No doubt about it, he thought as he hung up the phone. The Colt .44 affair had shaken him considerably. He no longer viewed his stock with the same reverence. Bit of knowledge like that goes a long way. Akin to primal childhood awakening; facts of life. Shows, he ruminated, the link with our early years: not merely U.S. history involved, but our own personal. As if, he thought, question might arise as to authenticity of our birth certificate. Or our impression of Dad.
Maybe I don’t actually recall F.D.R. as example. Synthetic image distilled from hearing assorted talk. Myth implanted subtly in tissue of brain. Like, he thought, myth of Hepplewhite. Myth of Chippendale. Or rather more on lines of Abraham Lincoln ate here. Used this old silver knife, fork, spoon. You can’t see it, but the fact remains.
At the other counter, still fumbling with his displays and wicker hamper, the salesman said, “We can make pieces to order. Custom made. If any of your customers have their own ideas.” His voice had a strangled quality; he cleared his throat, gazing at Childan and then down at a piece of jewelry which he held. He did not know how to leave, evidently. Childan smiled and said nothing.
Not my responsibility. His, to get himself back out of here. Place saved or no.
Tough, such discomfort. But he doesn’t have to be salesman. We all suffer in this life. Look at me. Taking it all day from Japs such as Mr. Tagomi. By merest inflection manage to rub my nose in it, make my life miserable.
And then an idea occurred to him. Fellow’s obviously not experienced. Look at him. Maybe I can get some stuff on consignment. Worth a try.
“Hey,” Childan said.
The man glanced up swiftly, fastened his gaze.
Advancing toward him, his arms still folded, Childan said, “Looks like a quiet half hour, here. No promises, but you can lay some of those things out. Clear back those racks of ties.” He pointed.
Nodding, the man began to clear himself a space on the top of the counter. He reopened his hamper, once more fumbled with the velvet trays.
He’ll lay everything out, Childan knew. Arrange it painstakingly for the next hour. Fuss and adjust until he’s got it all set up. Hoping. Praying. Watching me out of the corner of his eye every second. To see if I’m taking any interest. Any at all.
“When you have it out,” Childan said, “if I’m not too busy I’ll take a look.”
The man worked feverishly, as if he had been stung.
Several customers entered the store then, and Childan greeted them. He turned his attention to them and their wishes, and forgot the salesman laboring over his display. The salesman, recognizing the situation, became stealthy in his movements; he made himself inconspicuous. Childan sold a shaving mug, almost sold a hand-hooked rug, took a deposit on an afghan. Time passed. At last the customers left. Once more the store was empty except for himself and the salesman.
The salesman had finished. His entire selection of jewelry lay arranged on the black velvet on the surface of the counter.
Going leisurely over, Robert Childan lit a Land-O-Smiles and stood rocking back and forth on his heels, humming beneath his breath. The salesman stood silently. Neither spoke.
At last Childan reached out and pointed at a pin. “I like that.”
The salesman said in a rapid voice, “That’s a good one. You won’t find any wire brush scratches. All rouge-finished. And it won’t tarnish. We have a plastic lacquer sprayed on them that’ll last for years. It’s the best industrial lacquer available.”
Childan nodded slightly.
“What we’ve done here,” the salesman said, “is to adapt tried and proven industrial techniques to jewelry making. As far as I know, nobody has ever done it before. No molds. All metal to metal. Welding and brazing.” He paused. “The backs are hand-soldered.”