Two

AFTER A LOT LONGER THAN FIVE MINUTES, Gavin became restless. There was no sign of his getaway accomplice. His mind wandered through its familiar paths, ending up where it always did—Josephine. He knew that he had been a jerk to her on the phone, but he knew she’d forgive him. She had always forgiven him—almost always.

As the July sun beat down, Gavin scrolled through listings in his phone. He stopped at the old thumb-sized picture of her that served as her dialing icon.

How long would it take her to discover that he’d ducked out? He debated calling her and decided against it. If she found out that they’d had to exit the store, she’d arrange for a signing table to be set up on the curb or in the parking lot or something. Knowing her, she’d probably give away a bunch of free books or find a way to make Damien Marksman towels to dry everybody off to make it up to all of them.

The tiny digital image of her gleamed a million-dollar smile back at him as if she already knew somehow. Even worse, if he told her that he had hung out with the guy who’d tripped the alarm, she’d suspect that Gavin had put him up to it. The fact that he was hiding behind pallets at the back of the store wouldn’t help his case either.

He slid her image downward with his thumb. The directory displayed the entry above hers: Monica Garcia. It figured that Monica’s listing would come directly before Josephine’s. He tried to remember the last time he spoke to the woman.

Six months ago? Maybe nine?

She had finally stopped calling when she had left Newport Beach and returned to college.

He’d done his best to keep the news of the divorce from her for fear it would start everything back up again. While Josephine had moved on, Gavin wasn’t ready to start up a life with Monica Garcia or anyone else.

Even so, he hadn’t deleted the number of his former mistress, maybe to spite Josephine, or maybe because he genuinely regretted how the two-month affair had turned out for the girl. She wasn’t to blame, after all. He had propositioned her.

Though he’d never said it, he regretted hurting Jo. She had deserved better. He had been stupid.

He paced beside a long, blue trash compactor, the stench of it bringing him back to the present. He grumbled to himself, “How can that smell be so bad? It’s only boxes and packing supplies.” Then he remembered the bookstore’s coffeehouse. The combination of milk, creamer, and other additives with the July heat made for a noxiously sour concoction.

Gavin inadvertently scraped his foot across the flattened carcass of a frog. He jumped back at the realization and fitfully shuffled the stiffened remains to the side. A disturbing childhood memory of a botched frog dissection flooded his mind. “Jeez, this is so gross back here.”

Gavin stared back at the icon of Monica on his phone. Tapping a series of commands on the device, he deleted her entry forever and tucked the phone away. He sighed and resumed pacing. He considered peeking around the corner to see if everyone had cleared out but decided not to chance it.

Where was the stocker? Were there people still waiting out there? Maybe Hastings figured out that the stocker had tripped the alarm. It could be hours before he came back. Maybe he had forgotten him. That was entirely possible, maybe even likely. “Mr. Cutter”—sheesh!

When he could no longer stand it, Gavin snatched his damp jacket off the waist-high stack of pallets and shuffled down the narrow, fenced-in pathway in search of a book of matches or a lighter for the two remaining cigarettes.

Why didn’t he offer to buy the lighter from the boy?

Before twenty minutes ago, it had been nearly two months since Gavin had smoked. His on-again, off-again battle with nicotine had been a fixture of his personality since he was a sophomore in college. It was the only thing in his adult life that he felt powerless over. He hated it.

Even so, when the cool sensation of grey ribbons of smoke swirled down in his lungs, it was intoxicating—an ecstasy that couldn’t be negotiated with. When he did give in, it was always as delicious as the lips of a siren nymph, the bittersweet taste of a million broken promises to himself. He was prepared to break that promise two more times today if only he could find a light.

Behind the bookstore, there was a rusted-out maintenance truck for the strip center. As he came closer, he peered through the windshield at the dashboard. There was a mound of empty fast-food containers, a newspaper, and several plastic Starbucks cups, but no lighter in view.

He continued down the back service way and crossed the moderately busy street, noting his path in relation to the bookstore. This was easy to do, since the behemoth’s three stories towered above the single-story structures along the way.

The last thing he needed was to get lost in Droverton, Connecticut.

As he passed an abandoned dry cleaner, a paint store, a jeweler, and a plate-glass company, he thought about how Josephine had been right about Billy. He should get the old fart something for his birthday, but what?

