husband, who looked profoundly embarrassed, was wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a down-filled parka, and one of those headbands that covers your ears but doesn’t cover your head. Sort of an almost-a-hat.
“Back? No, you can’t bring it back. But it’ll fit.” The salesman looked disgusted at the very prospect.
“I dunno. I’ll think about it.” The woman walked to her husband, who now looked profoundly relieved, but never took his hand off his inside jacket pocket, and they left.
“She’s gonna think about it. Six ninety-nine, and she’s gonna think about it.” The guy rolled his eyes a little, and then looked at us. “So what can I do for you?”
I had found a photograph of Sharon on my computer and printed it out seven times, for reasons I could not possibly explain. I took it out of my jacket pocket and showed it to the guy.
“Have you seen this woman?”
His lips pursed and one eye squinted. “You guys cops? This is a legit business here.”
“We’re not cops,” I said. “We’re her husbands.”
“Mormons?”
I shook my head. “You haven’t even heard of our religion yet. Have you seen her?”
“How do I know you’re not cops?”
“Because I would have shot you by now. Look at the picture. Have. You. Seen. This. Woman. ”
He took what could charitably be called a glance. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” I shouted. “You barely even looked at the picture!”
“Elliot,” Gregory said.
“No! We’re trying to save a woman’s life, and this guy thinks he’s a day player on Law & Order SVU !” A couple of heads turned at the back of the store.
I heard one guy near a rack of 9/11 ties say, “Are they filming here?”
“What do you want me to tell you?” the salesman asked. “I don’t memorize every face that comes in here.”
“We have some credit card records,” Gregory said before I could jump down the salesman’s throat a few inches deeper. “Would they help you trace the purchase? At least tell us what was bought?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got customers; I can’t stop everything to look up some receipts.” He motioned over to a frightened-looking man wearing an FDNY baseball cap that had probably been purchased the same day.
“Sir.” Gregory’s eyes took on a liquid, pleading quality. Either he was truly distraught, or Dr. Sandoval could have taught at the Actors Studio. “Please. This is a very important matter, and you could help enormously. Isn’t there some way?”
“Sure, there’s a way,” I muttered. “We could beat him to a pulp until he agrees to do it.”
But I don’t think the salesman heard me, because he took a long moment to search Gregory’s eyes. Without turning his head, he screamed, “Mahmoud!” A young man seemed to appear in an instant. “Sell things. I’ll be right back.”
He walked behind the counter and through a door with a bead curtain, and without being invited, Gregory and I followed him into the back room.
If the front of the store was dingy, this area was downright disturbing. An unidentifiable odor permeated, and pretty much everything was covered with a substance that lived in the netherworld between dust and grime.
The salesman settled on a metal stool behind the screen of a computer that hearkened back to a simpler, less technological time. He typed in a few lines and green text appeared on the screen. I felt like I was visiting the Hewlett-Packard Museum.
“Give me the numbers,” he said.
Gregory took Dutton’s list out of his jacket pocket and read off the transaction numbers for this store. The salesman typed them in slowly, and then pushed a button. Things whirred. Things clicked. I half expected to see a hamster running on a wheel powering the computer. If Fred Flintstone had built himself a computer, it would be newer than this one.
“It was Thursday night,” the guy said after his screen spit out more incomprehensible data. “She bought a history of Broadway musicals and a
“Back? No, you can’t bring it back. But it’ll fit.” The salesman looked disgusted at the very prospect.
“I dunno. I’ll think about it.” The woman walked to her husband, who now looked profoundly relieved, but never took his hand off his inside jacket pocket, and they left.
“She’s gonna think about it. Six ninety-nine, and she’s gonna think about it.” The guy rolled his eyes a little, and then looked at us. “So what can I do for you?”
I had found a photograph of Sharon on my computer and printed it out seven times, for reasons I could not possibly explain. I took it out of my jacket pocket and showed it to the guy.
“Have you seen this woman?”
His lips pursed and one eye squinted. “You guys cops? This is a legit business here.”
“We’re not cops,” I said. “We’re her husbands.”
“Mormons?”
I shook my head. “You haven’t even heard of our religion yet. Have you seen her?”
“How do I know you’re not cops?”
“Because I would have shot you by now. Look at the picture. Have. You. Seen. This. Woman. ”
He took what could charitably be called a glance. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” I shouted. “You barely even looked at the picture!”
“Elliot,” Gregory said.
“No! We’re trying to save a woman’s life, and this guy thinks he’s a day player on Law & Order SVU !” A couple of heads turned at the back of the store.
I heard one guy near a rack of 9/11 ties say, “Are they filming here?”
“What do you want me to tell you?” the salesman asked. “I don’t memorize every face that comes in here.”
“We have some credit card records,” Gregory said before I could jump down the salesman’s throat a few inches deeper. “Would they help you trace the purchase? At least tell us what was bought?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got customers; I can’t stop everything to look up some receipts.” He motioned over to a frightened-looking man wearing an FDNY baseball cap that had probably been purchased the same day.
“Sir.” Gregory’s eyes took on a liquid, pleading quality. Either he was truly distraught, or Dr. Sandoval could have taught at the Actors Studio. “Please. This is a very important matter, and you could help enormously. Isn’t there some way?”
“Sure, there’s a way,” I muttered. “We could beat him to a pulp until he agrees to do it.”
But I don’t think the salesman heard me, because he took a long moment to search Gregory’s eyes. Without turning his head, he screamed, “Mahmoud!” A young man seemed to appear in an instant. “Sell things. I’ll be right back.”
He walked behind the counter and through a door with a bead curtain, and without being invited, Gregory and I followed him into the back room.
If the front of the store was dingy, this area was downright disturbing. An unidentifiable odor permeated, and pretty much everything was covered with a substance that lived in the netherworld between dust and grime.
The salesman settled on a metal stool behind the screen of a computer that hearkened back to a simpler, less technological time. He typed in a few lines and green text appeared on the screen. I felt like I was visiting the Hewlett-Packard Museum.
“Give me the numbers,” he said.
Gregory took Dutton’s list out of his jacket pocket and read off the transaction numbers for this store. The salesman typed them in slowly, and then pushed a button. Things whirred. Things clicked. I half expected to see a hamster running on a wheel powering the computer. If Fred Flintstone had built himself a computer, it would be newer than this one.
“It was Thursday night,” the guy said after his screen spit out more incomprehensible data. “She bought a history of Broadway musicals and a
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