lighted with neon, which it wasn't. On one side of it was an antediluvian theater shut down since vaudeville's unfortunate demise, and flanking the other side was a sign reading No Charge For Labor, telling its own story of long years of disuse. It was the same along the block in both directions and on around the corners on the adjoining streets. The several blocks had long been sold, closed, boarded, their former owners by now firmly established elsewhere. All but the shop.
The building housing it was a shotgun affair. Fifteen feet wide, it was squeezed in between the others as though it had forced them to move to allow it in—and even so had barely made it. The building left a scant six inches on either side of it, not sharing the outer walls as did so many of the buildings in the city. It was two stories high, and merged with the shadows in the rear—making it impossible to discover immediately just where it ended. The roof was of clay tile such as is found in Mexico and neighboring states, but seldom in New York, and the outside was stucco in appearance.
It was clean and neat—not at all a hazard, as Mr. Talbot had hoped. He frowned slightly as he surveyed it from across the street. The windows were waist high, in the manner of a century earlier, and were hung with cheerful blue and white curtains, making it hard to see inside from any distance. Only the door curtains were pulled aside, uncovering the glass. The panes sparkled and gleamed in a city where nothing was clean the day after the grime was removed, and the curtains would feel fresh and crisp to the touch. He was certain it was so; it reminded him vaguely of his grandmother's kitchen back in Pennsylvania when he was a boy.
On the door was the neatly lettered sign, Open, and under it another, Repair Shop. Below that sign, another listed the specifics: Television, Appliances, Radios, etc. It was the "etc." that annoyed Mr. Talbot no end. He removed his watch and deliberately hit it against the lamp post that was his support at the moment. Then, with a gleam of anticipation in his eye, he advanced toward the shop. He would see for himself.
A small bell tinkled in the manner of Swiss Melody bells for a second as he stood in the doorway, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the comparative gloom inside.
The room he found himself in was bisected by a mahogany counter, shiny from countless years of usage and polishing. Behind it were numerous shelves of various sizes, holding heterogeneous items obviously left there for repair. There were portable radios and several TV sets, irons, and coffee makers, and toasters. There was a music box with a ballerina, standing poised ready to begin her whirling; she looked as though she had come direct from a Degas painting. Each item was carefully labeled, and he could see the dates and prices for the work done penciled in on the labels. The prices seemed fantastically cheap. For the first time, he began to doubt his theory that the shop covered up a racket of some sort. It had been the only reason he could think of why the owner refused to sell. He was startled by the appearance of the man from behind the curtains that separated the outer room from the back of the building.
Talbot was five feet six inches with his shoes on, which made him a good four inches more than nature had meant him to be; but even so, he was several inches higher than the other man. And he was younger. In an age where it had seemed at times that there wasn't anyone left older than he, it came as a distinct shock to see a man, not only shorter, but older. It gave Talbot a feeling of immeasurable superiority to stare at the other man, as—unconsciously—he stretched to further the advantage of his several inches.
"May I help you, sir?" Although polite, there was none of the obsequious in the man's tone.
"My watch. I broke it." Talbot thrust the watch toward the man and awaited his reaction. The crystal was splintered, and the minute hand had
The building housing it was a shotgun affair. Fifteen feet wide, it was squeezed in between the others as though it had forced them to move to allow it in—and even so had barely made it. The building left a scant six inches on either side of it, not sharing the outer walls as did so many of the buildings in the city. It was two stories high, and merged with the shadows in the rear—making it impossible to discover immediately just where it ended. The roof was of clay tile such as is found in Mexico and neighboring states, but seldom in New York, and the outside was stucco in appearance.
It was clean and neat—not at all a hazard, as Mr. Talbot had hoped. He frowned slightly as he surveyed it from across the street. The windows were waist high, in the manner of a century earlier, and were hung with cheerful blue and white curtains, making it hard to see inside from any distance. Only the door curtains were pulled aside, uncovering the glass. The panes sparkled and gleamed in a city where nothing was clean the day after the grime was removed, and the curtains would feel fresh and crisp to the touch. He was certain it was so; it reminded him vaguely of his grandmother's kitchen back in Pennsylvania when he was a boy.
On the door was the neatly lettered sign, Open, and under it another, Repair Shop. Below that sign, another listed the specifics: Television, Appliances, Radios, etc. It was the "etc." that annoyed Mr. Talbot no end. He removed his watch and deliberately hit it against the lamp post that was his support at the moment. Then, with a gleam of anticipation in his eye, he advanced toward the shop. He would see for himself.
A small bell tinkled in the manner of Swiss Melody bells for a second as he stood in the doorway, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the comparative gloom inside.
The room he found himself in was bisected by a mahogany counter, shiny from countless years of usage and polishing. Behind it were numerous shelves of various sizes, holding heterogeneous items obviously left there for repair. There were portable radios and several TV sets, irons, and coffee makers, and toasters. There was a music box with a ballerina, standing poised ready to begin her whirling; she looked as though she had come direct from a Degas painting. Each item was carefully labeled, and he could see the dates and prices for the work done penciled in on the labels. The prices seemed fantastically cheap. For the first time, he began to doubt his theory that the shop covered up a racket of some sort. It had been the only reason he could think of why the owner refused to sell. He was startled by the appearance of the man from behind the curtains that separated the outer room from the back of the building.
Talbot was five feet six inches with his shoes on, which made him a good four inches more than nature had meant him to be; but even so, he was several inches higher than the other man. And he was younger. In an age where it had seemed at times that there wasn't anyone left older than he, it came as a distinct shock to see a man, not only shorter, but older. It gave Talbot a feeling of immeasurable superiority to stare at the other man, as—unconsciously—he stretched to further the advantage of his several inches.
"May I help you, sir?" Although polite, there was none of the obsequious in the man's tone.
"My watch. I broke it." Talbot thrust the watch toward the man and awaited his reaction. The crystal was splintered, and the minute hand had
Similar Books