Billy Cavanaugh was much more to him than the editor of twenty-eight of the thirty-four Damien Marksman novels. The man had assumed the role of midwife to the stories, knowing exactly what to do when the birth had gone breech. He had talked the temperamental author “down from the ledge” every time an idea just wasn’t working, which had occurred more times than Gavin would ever like to admit. Billy was a friend, perhaps Gavin’s only true friend. He’d have to do something special for him.

The noonday sun beat down, and Gavin began to sweat. He daydreamed about how good it would feel to shower back at the hotel and then hit the bar. He was already tired of walking. The irony of getting much-needed exercise by trying to get a cigarette lit wasn’t lost on him. He quickly rationalized it, excusing a lifetime of neglect by thinking that he did exercise—just in unconventional ways. Rolling a suitcase through airports counted, didn’t it?

He tried to add up the number of airports that he had shuffled through over the last three and a half weeks. He couldn’t remember the exact tally. The fact that there had been more than he could count allowed him to conclude that he had been getting enough exercise, despite what Josephine would say.

Around the corner, someone sat at the bus stop enclosure on the opposite side of the street. The bright, neon-blue warm-up suit was unmistakable—it was Ms. Hodges. He was delighted to see her. Here was a person he felt an authentic connection with, unlike the parade of mind-numbed fans who worshiped anything that had his name stamped on it.

What he’d give to go back to writing for people like her again—writing something new, something that he could take pride in again.

He started to call out to her, but then he realized that she was talking to someone and that something didn’t look right about it. A Toyota nearly clipped him as he crossed the street to get to her. As he approached, he noted the scene. An unkempt man in tattered cargo shorts was talking to her. The imposing figure leaned in and gestured broadly at the elderly woman.

Gavin sped up to join them. The man, who Gavin guessed was a panhandler, didn’t notice his approach.

Eunice looked up from the conversation. “Oh, Mr. Curtis, what are you doing here?”

The man turned to see whom she addressed.

Before he could speak, Gavin said, “What’s your story, bud?” He glanced down and caught sight of bright white fabric peeking up incongruously from crusty, old sneakers caked in mud and filth. The socks were folded down, almost tucked into the tops of the shoes.

“What du-duh-do you mean?”

“Are you here to catch the bus or what?”

“Nuh-nuh-nuh… no… mu-mu-money,” the man stuttered as he presented a flap of cardboard with crudely formed letters written in marker.

Gavin studied the man for a moment. “No money, huh?”

“Nu-nuh-nuh… no,” the man answered with a more severe stutter than before.

“I can spare five dollars, Mr. Curtis,” Eunice offered as she began to rummage through her tote bag.

Gavin moved over to the man, his overweight belly nearly touching the panhandler’s stained orange T-shirt. “Don’t give this clown one red cent.”

“But Mr. Curtis, he told me—”

“He’s a fake and a liar.” Gavin stared into the man’s hazel eyes. After a second, the man began to blink irregularly and then tried to look away. Gavin shifted, placing himself back into the man’s line of sight.

“Miss Hodges,” Gavin said, “I’ve studied people my whole life. That’s one of the things that makes me a good writer.” Gavin stepped back. “This chump’s not for real. He probably lives in a nicer house than you and your son do, no offense.”

“How do you know?” she asked. “How can you tell?”

“Socks,” Gavin said, pointing down. “Those socks are perfectly clean. He’s not committed enough to let dirt actually touch his skin.”

“Hey, wait. You said ‘writer.’ Are you Gavin Curtis, the writer?” The man spoke without a trace of a stutter.

“Yes, he is,” Eunice offered as if she were a proud parent. “Gavin Curtis.”

“Oh, man, this is cool. This is awesome. I can’t believe that it’s you!”

Gavin switched his sports coat to the other arm and said, “I suggest you take your act someplace else.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, but can I get an autograph first?” He flipped the handmade sign over and presented it to Gavin for signing.

“Get lost, you jerk.”

The man’s elation melted to a scowl as he left.

From a safe distance, he yelled, “I think your new book sucks!”

Gavin raised his eyebrows and softly murmured to himself, “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

Eunice, perched on the bench, was enjoying the show. She adjusted the canvas bag beside her, shrugged, and winked.

Gavin looked back at the man and shouted, “Hey, wait a second!”

He turned with a look of anticipation. “Yeah?”

“Do you have a light?”

The question was answered with the man’s middle finger, lifted high.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice of him,” Eunice said with a disappointed frown.

