no child-like innocence or admirable ambition. Just a dull, discourteous bully whose nose is always running and whose mouth is always hanging open. The sort of person who buys the same cup of coffee at the same place every morning, and every morning asks brusquely, "How much?" and then takes five minutes to add up the loose change from the bottom of their pocket. 
It's hard to pinpoint a past for Mr. Overmoor. He had long ago forgotten his own past. His mind was little more than a dull, constant hum, always focused on the present, and things like cigarettes, food, beer, and the occasional scabby whore. He had scraped by mostly by a life of petty crime, fraud and extortion; found money in the gutters and in the pockets of fat American tourists, and found food on the un-bussed tables of sidewalk cafés and the sidewalk stalls of the greengrocers near Covent Garden.
At the moment, his amoeban brain was in Pickpocket Mode. He stood by the side of the road, leaning against a Royal Post box, his dull eyes staring into the crowd, searching for a mark. His mouth, as always hung slack-jawed, and his newsboy-style cap was pulled down low. For a moment, his thick, granite mind forgot what it was at, began to think about a warm beer and a hot wench. Until something stood out, something white in the blackness, carrying itself for all the world like the bloody King himself. Back into pickpocket mode, then, and he licked the dirty fingers of his right hand in anticipation.
He waited, impassively, by the side of the road as Mr. Underhill came toward him. He began sizing up his victim as he came into focus. Fine-looking suit, like he were off for a holiday in Kenya. No jewelry, but he walks through the crowd like he's walking through the bloody House of Lords, doesn't he. 
Moments later his right hand was inside Mr. Underhill's drab linen jacket, fishing in vain for a wallet which did not exist. It had not been his smoothest attempt at picking a pocket, to say the least, and within seconds he found himself staring into an enraged, sweat-covered face the complexion of unbaked bread.
"My good man," said Mr. Underhill as he grabbed hold of Mr. Overmoor's right wrist. "Can I help you?"
Mr. Overmoor stood, clearing his throat as his feeble mind searched for some escape plan.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!", came the booming baritone voice behind them. It managed to sound at once like Santa Claus and Satan. "What have we here, eh?"
Mr. Underhill loosened his grip on Mr. Overmoor's wrist as they both turned to see the man standing beside them.
"Uhh, nuffin'," replied Mr. Overmoor dully, sheepishly withdrawing his hand from Mr. Underhill's jacket, and making an elaborate pantomime of brushing something off of his lapel. 
"Indeed, sir, just a friendly... discussion, is all.." wheezed Mr. Underhill. He extended his hand and regarded the stranger: tall, well-dressed, confident, and most of all, composed. All of those things which he, himself, was not. "Mr. Underhill, sir, Eton '89. At your service."
"Yes, I know," said the man, pointedly not shaking Mr. Underhill's hand, but rather regarding it as if it were someone else's toothbrush. "And Mr. Overmoor."
"Blimey," said Mr. Overmoor, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Do I know you, squire?"
"Possibly, Mr. Overmoor, possibly. You may call me Mr.-" he paused for a moment as if thinking. "-Trump. Yes," he said, smiling, "call me Mr. Trump."
"Trump, Mr. Trump?" said Mr. Underhill. "Any relation?"
"No, no relation, Mr. Underhill, at least, not yet, " the man answered, smiling again almost imperceptibly. "Gentlemen," he said, "shall we retire for a drink?"
Both men looked pleased by the prospect of a pint, despite the fact that it was barely nine o'clock in the morning.

A grainy rerun of "Coronation Street" played silently on the television set above the cash register in the dark, mildewy hole-in-the-wall, which Mr. Overmoor had not surprisingly known was just around the corner. A scratchy 45rpm version of "Feelings" played woozily on the jukebox.
"Pint," said Mr. Overmoor, whose vocabulary never did contain the word "please", to the man behind the bar. 
Mr. Underhill waited until the stranger had ordered a brandy, then carefully ordered the same. The barman turned and walked away with little more than a grunt. Brandy at 9am was the least of his concerns.
Without fanfare, the stranger began, "Gentlemen, I have a proposition. To begin with, one hundred Pounds, each. A sort of... retainer." He produced four fifty-Pound notes, which he handed to Mr. Underhill and Mr. Overmoor. 
The enchantment was already complete.
"Proposition, Mr. Trump?" inquired Mr. Underhill, smiling hungrily as he tucked the one hundred Pounds into his pocket. 
"Yes. I... require something. Something I cannot get without your... assistance." Mr. Trump seemed to choose his words very meticulously.
"Right, what's the job?" barked Mr. Overmoor as the barman returned with their drinks. 
