Bob said, “Forty-five.”
The old ladies started looking interested.
But they just stood there.
Heavy Metal edged closer to the open unit. “Fifty,” he whispered.
“Sixty,” said Asian.
The mood in the passageway got alert and tight, like strong coffee kicking in for everyone.
Asian pulled out a BlackBerry, read the screen, turned it off.
Maybe the bike was super-rare and even half of it would bring serious bucks. Bob had heard of old Schwinns- like the one he’d ditched when he turned sixteen and got his license-going for crazy money-
“Sixty-five,” said Heavy Metal.
Asian hesitated.
Bob said, “Seventy.”
Asian said, “Seventy-five.”
“Eighty,” a voice awfully like Bob’s nearly shouted.
Everyone stared at him.
Asian shrugged.
Pete looked at Heavy Metal, who’d already walked away and was massaging a tattoo.
“Eighty dollars for this trove,” said Pete. “Do I hear eighty-five? Eighty-five dollars, still a bargain at eighty- five.”
Going through the motions, not pushing it. “Going once, going twice… eighty it is.”
Banging that little plastic palm-gavel against his clipboard. Scrawling on his sheet and telling Bob, “You’re the lucky winner of the trove. Eighty bucks, cash on the barrel.”
Holding out a mottled palm for payment.
Everyone smiling. Like there was some private joke and Bob was the butt. A cold, soupy feeling filled his stomach.
“Cash, sir,” said Pete.
Bob dug into his pocket.
Later, out in the parking lot, loading the bags and the half bike into his truck, he caught the Asian guy before he got in his Beemer.
“You do this a lot?”
“Me?” Guy smiled pleasantly. “First time, actually. I’m an anesthesiologist, have to be at Marina Mercy by six, thought it might help wake me up. And it kind of did.”
“What got you bidding on fourteen fifty-five?”
Guy looked surprised by the question. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Back home by seven, flies buzzing around the yucca plants that fronted his apartment building, a cruel sun fizzing through his dusty windows, Bob unloaded the garbage bags onto the floor of his grubby little living room.
Figuring he’d catch some sleep before the first Bloody Mary of the day, then go through his haul, then call the tree farm in Saugus.
He collapsed in his bed, still wearing dusty auction clothes. Closed his eyes.
Thought about Kathy. His fine. What his brothers said behind his back.
Got up and fetched a kitchen knife and sliced through the first garbage bag.
Inside were game boxes-Monopoly, Scrabble, Risk. But cracked and messed up, missing everything except the boards.
Great.
The second bag-the heavier one-held crumpled-up newspapers. Period. Why would someone pay to store shit like this?
With a real bad stomachache coming on, Bob got down on the floor and pawed through weeks of L.A.
Oh, man, he should’ve stayed in bed.
He said “Idiot” out loud and examined the half bike.
Cheap, flimsy junk.
Disgusted, he mixed a Mary in the kitchenette, sat down on the floor, and drank. Thinking about eighty wasted bucks made him more tired than ever, but leaving the bags around reminded him he was an idiot.
Time to haul the whole damn load out back to the Dumpsters.
Finishing his Mary, he labored to his feet, tossed the papers back in the second bag, lifted.
Something rattled. Bottom of the bag.
Probably his imagination. He shook the bag hard.
Rattle rattle rattle-like one of those maracas they sold on Olvera Street, Kathy had bought him a pair of those when they were dating. Figuring, what? He was half Mexican, so he’d half like it?
He pawed through the papers, reached bottom, found the source of the noise.
Wooden box, dark, shiny. Long as a shoe box but wider, with curly brass inlay, nice lacquer finish, little brass latch holding it shut.
EBay here we come! The box alone… he’d call it exotic, imported, whatever, maybe make up a story about it coming from… Malaysia? No, something more mysterious, where was Mount Everest-Tibet… Nepal.
Exotic box-exotic jewel case-from the Nepal alps, made of solid choice mountain… looked like mahogany, he could play that up-solid choice rare Asian mahogany. Maybe stick on a
He freed the brass latch, raised the lid. Inside was a gold velvet tray.
Empty; the noise was coming from below.
He lifted the tray, exposed a bottom compartment. Inside were… little white knobby things.
He picked one up. Smooth and white, with a pointy tip, and all of a sudden Bob knew what it was without being told.
Even though biology had never been his strong point, he’d flunked it once in high school, repeated, managed a D.
A bone.
Like from a hand or a foot. Or a paw.
Lots of little bones, so many they nearly filled the compartment, didn’t make that much noise.
Had to be what… three, four dozen.
Bob counted.
Forty-two.
He examined his own hand. Three bones on each of the four fingers, two for the thumb, making… fourteen per hand.
Three hands’ worth. Or three paws’ worth. No reason to think these weren’t from an animal. Then he thought of something-maybe these came from one of those skeletons they used in medical schools, people willing their bodies to science.
Getting cut up and examined and reconstructed into skeletons using wires to hold it all together.
Nope, none of these bones had holes for wires.
Weird.
Bob picked up another of the smallest ones, held it alongside the top joint of his own index finger.
Not as big as his.
Maybe a small dog.