Gavin waited until the man was safely out of sight before he reached into his jacket. “Miss Hodges, I forgot to tell you this earlier… “

A puzzled look formed on her face. “Yes? What is it?”

He produced a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “I was supposed to give you this special Gavin Curtis bookmark back at the bookstore.”

“Oh, Mr. Curtis,” she gasped as her veiny hands covered her mouth. “You shouldn’t do that.”

He shook his head. “I want to. I want you to take this and hail a cab before that creep comes back.”

“Thank you.” She waved her hands in front of her chest. “That’s too much, though. I only live about—”

He butted in firmly. “I need you to get home safely with your son’s book, okay? If there’s change left over from the ride, buy him a belated birthday cake or something, from me.”

Before he knew it, she’d given him a quick peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Curtis. Thank you so much.”

He folded the bill into her cool, soft palm.

“You’re a hero, Mr. Curtis.” He was close enough to see tears welling up in her eyes as she said, “You’re just like… like Damien Marksman.”

Ughhh. Sucker-punched.

Again, always with Damien. Would he ever be free of him?

He forced a smile, wondering what it looked like from the outside.

“Thank you again,” Eunice said, and then her expression shifted to puzzled concern, as if she’d seen something worrisome. She pulled back for a second and tilted her head, her thin eyebrows revealing an odd intensity. “You… You be careful, Mr. Curtis. I know it sounds silly… well, silly to my son, Doyle, but sometimes I… I get these feelings about people.” She forced a smile. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m such a ninny, but… please be careful, Mr. Curtis… for me, okay? I don’t know why… it’s just a feeling.”

Something about the way she said it sent a shiver up his spine. “Yeah, okay, Miss Hodges. I am. I mean, I will be.” He felt a little dumb and awkward. “I will,” he promised again, dabbing the sweat from his brow.

Gavin watched from the bus stop as Eunice disappeared from sight around the corner. Moments before, he’d offered to walk her to a street with heavier traffic to hail a cab. She had graciously refused, thanking him again with another peck on the cheek. She’d even apologized for not having a light for his cigarette, but she told him there was a Quickie Mart several blocks over.

Now that she was safely on her way, he walked in the direction that she’d indicated.

He passed a quaint establishment called The Salad Bowl. Hand-painted images of cartoon vegetables parading about on the windows made Gavin snicker. The happy faces of carrots, celery, tomatoes, and other produce indicated that the vegetables had no idea what fate would soon befall them.

“Probably no smokers in there, just a bunch of health nuts.”

Plastered to the connecting fence were various movie posters. He winced as he passed eight side-by-side advertisements for a July 4^th release. The posters were for A Chalice of Dragon’s Blood, the latest flick based on his Damien Marksman novels. Dissatisfied with the Hollywood interpretations of his books, Gavin had stopped attending the movie premiers years ago. They always focused on the gore, compounded with a ridiculous number of explosions, rather than the subtleties of character development or plot.

The recent casting of a Caucasian as Damien’s love interest in book five had caused a controversy. In Gavin’s version, the woman was a dark-skinned Haitian, and the producers opted for a skinny white girl from the Bronx.

The box office success of the films was bittersweet. It had made him a household name, but he felt dirty and couldn’t convince himself that he hadn’t sold out.

As he passed through the remains of what was once a used-car dealership, he found that he was still unable to shake the eerie feeling that had descended upon him at the bus stop when Mrs. Hodges had warned him to be careful.

He thought about it, trying to assess what had made him feel so queer, trying to understand it—to categorize it and maybe file it away for future use in some yet-to-be-written horror novel. He attempted to sort out the peculiar sensation hanging over him.

It wasn’t her exact words. Everyone tells other people to “take care” and “be safe.” No, there was something else.

He caught sight of his reflection in the dusty window of the abandoned dealership. He paused and tried to suck in his gut, but his gut wouldn’t have it, his light-blue dress shirt still drooping over the cinched belt of his khakis. The glass was too far away for him to see the day-old growth of facial hair, but he knew it was there, that rough-as-sandpaper feeling on his chin and cheeks. He saw his dark hair, long overdue for a trim, blowing in the breeze and making him look like a mad scientist in training.

There had been a time when his appearance had mattered, but not anymore, not really. Except for his recently purchased pair of white tennis shoes, Gavin looked like he’d just been released from the city drunk tank.

He sighed and resumed his trek, and his mind returned to Eunice’s warning.