"The job, Mr. Overmoor," said the man coolly, "is the Tears of the Virgin."
Mr. Overmoor sneered and snorted with laughter like an undersexed adolescent. "Virgin!" he snickered.
"It is the name of a relic, Mr. Overmoor, a chalice," chimed in Mr. Underhill. "Lacrimis Virginem, said to once have held the tears of Mary herself. It is on loan to St. Elmo's parish from the Vatican."
"Quite right, Mr. Underhill," said the man. "It is quite... crucial to me."
Mr. Overmoor had already finished his pint. "You want us to steal-"
"Acquire, Mr. Overmoor," said the stranger.
"Acquire the chalice on your behalf." Mr. Underhill completed the sentence.
"Yes. Unfortunately, I myself am not quite... welcome at St. Elmo's-"
"Indeed," said Mr. Underhill.
"Indeed," continued the man, "hence my need for your... help, gentlemen."
"What's the payoff, then?" asked Mr. Overmoor, blunt as ever.
"A fortune, gentlemen? You bring me the Tears of the Virgin, and I shall leave you, both of you, a fortune."
Mr. Overmoor waved one of his fifty-Pound notes in the air and barked, "Pint!" in the general direction of the barman. Mr. Underhill sipped his oak-aged Napoleon thoughtfully. There was no need to answer. The deal had been done.  

The small-scale interior of St. Elmo's parish was quite empty and quiet a few nights later, as it should be any night at 3am. In their naïveté, church officials refused to consider the possibility that anyone would actually try to steal as holy a relic as the Tears of the Virgin. As such, their only nod to "security" was a lone priest, sitting in the third or fourth pew. Mr. Overmoor and Mr. Underhill could see the back of his head as they skulked in through the rear of the church. He appeared to be lost in prayer, his head bowed.
There it sat, the Tears of the Virgin. A shining, golden chalice, which stood about five inches or so, adorned with a single band of glittering cabochon gemstones.  No one in the Church, apparently, had ever thought it curious that someone happened to have such a chalice nearby just at the moment that the Blessed Virgin was about to cry for some reason, but nevertheless, there it was. It stood, reverently lit, on a plinth to the right of the main altar.
The two men nodded to one another. Mr. Underhill proceeded down the left aisle toward the front of the sanctuary, while Mr. Overmoor followed a few steps behind down the right-hand aisle.
"Pardon me, Father," said Mr. Underhill when he reached the third or fourth row. The priest did not raise his head.
Mr. Underhill cleared his throat. "Ahem. Father...," then somewhat louder, "FATHER?"
Nothing.
"He dead?" said Mr. Overmoor, who was waiting a few rows back.
"That, Mr. Overmoor, would indeed be a gift..." said Mr. Underhill, and just then the priest raised his head with a start and a snort. He had been fast asleep. "Oh! hello, Father!"
"What's that?" said the priest, but it actually sounded more like "Woshat?" because he was holding his dentures in his hand. The old priest appeared to be well over a hundred years old. 
"I said, hello, Father," Mr. Underhill repeated.
"Yesh, yesh, quite sho," lisped the priest through his gums. "Shorry, quite deaf, you know..." he said. He laughed a bit to himself at that, as if growing old and infirm were actually kind of amusing, and then promptly fell right back to sleep.
"Candy from a baby, Mr. Overmoor," said Mr. Underhill. "Candy from a baby."
Mr. Overmoor crept his way towards the apse and climbed the few steps which led to the altar. With no more ceremony than buying a pair of socks, he picked up the chalice.
"Right. That's that, innit?" said Mr. Overmoor with a sooty grin. "Easy Street, 'ere we come, Mr. Underhill!" He turned to make his way back to the nave of the church. When he hit the second step, though, something, perhaps a loose board, perhaps the Hand of God Himself, caused Mr. Overmoor to lose his footing. The holy relic flew out of his unwashed hands, did a couple of somersaults in the air over his head, and landed back on its plinth, balanced precariously at one edge. 
"Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Mr. Overmoor. The irony never occurred to him once.
The old priest in the third or fourth row snorted.
Then, as if in slow motion, the glittering chalice of Mary slowly, almost imperceptibly began to tip, tip, tip over... until finally it fell off the plinth, landing on the marble floor with a resounding ring. 
The two men froze. They turned to watch the priest, who slowly raised his head. Without opening his eyes, he yawned, scratched the tip of his nose, folded his arms across his chest, and resumed a happy dream he had been having about driving race cars.
The men turned their attention back to the golden chalice as it lay on the floor. At that moment, the plinth it had been resting upon began itself to tip over, and as they watched, the heavy column, made from marble brought to London during Roman times, fell right on top of it, flattening the relic like a discarded can of Bass Ale. The marble itself shattered on the church floor, with a resounding smash which caused the entire church to shudder.
