“Morning, young man,” he boomed cheerily. “What can I do you for, eh?”
Andy swung the bag up. “Good morning. I need a little ready cash,” he said.
“That’s what I’m here for, eh? Nice bag you’ve got there.”
“I know.” He did not want to bargain any more. He wanted to hock the damn bag and get the hell out of here and over to the Union Floor. There was an overwhelming and sudden desire within him, a desire which had been there all along but which he could no longer deny, a desire which urged him to get some money and get out, get over to the Union Floor, get what he needed, and get it fast.
“Good leather,” Daniels said. “Must have cost you a bit, young man.”
“It cost me plenty,” Andy said harshly. “How much?”
“Ten,” Daniels said.
“This street is lined with stick-up artists,” Andy said, more irritated now. “I want fifteen.”
“You won’t get it here, son.”
“How much will I get?”
“Ten,” Daniels said. “I give a price, and I stick to it. I don’t underquote and then wait to be jacked up.”
“You said ten?”
“That’s what I said.”
Andy hesitated. “This is a good bag,” he said weakly. His feet were beginning to tap. He wanted to get out of here very badly, he wanted to get out of here and over to the Union Floor, where he might contact Rog or somebody — somebody who could help him get what he wanted and what he needed.
“Assuredly, it’s a good bag. I’m thinking of resale if you don’t claim it. People don’t like to buy second-hand luggage. They like their luggage new.”
“Who you trying to kid?” Andy said. “I know guys who wear secondhand suits.”
“Yes, but these are not the people who need luggage. A man who needs luggage is a man who travels. And a man who travels is a man who can afford a new bag. How do I know what you kept in this bag?”
“Ten dollars is your price?” Andy said.
“My only and final price.”
“For ten dollars I can tell you what I kept in this bag.”
“And what was that?” Daniels asked.
“Horseshit,” Andy said. He yanked the bag from the counter and started for the door. Daniels did not call him back. He banged out of the shop, walking blindly into the crowd, really angry now, and desperately wanting to get rid of the bag. Why should a guy have so much trouble? Why were they all against him? For Christ’s sake, what was a guy supposed to do, penned up in a rattrap apartment, watched all the time, everybody watching as if he were a prisoner or something, and now these lousy bastards trying to con him out of the bag, taking him for some damn idiot.
He opened the door of the next shop, and he heard the bell tinkle, and the tinkle irritated him. A fat man in a worn overcoat was trying to hock a bellows camera, shaking his head at each new price the proprietor quoted. Finally, the fat man said, “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Taller. I am very sorry, but you are not doing my intelligence justice. I’m sorry, Mr. Taller, but after all these years, I think I must take my business elsewhere.”
Taller, a man who was almost as fat as his potential customer, cocked his head philosophically. “Mr. Peters, I am sorry, too, believe me.”
Peters picked up his bellows camera and the remnants of his dignity and walked proudly out of the shop, his head high. Taller waddled over to where Andy was standing.
“Yes, sir?” he said.
“I want to hock this bag,” Andy said. “I want fifteen bucks for it, and I know it’s worth that much, so don’t give me a song and dance.”
Taller looked at Andy carefully, an expression of mild surprise on his face.
“You get right down to business, don’t you?” he said.
“I do. What do you say?”
“Slow down,” Taller said. “That’s what I say. You’ve been in here before, haven’t you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You’ve been in so many hock shops, you can’t remember which you’ve been in?” Taller asked.
“Look, will you give me fifteen? Yes or no?”
“Maybe,” Taller said, shrugging. “I got to look at the bag first, don’t I? You won’t deny me this privilege?”
“Go ahead, look at it.”
“You’re in a hurry?” Taller asked.
“Yes, I’m in a hurry.”
“Then maybe you should take your business someplace else. I’m a fat man. I don’t like to move fast. Of course, the bag may be worth fifteen dollars. I’ll have to examine it. Carefully.” He eyed Andy expectantly.
For a moment Andy wanted to grab the bag and get the hell out of the shop, show this fat slob he didn’t have to take any guff from him. But the possibility of getting fifteen bucks outweighed the necessity for proving himself superior to this tub of lard.
“I’ll wait,” he said. “Look the bag over. Take all the time you want. Get out your magnifying glass if you want to. Only, let’s get on with it.”
“Younger generation,” Taller said, shaking his massive head. “Always in a rush. Going to bum out your engine before you’re thirty, you know that, don’t you?”
“I’ll worry about that when I’m thirty,” Andy said. “Do you think it’s worth fifteen?”
“I haven’t looked at it yet.”
“I was hinting subtly,” Andy answered, trying a smile, but knowing he was incapable of a smile. Suppose he missed Rog? Suppose Rog was there, and he missed him? What the hell would he do then? Come on, Fatso, get off your dead rump. Move!
Taller took the bag between his beefy fingers. Carefully, cautiously, he began turning the bag, his eyes scrutinizing every square inch of it.
“You need this money bad?” Taller asked, turning the bag.
“What difference does it make?”
“I look at my customers like humans. The necessity sometimes determines the loan.”
“I need it bad.”
“What for?”
“That’s none of your...” Andy hesitated. He did not like Taller’s playing with him this way, did not like the careful, methodical, minute attention Taller was giving the bag. But Taller might have fifteen dollars to give him, and once he got that he could get some of the stuff, and if Rog were around he could borrow a spike. “That’s my business,” he amended.
“And loaning money is mine,” Taller said lazily. He pushed the bag across the counter with one pudgy forefinger. Andy panicked.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You’re not very friendly,” Taller said. “I like customers to be friends.”
“What the hell do you want?” Andy said. “My life history? I only came in here to hock a bag.”
“Who cares about your life?” Taller said. “I ask decent questions. I expect decent answers. What am I — a pariah?”
“I don’t know what the hell you are,” Andy said. “I thought you were a loan shark, but I think you’re Mr. Anthony instead.”
Taller smiled. “Okay, keep your business to yourself. I’m just curious.”
“I just need the money, that’s all. What difference does it make what I need it for?”
“Okay, okay,” Taller said. He shrugged and began turning the bag again, looking at it. Andy felt immense relief, and he cursed Taller again for his teasing game, and he wiped his hand across his mouth and watched the fat loan shark.
“A nice bag. I’m surprised you’d want to get rid of it.” Taller looked up suddenly, his eyes tightening. “It isn’t stolen, is it?”
“No,” Andy said.
“I can check against my stolen goods list, you know.”
“Go ahead, check,” he said confidently. Even if Bud had already discovered the theft, which was unlikely, he probably would not report it. And even if he reported it, it was much too early for it to be showing on any police pawnshop list.