He repeated her words aloud, trying to strip them of their power while simultaneously mocking himself. “’You be careful, Mr. Curtis. Please be careful for me, okay?’”

It took him a third of a book to begin to freak out readers, and she’d done it to him in eleven little words. He did need a smoke. He should just go back to the bookstore. Surely someone there would give him a light.

But, wait. In the distance, there was a red octagon blooming from a tree-trunk-sized metal pole. It read, “Stop & Shop Food Store.” He picked up his pace.

Halfway to the store, he passed a rusted-out, mammoth, two-story metal building. The look of the place resembled a large house or lodge. Because of its great size and jumbled patchwork construction of older sheets of metal woven in with newer, shinier scraps, it came off as schizophrenic.

A single red maple tree in the overgrown yard bore a sign painted on a half-sheet of plywood. Gavin read the sign aloud. “Pawn, Antiques, and Things.” As he moved closer, he read the inscription added at the bottom in parentheses. “And Small Equipement Repair.”

“Misspelled Equipment,” he told the tree.

At the end of the building was another structure made of the same oxidized siding, but this one looked more like a house. Although it was smaller in size and only a single story, the A-frame metal hut shared the other property’s overgrown vegetation.

The house had a short, open deck made of two sheets of plywood laid on cinder blocks. Plopped down in one of two cast-iron chairs was a haggard-looking woman in a jaundice-colored bathrobe. One hand clutched a coffee cup while the other flicked ashes into a coffee can on a small, round table.

A cigarette!

Gavin moved swiftly toward his target. Hand-painted on a plywood sign behind the woman was the proclamation that “Madame Kovács Sees All / Solves All.” He recognized the typography from the other sign. He smirked. At least there were no misspellings on this one.

He stepped up briskly as he compared the fiery image of the soothsayer with the creature slumped down in the chair.

He determined that if she was Madame Kovács, the sign must’ve been painted thirty years ago. Either that or the artist was being generous to avoid being hexed. Her face was as wrinkled as a crumpled paper bag—even her wrinkles had wrinkles. She flicked more ashes into the Folgers can.

He slowed down to avoid startling her. “Uh, Miss Kovács?” As he moved closer, it was clear that the artist had also edited out Madame Kovács’ most prominent feature, a harelip.

Very generous indeed.

“Excuse me, miss. Can I get a light?” He waved the pack of cigarettes like a peace flag.

Her pupils rolled around wildly like black marbles. When they finally locked on him, she squinted and grunted. The hand with the cigarette scratched at her dark bird’s-nest mound of hair. “What? What are you wanting?” She spoke in what Gavin guessed was a thick Hungarian accent.

Gavin was distracted by the faint sound of music—no bass, just a treble whine like a chorus of mosquitos. He quickly identified the source, a blue handheld radio propped up on the cast-iron table between the chairs. “Wow, I haven’t seen one of those things since the seventies. I mean, that even predates the Walkman. Did you get it from next door?”

Kovács dunked her harelip deep into the coffee cup.

If it was coffee.

When the harelip emerged, it glistened. “What you want?” She squinted at him with an even more curious look than Ms. Hodges had given. Then she gasped. “Torri?” She jumped to her feet, uttering rapid-fire shouts in Hungarian.

Gavin looked behind him to see what she had become fixated on, but nothing was there. When he turned back to her, she was trembling.

“Miss, are you—”

She shifted her attention back to him. “You leave… not good for no. Something bad, you.”

He extended a cigarette and said, “Look, just calm down. I just want a light.” He sighed. “Smoke, smoke?” he said as if by speaking in his own broken English, he could somehow meet her halfway. He advanced, stepping onto the sagging wooden deck. The plywood creaked and moaned beneath his weight.

“No! Leave this!” She motioned around as she shouted the order. “Leave now before too late!” With alarming speed, she bolted for the protection of the screen door.

“Well, hell’s bells. What’s gotten into this crazy old bat?” he said to himself while making a cursory search for her lighter or matches. He found nothing.

Her walnut-colored face glared at him through the mesh of the screen as she nervously stroked the gold links of her necklace. Gavin caught the glint of a green emerald in the shape of a pear.

Partly out of spite and partly out of frustration, he lunged at the door and yelled, “Boo!”

Madame Kovács jumped back, spilling some of the contents from the cup on her matted robe. She spouted some indiscernible phrase, which Gavin suspected was a string of curse words in her native tongue. He laughed as he moved to search the cast-iron-frame table for matches. Nothing.

