By Tuesday afternoon, the bright weather was gone, replaced by a low, gloomy grey sky that dripped a steady, cold rain over the city.
The street was empty except for the occasional yellow taxi splashing through the gutters.
Ethan was sitting on a wooden crate in the dark hallway near the store's back storage room, holding a small brass screwdriver, a can of penetrating oil, and a pocket flashlight held between his teeth.
He was working on the heavy iron lock cylinder that Mr. Henderson had complained about last week. The lock was at least fifty years old, thick with grime, paint overspray, and dried-up grease that had turned into something resembling hard plastic.
CLICK-SCRAPE.
"You're gonna swallow that flashlight," Leo called out from the main room, where he was supposedly vacuuming the rug near the front entrance.
Ethan pulled the flashlight out of his mouth. "I'm not gonna swallow it. And turn the vacuum off, I can't hear the tumbler springs."
"The vacuum isn't even on, Ethan," Leo said, appearing in the doorway holding the plastic hose. "I'm just holding it so it looks like I'm working if Mr. Henderson comes out."
"You're terrible at your job," Ethan said, shining the light into the dark keyhole.
"I'm an artist, Ethan," Leo said grandly. "I don't belong in retail."
Before Ethan could tell him that artists usually had talent, the silent front door in the main room opened.
Footsteps echoed across the wooden floorboards—sharp, heavy, purposeful footsteps that definitely didn't belong to Maya or Mr. Henderson.
Ethan stood up, wiping his oily hands on his pants, and stepped out into the main shop.
Julian was standing near the rock section, holding a thick black umbrella that was dripping water onto the floorboards. He was wearing a dark grey trench coat with silver buttons and looked intensely annoyed.
"Afternoon," Julian said, his voice clipped and tight.
"Hey," Ethan said, leaning against the edge of the counter. "What's up?"
Julian walked up to the counter, setting his wet umbrella against the wooden rack. "Do you guys have a spare set of heavy-duty speaker isolation feet? The rubber ones with the threaded brass studs?"
Leo came out from the back hallway, still holding the vacuum hose like a weapon. "We have the cheap cork ones in the bin."
"I don't want cheap cork," Julian said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "I need threaded brass. Our main demo unit's rear leg snapped off during setup this morning because one of our subwoofers vibrated off the pedestal."
Ethan looked at Julian. The guy looked visibly stressed—his slicked-back hair had a few loose strands falling near his forehead, his expensive coat had a small dark water stain on the left lapel, and his hands were clenched tightly at his sides.
"We have two brass ones in the repair drawer," Ethan said calmly. "Leftover from an old stereo cabinet."
"I'll take them," Julian said, pulling out his leather wallet instantly. "How much?"
Ethan walked around behind the counter, pulled open the small wooden drawer, and retrieved two heavy brass isolation feet with black rubber bases. They were slightly tarnished, but the threads were clean and sharp.
He set them on the glass counter. "Fifteen bucks."
Julian dropped a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter without hesitation. "Keep the change."
Ethan picked up the twenty, pulled a five-dollar bill out of the register, and set it next to the brass studs. "Fifteen flat, Julian. We don't take tips."
Julian stared at the five-dollar bill for two seconds. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping near his cheekbone, but he didn't argue. He snatched the brass studs and the five-dollar bill off the glass, slipping them into his coat pocket.
"Thanks," Julian muttered, turning toward the door.
"Hey, Julian," Ethan called out before the guy reached the entrance.
Julian stopped, his hand on the door handle, looking back over his shoulder. "What?"
"Don't overtighten the studs," Ethan said, his voice even and matter-of-fact. "Brass strips easy if you force it into aluminum."
Julian looked at Ethan for three long seconds. The irritation on his face didn't completely disappear, but something like reluctant recognition flickered in his eyes.
"Right," Julian said quietly. "Thanks."
He opened the door—which swung open silently—and stepped back out into the grey rain, leaving a small puddle of water near the entrance.
Leo stared at the door, then at Ethan. "Man. He actually looked almost human for a second there."
"He was just stressed," Ethan said, picking up his oil can to go back to the storage room lock. "Gear breaking during a demo sucks."
"You're too nice, Ethan," Leo said, shaking his head as he finally turned the vacuum on with a loud, roaring hum. "I would've charged him forty bucks."
Ethan just smiled slightly, heading back into the dark hallway to finish fixing the fifty-year-old lock.
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