"There it is," Kelp said, and there it was: Dunkin' Donuts, with its steamy window full of do(ugh)nuts. Kelp pootled around a while longer, found a parking place at the far end of a nearby row, and he and Dortmunder squelched through the slush and the hopeless vehicles to find Victor seated at a tiny formica table in the Dunkin' Donuts, actually dunking a do(ugh) nut into a cup of coffee.
Kelp's nephew Victor, a small neat dark-haired man who dressed as though he were applying for a job as a bank teller, was more than thirty years of age but looked barely out of his teens. His slenderness and boyishly unlined face helped to give that impression, confirmed by the eager anticipatory quality of his every expression. What he most looked like was a puppy seen through a pet-store window, except he didn't have a tail to wag.
"Mr. Dortmunder!" he said, hopping to his feet and sticking out the hand with the dunked do(ugh)nut in it. "Nice to see you again." Then be realized he was still holding the do(ugh)nut, chuckled sheepishly, stuck the whole thing out of sight in his mouth, wiped his hand on his trousers, stuck it out again, and said, "Muf nur muf."
"That goes for me, too," Dortmunder told him, and shook his sticky hand.
Victor gestured for them to sit at his table, while he hurriedly and noisily swallowed, then said, "Coffee? Donuts? Uncle?"
"Not for me," Dortmunder said. Neither he nor Kelp had taken the invitation to sit.
"Victor," Kelp said, "I think we'd just rather go see this fellow Porculey, okay?" Kelp tended to get a little nervous when in the presence simultaneously of Dortmunder and Victor.
"Oh, sure," Victor said. Standing beside the table, he gulped his coffee down, patted his mouth with a paper napkin, and said, "All set."
"Fine," Kelp said.
Victor led the way outside, and turned right, to walk along the semi-protected sidewalk. The few other pedestrians slogging past weren't even trying to look imbued with Christmas cheer. A roof extended over the walk, but a gusty cold breeze shot little clumps of wet snow in under it from time to time. Kelp, his uneasiness expressing itself in a fitful desire to keep some sort of conversation going, said, "Well, Victor. Still got your old Packard?"
"Oh, yes," Victor said, with his modest little chuckle. "It's a fine car. Ask the man who owns one."
"Do you want us to follow you, or should we all ride in the Packard?"
They were just passing one of the empty stores; black windows, a bit of trash in the doorway. "We're here," Victor said, and stopped.
This was so unexpected that Kelp and Dortmunder kept going, until they realized they'd left Victor behind. When they looked back, Victor was knocking on the glass door of the empty store.
Now what? The door was opening and light was spilling out into the snowy dark. A voice was speaking, Victor was grinning and replying, Victor was crossing the threshold, smiling and gesturing for Dortmunder and Kelp to follow. They did, and entered another world.
The stocky man who shut the door behind them remarked, genially, "Terrible out there tonight," but Dortmunder paid no attention, absorbing the interior of the store. In its most recent commercial manifestation it had apparently been a women's clothing boutique, the long narrow space separated into sections by platforms of various heights, all edged with elbow-high black wrought-iron railings, each platform covered in carpeting of another color, all shades of blue or gray. With the walls covered in burlap painted dark blue and the plate glass windows painted black, the final effect was somewhere between a garden and a garret, flooded in moonlight.
Probably when the platforms had borne racks of skirts and sweaters and jumpsuits the garden effect had been predominant, but now the feeling was much more of a garret, helped by the bits of clothing and old rags draped carelessly over most of the railings. The nearest couple of platforms featured ratty pieces of living-room furniture, while a platform toward the middle bore several plain wooden kitchen chairs and an old trencher table. Toward the rear were two easels, a high stool, and a library table covered with the impedimenta of painting: tubes of color, water glasses full of slender brushes, rags, palette knives. Unframed canvases were stacked in corners and hung on the walls. Above the easels, the standard shop ceiling gave way to a recess containing a domed skylight.
The store was warm after the snowy night outside, and despite its narrow length and endlessly shifting levels, it was somehow cozy. People lived here, you could see that, and had made a place of their own in what had once been a desert of impersonality.
People. Two of them, one a girl of about twenty curled up on the sofa, with an old plaid throw rug draped across her legs. She was slender, but with roundness and softness, like the world's tastiest peach, and her smile made her cheeks plump and delectable. Dortmunder could have gone on looking at her for thirty or forty years, but he forced himself to give some attention to the other person as well.
This was the man who had let them in. He was a roly-poly sloppy man of about fifty, wearing bedroom slippers, paint-stained dark corduroy trousers, a mostly-green plaid shirt and a dark green ratty cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches. He hadn't shaved today, and it was possible he hadn't shaved yesterday.
Victor was making the introductions, announcing each name as though that person were a particular discovery of Victor's own: "Griswold Porculey, I'd like you to meet my uncle, Andy Kelp, and his friend, Mister John Dortmunder."
"W'r'ya," Dortmunder said, shaking Porculey's extended hand.
"How do you do. How do you do. Victor's uncle, eh?"
"His mother is my older sister," Kelp explained.
Porculey gestured at the girl on the sofa, saying, "And this is my friend, Cleo Marlahy, an ever-present comfort."
Throwing off the throw, Cleo Marlahy uncurled her legs and sprang to her feet, saying, "Coffee? Tea? Wine?" Then doubtfully, to Porculey, "Do we have any liquor?"
"We might have vermouth."
"I'd love some coffee," Kelp said. Dortmunder said, "Me, too."
Victor said, "May I have wine? I'm older than I look."
Porculey said, "Red or white?" "Red, please."
"Done," said Porculey. "We don't have any white."
.The girl was wearing black velvet pants and a white blouse. She was barefoot, and her toenails were painted an extremely dark red; the color of drying blood. She bounded away on these feet like the little mermaid, while Porculey directed his guests into chairs and himself dropped with a grunt into the sofa.
Kelp said, "This is quite a place. Very clever idea."
"Only rent I could afford," Porculey said, "to get this much space and north light." He gestured toward the skylight. "They gave me a good rent," he went on, "because they had so many empty stores, and because I agreed to make one or two turns around the place after the shops all close. Sort of a night watchman. Cheaper for them, cheaper for me. I'm a night bird anyway, and I walk anyway, so it's no hardship. We took down the partitions in the changing rooms, put our bedroom back there. Only problem's the lack of a kitchen, but we don't need much. Couple of hot plates, little refrigerator, use the sink in the lay. Perfect, really. They give more heat than any landlord in my experience, there's no nosy neighbors to poke and pry, and any shop I want is right outside that door."