The music from the transistor radio caught his attention again. He recognized the tune now. It had been at least twenty years since he’d last heard it.

… I'll have another piece of apple pie, you know it don't seem right I saw him at the sawmill yesterday on Choctaw Ridge And now you tell me Billie Joe's jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge

He picked up the radio and stared at it. From behind the screen door, Madame Kovács protested in a frenzy of curse words. Gavin had an idea and moved over to the screen door. He extended the radio, jiggling it at her.

“You want it?” he asked, pointing at it. Now that he was in striking distance, Kovács became quiet. Her glare burned through the mangled mesh of the screen at him.

… That nice young preacher, Brother Taylor, dropped by today Said he'd be pleased to have dinner on Sunday, oh, by the way

“Yes? You want? Give me a light and you can have it back.”

From behind her rushed a yipping, bug-eyed Chihuahua in full attack mode. Madame Kovács picked up the dog and shoved its barking face at Gavin from the other side of the screen door like a weapon.

This was getting absurd.

… He said he saw a girl that looked a lot like you up on Choctaw Ridge And she and Billy Joe was throwing somethin' off the Tallahatchie Bridge

Gavin sighed, disgusted with the whole affair. He stared at her for a moment, looking for the slightest hint of reconciliation. There was none, and the rat of a dog didn’t show any sign of stopping either. Gavin shook his head.

As he moved to return the transistor radio to the table, he lost his footing on an uneven part of the deck. All 263 pounds of him came down like a sack of bricks. He caught himself with his hands, and the radio went silent. Returning to his feet, he saw the fragments of the blue AM receiver on the ground beside him.

Seemingly unaware, Kovács shouted, “You go! Not good to be here!”

Gavin mumbled, “Crazy old witch, I oughta just leave it here for her and her stupid dog.”

He emptied the ashes from the Folgers can onto the ground and scooped up the pieces of the device. From his sports jacket, he produced a hundred-dollar bill and shoved it into the dirty can.

Carrying large amounts of cash while on book tours was a habit he’d started years ago. It was originally a way for him to avoid explaining his expenses to Josephine. If there was no credit card receipt for a high bar tab or a visit to a gentlemen’s club, then everyone was the happier. Even though they no longer shared bank accounts, he continued the practice. Old habits die hard and all that.

Plus, cash was a great persuader, which allowed Gavin a certain amount of control. After all, no one’s face ever lit up when he flashed a credit card, but smiling Ben Franklin knew how to party.

Gavin approached the door, and Madame Kovács shrieked.

“Look, all I wanted was a smoke.”

Before Gavin could present the money as restitution, the woman cracked the screen door and the little dog charged out. The rat of a dog nipped at his legs as Gavin carefully moved backward. Then it ran in a frenzied circle around him, apparently interpreting Gavin’s attempts to avoid crushing it as a retreat.

With a slow, steady, wide sweep of his foot, Gavin managed to gently push the dog off the deck. The dog landed on its back and yelped as it bounced. Back on its legs, it ducked under the safety of the deck, barking at him from beneath cover.

Gavin was relieved to hear that the dog still had fight in it. He didn’t want to injure the little monster, just get it out from under his feet. He could offer money for a radio, but replace a broken Chihuahua? Even he understood people’s attachments to their pets.

With the dog out of the way, Gavin returned to the screen door. Madame Kovács retreated in a panic further into the house. He slung his jacket over his shoulder, traded the can to the other hand, and grabbed the aluminum knob of the door. Then he hesitated for a moment, remembering Ms. Hodges’s creepy warning to him.

Whoa, wait a minute! What are you doing, Gav? He released his grip on the knob and peered through the mesh of the screen. For all he knew, she was calling 911… or worse, getting a gun or something. Bursting in uninvited could be considered trespassing. She’d be within her rights to defend herself from an intruder.

He immediately envisioned half a dozen headlines in whatever Droverton had for a local paper. No, it would be bigger than that. It would probably end up in the Enquirer or Publisher’s Weekly. “Famous horror author shot dead by local psychic.”

He stepped back from the door while warily scanning the entryway for signs of movement. He wondered why he’d attempted to be nice to the old hag in the first place. He could simply leave. But then he imagined retelling the story to Josephine. She’d find out—she always did eventually. She’d find out and then browbeat him for traumatizing an old woman. He didn’t need that grief.

