"Oh hell, there's no sense talking to you. When will your boss be back?"
"I have no boss," he said indignantly. "I am my own boss. I _own_ this
shop."
"Oh," I said, "I see. Well, this fat guy probably works for you then.
Is he out to supper?"
His eyes narrowed. "There is no fat guy working for me. There is nobody
working for me. I work alone."
"Huh?"
"I-work-alone," he said slowly, as if he were repeating the sentence
for a sub-level moron.
"Alone?" I gulped hard.
"Alone," he said firmly.
"Oh."
"Was there anything else I could do for you, sir?" he asked bitingly.
"Before I close for the evening?"
"No. No, thank you. Thank you." I turned and walked out of the shop.
On the sidewalk, I stopped to look up at the numbers on the door. They
seemed to be the same numbers. And the three gold gilt balls hanging
over the doorway seemed the same, too. I shrugged. Perhaps I'd been
wrong. There were a lot of pawn shops on Third Avenue, and maybe I'd
just stumbled into the wrong one, being a little worked up and all. I
started walking, stopping at the next pawn shop, ready to go in.
I noticed that the grillwork fence was already up. Gone for the day. I
kept walking, stopped at two more closed, fenced shops and then decided
I'd let it go for tonight. I'd start again early in the morning,
looking for the fat old man with the bald head and the mustache. I'd
find him then, and straighten this all out.