The old priest slept.
After a moment, Mr, Underhill approached the altar hesitantly. With his foot, he kicked aside bits of broken marble until he saw the glint of gold, at which point he dropped to his knees. He knelt, though, not in reverence or supplication to God, but in a thirst for gold, for sparkling gems, for his fortune. Before long, and with only the sacrifice of a few bloody fingers, he held up its prize. It now resembled a child's discarded craft project, rather like a royal crown made from cardboard and aluminum foil. It had been completely flattened, the cabochon gemstones were shattered or missing entirely, and while the gold, still gold, shone brightly, it had been crumpled like an empty cigarette packet. 
The two men made their way back through the church. Mr. Underhill stopped at the third or fourth row and said, "Cheers, padré."
The old priest finally lifted his head and opened his eyes. He looked around him, smiled benignly and said, "And also with you."
Mr. Underhill and Mr. Overmoor made their way out of the church.
They joined Mr. Trump, who was waiting in a nondescript black sedan across the street.
"Do you have the... object?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.
"It is on my person, Mr. Trump," said Mr. Underhill.
"Give 'im the feckin' thing!" said Mr. Overmoor.
"Not here!" interrupted Mr. Trump. "We are too... close." He started driving. "I know a... suitable place nearby." 
Before long, the men found themselves in an all-night Chinese restaurant, seated in a booth upholstered in the most revolting shade of green imaginable. There were velvet paintings of dragons and pagodas on the walls, and cobwebs hung from the faded paper lanterns on the ceiling. 
"Lo mein," barked Mr. Overmoor. "Quick."
"Just tea for me, please," said Mr. Underhill.
The tall stranger nodded, indicating that he would have the same.
The three men sat in silence. Mr. Overmoor kept fidgeting on the slippery vinyl banquette, scratching a variety of itches and every so often having to pull himself back to full upright. Mr. Underhill perspired, feeling like a prize steer at the market as Trump's eyes inspected him, looking for a telltale bulge, some indication that he indeed had the treasured relic.
The waiter came and went, leaving the tea and noodles behind. Mr. Overmoor slurped his lo mein unceremoniously, sending droplets of broth splattering all over the tablecloth and the hideous green upholstery. Mr. Underhill stirred his tea, pinky thoughtfully extended. 
Trump finally broke the silence.
"The object, Mr. Underhill, " he said.
Quite slowly, Mr. Underhill withdrew the crumpled, battered, flattened chalice from within his jacket. Without a sound, he placed it very carefully on the table in front of the tall stranger.
Mr. Trump regarded the wrecked artifact for a few moments. His face began to flush. As Underhill and Overmoor watched, a large vein on the side of his neck began to pulse wildly, and his skin went from flushed pink to white, like the color of milk that's been left out in the hot sun. "Fools," he said quietly.
"Blimey," said Mr. Overmoor, as he watched Trump's eyes shift from a cool blue to an angry red.
"Idiots!" he said, his voice just a little bit louder
"That will buff out," said Mr. Overmoor meekly, as he pushed aside the last of his lo mein.
In a twist of irony which was completely lost on all three men, the next thing Mr. Trump said was, "You're fired!" Always mindful of his surroundings, he said it quite loudly, but not too loudly. Nevertheless, Mr. Overmoor and Mr. Underhill found their ears ringing.
" 'ere! What about our deal?" said Mr. Overmoor. "You've got your bloody chalice. Where's our fortunes?"
The waiter came and went, taking the dirty dishes with him.
"Quite so, gentlemen. Quite so," said Trump icily. "A bargain is a bargain. Your fortunes, gentlemen."
Mr. Underhill and Mr. Overmoor looked down at the table. It had been cleared completely, and aside from a few splatter marks from Mr. Overmoor's lo mein, the only thing on the table was a small plate containing two small cookies. Fortune cookies.
When they looked up, the tall stranger, and the flattened relic, were gone.
Mr. Underhill stirred his tea. He thought for a while, and then gave a resigned sigh. He handed one of the cookies to Mr. Overmoor, and took one for himself.
"What does it say, Mr. Overmoor?" he said.
Overmoor cracked open his cookie. He studied the text intently. "One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster," he said finally. "Yours?"
Underhill read his fortune. "You're with Stupid," he said.
"What's it all mean, Mr. Underhill?" asked Mr. Overmoor.
Mr. Underhill paused for a moment, tapping his chin.
"It means, Mr. Overmoor," he said, "that we are going to Bangkok."