Then he remembered the “Small Equipement Repair” next door. “Miss Kovács, I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?” As he negotiated the plywood deck, he mumbled, “So don’t turn me into a bat or anything.”

A tin bell above the door announced Gavin’s entrance into the dilapidated shop. The sharp smell of wicker, old wood, and mothballs filled the cluttered area. An assortment of stacked, mildewed trunks, suitcases, and ramshackle barstools inadvertently formed a makeshift corridor leading to the right half of the room.

Coffee can in hand and his jacket still slung over his arm, Gavin cautiously navigated the path. He took extra care so as not to bump anything that might bring the entire place down on him. His destination was a modern-looking cash register atop a dusty glass counter across the room. Above the register dangled a naked light bulb plugged into a socket. He glanced upward at an orange extension cord from the light that disappeared into the rafters.

“Hello? Is anyone in here?” Gavin asked, approaching the counter. To the right of the register, a figure slightly lowered a fully opened newspaper, exposing his eyes and the top of his nose.

“Oh, sorry,” Gavin said with a nervous laugh. “I didn’t see you there.”

The man grunted a disinterested acknowledgement as the newspaper returned to its original height. Except for his fists holding either side of the paper, the man was completely concealed.

Gavin moved closer, resting the coffee can and his jacket next to each other on the counter. He waited a few seconds for the man to finish whatever article he was reading. When nothing happened, Gavin tapped on the newspaper as if it were a door and he was politely knocking. “Uh… excuse me, customer here wanting to make a purchase… purchase services.”

The paper lowered, revealing an olive-skinned man who Gavin guessed was in his early thirties. The man’s facial features were sharp and angular. Gavin caught himself admiring his appearance, the two- or three-day-old razor stubble, the perfectly shaped eyebrows. But Gavin’s gaze stopped at the half-opened blue and grey Puma windbreaker, where copious amounts of dark chest hair swirled this way and that on the man’s half-exposed abdomen. It was like viewing the overlapping patterns of trees from above a forest. Gavin smirked.

“You really should get yourself some gold chains to finish off the look there,” Gavin said.

The man blinked slowly a few times before Gavin added, “You know, numba one gangsta and all that.” Gavin mimicked throwing gang signs and squinted his eyes to indicate his street cred.

No response.

“All right,” Gavin said, reaching for the coffee can. “Your sign says that you fix things. Can you repair this transistor radio?”

Without acknowledging the can, the man shouted, “Béla!”

Gavin jerked at the volume of the man’s voice. “What do you—”

“Béla!” the man hollered again, timed to cut Gavin off. He stared into Gavin’s eyes. This time, he stretched the syllables out, adding an inflection at the end. “B-ééééé-l-aaaaa.”

The shout made Gavin realize that he had a headache. He closed his eyes for a moment while rubbing his temples. When he reopened them, another man, presumably Béla, was emerging from an opening behind a green flannel blanket tacked to the wall. The man looked at Gavin and then at the Puma jacket man. Béla clutched a clear, half-empty Starbucks cup that contained the darkest coffee Gavin had ever seen. The green straw of the cup found its way to the man’s mouth, and Gavin heard a faint clicking sound.

There was a family resemblance between Béla and the Puma jacket man, but there were also significant differences. It was as if all of the leftover raw materials to make the Puma jacket man had been heaped together and left out in the afternoon sun: the ingredients were all there, but the baking directions hadn’t been followed. Gavin also recognized a familiar weariness in the man, the kind of tired look that creeps in after turning forty.

Without any prompting, Béla took the coffee can. He produced a pair of spectacles from the breast pocket of his white dress shirt and jiggled the can around, tilting it toward him. A second or so later, he put it down. “Radio. It’s parts for radio.”

Gavin instantly took note of the Hungarian accent, though the man’s English was far better than that of Madame Kovács next door.

“Yes,” Gavin said, having a difficult time masking his frustration. “I know that.”

The newspaper rose again, concealing the Puma jacket man’s face.

“What is all this ash?” Béla asked as he eyed him suspiciously. “Where did you get this radio? I’ve seen it before, it’s familiar.”

“It’s a long story,” Gavin said with evenly measured words. “Can you fix it?”

Béla chuckled as he reached for the plastic Starbucks cup. “Fix? Sure, I can fix.” There was the odd clicking sound again as the straw hit the man’s lips. That’s when Gavin realized that the almost-black liquid sloshing in the bottom half of the cup wasn’t coffee at all. Béla spit into the opening of the straw and wiped a strand of tobacco juice from his chin with the back of his hand. “I can fix anything.”

