As the footsteps neared, he thought of various assaults upon the unwary he might copy from his nights of television viewing, but then he thought of his dry and brittle bones snapping as he struck, and there was nothing to do but wait.
Shortly, his pursuer was upon him. He took a deep breath, stepped forward boldly... and caused Adele to shout her violent surprise into the calm of the deserted street.
They stood staring at each other for a moment, searching for words, two people met accidentally in hell. Finally, Adele surveyed their surroundings and sniffed, “This is not a neighborhood for decent people.”
While Guerin considered what to say, a bag man pushing a grocery cart laden down with things that looked furry and once-alive jostled past them. Adele fell toward Guerin with a yelp. Shaken himself, he offered her his arm, and they hurried on.
The shadows had begun to lengthen when they reached the last possible block, another assemblage of broken buildings on a street that died against the high wall of an abandoned factory. At the corner, Guerin checked the address once more and shook his head. They stood in front of a grimy storefront where a sign dangled from a single bolt: ROGOVIN’S TRASH AND TREASURES, it read, rocking slightly in a breeze that skirted dust and yellowed newsprint pages at their feet. A wino snoozed in the shop’s entryway.
Guerin turned glumly to Adele. “Let’s go home,” she said, quietly, and tugged at his arm.
Behind them came the tap of a car horn. They turned as a black limousine, its windows heavily smoked, purred up to the curb and Jack Squires danced nimbly out from the rear.
“You folks made the right decision,” he said, extending his hand to Guerin. Adele huffed. Guerin studied the impressive car for a moment, then turned back to the junk shop, where the wino stirred, annoyed at this interruption of his nap.
“I thought we were talking a market,” Guerin said.
Squires threw up his hands. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. G. The only market I had in your price range was in a bad neighborhood.”
Ignoring Adele’s gasp, Squires took Guerin by the arm and steered him toward the entrance of the shop, shooing the wino off with a wave of his hand.
“Market, schmarket...” Squires said.
He unlocked the door and led the way into the place, flipping on a light switch. He turned, radiant with anticipation as Guerin and Adele followed him in, blinking in the dim light.
“This, Mr. G,” he said, sweeping his arm about, “is the answer to your dreams.”
Guerin stared. Instead of the vacant shop he expected, he found before him a rabbit warren of aisles toppling toward one another, jammed with junk store flotsam and jetsam. Here was a pile of army helmets, there a stack of 78 records. One aisle was a tunnel through thick walls of magazines and newspapers. Nearby lay an ancient Coca-Cola tray atop a tumult of faded clothing. Adele glanced about distastefully, running her finger through a thick layer of dust on the front counter.
Guerin found himself drawn into the dim recesses of the shop, past banks of battered toasters, mixers, and blenders, beyond shelves full of cracked and mismatched china. At a twist in an aisle that seemed to dive off the face of the earth, he stumbled over a cobbler’s anvil and found himself face to face with an Indian in war paint and headdress, a tomahawk raised to brain him. Guerin staggered backward and a hand fell upon his shoulder.
“You’re a very lucky man,” Squires said. “The place has been tied up in probate for months. You get first crack.”
Guerin stared, recovering from his fright. “But the price. Surely the three thousand I have is not sufficient.”
Squires waved his concern away. “The old boy who ran the place croaked awhile ago, and his heirs are back east. They don’t know junk. I told ’em it’ll cost two grand just to haul the stuff away and they begged me, ‘Sell. Sell the junk?’”
He patted the wooden Indian on the cheek and took Guerin back toward the front. “So you get all this,” he continued, “and ten more years on the original lease.”
They emerged into the light where Adele waited impatiently by the door. Squires ran his hand over an old brass cash register as he moved behind the counter to sweep aside a curtain there. He pointed in at a small room, where the corner of a single bed was visible. “There’s even a living quarters here in the back.”
Adele’s mouth fell open. “What? Live in this rat’s nest?” She hurried to Guerin’s side. “You don’t know what’s going to crawl out of there in the night... and who’s going to cook for you?”
Guerin patted her hand, then moved forward to peer into the tiny room which contained, besides the bed, a kitchenette, a small table, and a battered easy chair with a reading lamp beside it. He stepped inside and turned a knob on the stove. A jet of blue flame leaped up from a burner. He tried the sink faucet, and a stream of clear water gushed out. He turned to face Adele and Squires.
“This is a come-back neighborhood,” Squires said. “It’s a steal for a man of vision.”
Guerin found himself nodding. “I used to have vision,” he said, softly.
“Guerin!” Adele cried.
Squires nodded, waving his notepad. “I know, Mr. G. We checked you out.”
“This place has a nice feeling,” Guerin said, warming.
“It’s where you belong,” Squires said.
Guerin nodded thoughtfully. “A market probably is a great deal of trouble.”
Adele’s eyes had begun to glaze. “He’s lost his mind,” she wailed.
“I took your best interest to heart,” Squires said, stepping forward, his hand outstretched.
Guerin hesitated. His gaze went upward, to a shelf where a dusty candelabra stood, its cups cast in the shape of cherubs, which seemed to dance in the glint of the stove’s blue flame.
“I’ll take it,” he said, and felt Squires’s large hand envelop his. Adele stood weeping in the doorway.
Guerin stood outside his shop in the balmy air of a fine spring morning, nodding approval as the sign painter he had engaged leaned from his ladder for one last stroke. TAHITI JUNK SHOP, it read, with Guerin’s name in script just to the side and the replica of a tiny island with a palm tree added for a logo.
Guerin motioned the man down and handed him some bills, then went back inside his shop. Caruso opera issued scratchily from an ancient Victrola placed beside the front counter. Behind the counter he had hung a thermometer-like sales chart with the legend $10,000 — Off for the Islands scrawled at the top. He smiled and moved to lift the needle as the music stopped.
Behind him the doorbell of the shop tinkled and he turned to greet his first customer... only to find Adele advancing upon him, her face gray and sunken.
“Adele,” he said, hopefully, “you’ve come for a little shopping.”
She patted at her cheeks with a handkerchief. “I came to talk sense to you. Did you sign anything yet? Tell me it’s not too late.”
Though he felt impatience, her despair was disarming. He took her hand reassuringly. “Adele, a little less gloom, if you please. I am a proprietor now.”
A thump sounded at the front window then and they turned to see the wino glowering in at them. Adele banged her purse against the glass and the man slunk away. She turned back.
“Wonderful. A roomful of junk, in the middle of hell. That’s what you’ve got.”
Guerin took a deep breath, determined not to argue. While he understood the necessity of risk, he could not expect Adele to sympathize. He took her arm and drew her down the aisle.