Gavin nearly retched, but he couldn’t look away from the tiny bubbles of saliva that lined the inside circumference of the cup like a micro-string of spit pearls.

“I should not fix this, though believe me that I can,” Béla said, looking over the rim of his glasses at Gavin. “You should buy something better for yourself.” He punctuated the sales pitch with another spit.

“Here,” he said as he bent to reach for something in the grimy glass case. Béla returned to Gavin’s line of sight with a cardboard box the size of a lunch pail. Japanese or Chinese letters covered the package. It had graphics of radio towers and what looked like busy lightning bolts happily shooting from the structures. Béla eagerly removed the lid of the box and pushed it toward Gavin. “See? This is radio and clock. It’s much better for you.”

Gavin shook his head and carefully maneuvered the Folgers can away from the plastic cup of blackened saliva. “No, I want you to fix this one.”

A dejected-looking Béla took the can, and, with raised eyebrows, asked, “Why? Why for this and not a new radio? It has clock, you know… tick tock, tick tock.” He spat again. “I show you.” Before Gavin could stop him, Béla plugged the radio into a power strip slung over the edge of the counter.

A cheery voice from the radio announced that they were listening to WHCN The River 105.9. “This is Tommy T, and I want to remind you to keep listening for when we play two bridge- or river-related songs in a row. You could win $1059 if you’re the 105^th caller when we play ‘em.”

Gavin found himself in something of a staring match with Béla as the overenthusiastic Tommy T rattled on. “We’ll be doing this promotion right up until the 5k Fun Walk next weekend when the Thanatos Bridge restoration project will be complete.”

Béla twisted the volume knob to make the DJ’s voice louder while offering an obviously forced smile. With upturned palms, Béla nodded eagerly to Gavin as if there was no way he could refuse the radio now. Gavin stared at the device for a few seconds as it proclaimed, “Cindy Nakahara won yesterday by identifying ‘Take Me to the River’ by the Talking Heads and ‘The River’ by Bruce Springsteen…”

Gavin slyly reached across as if to examine the radio but turned the volume down at the last second, fading out the peppy sound of Tommy T’s voice. That explained why he’d heard the Bobbie Gentry song. He noticed the wounded frown on Béla’s face, but he pressed on. “How much to fix the blue one?” Gavin asked. “The one you have is very nice, but I need this one. It’s portable.”

Béla spit into his straw and then dumped the contents of the Folgers can out for closer inspection. He made an exaggerated grimace, showing his reluctance. For a few seconds, he used a stubby pencil to probe the ash-covered components with the visible distaste of a pathologist examining a multiple-gunshot-wound victim.

The silence made Gavin feel awkward, so he broke it. “I’m sorry, it’s just that this one is sentimental to me.”

“Sen-ti-mental, eh, but it belongs to someone else, no?” Béla asked as he arranged the radio fragments.

“Huh? Yeah, sentimental. How much?”

“Twenty-five dollars?” He looked over his glasses again with raised eyebrows. When Gavin didn’t flinch, Béla repeated himself, this time more confidently. “Yes, fifteen minutes, twenty-five dollars.”

Gavin grabbed his sports coat from the counter, saying, “Highway robbery. It probably didn’t cost that much to begin with. Get it done in five minutes and I’ll give you fifty.”

Puma Jacket lowered his newspaper and eyed Gavin suspiciously.

Béla nodded in agreement. “You pay sixty and I do batteries for you, new ones.”

“No, just the radio,” Gavin said, removing the cigarette pack from his jacket pocket. “The batteries should be fine.”

“But the sen-ti-mental,” Béla protested.

Gavin ignored him and instead asked, “Hey, do either of the two of you have a light?”

Puma Jacket rested the paper on the counter and pointed to a small sign on the wall behind him.

No Smoking

Gavin did a double-take. Beneath the framed sign hung a picture of the two men with their arms around the harelip herself, Madame Kovács.

“It figures,” Gavin said to himself. His headache was pounding.

The newspaper returned to its original position, blocking Puma Jacket’s face. A voice from behind the paper muttered, “Nasty habit.”

Gavin shook his head, deciding that he wasn’t about to stand there and watch Béla fill his cup anymore. As he turned to wander about in the shop, Gavin waved his finger in the air, saying, “Five minutes.”

Béla acknowledged the command with the wet sound of spit splashing in his plastic cup.