Half past six on a gray and darkening Friday evening, and the bell over my shop door chimed. I’d made the bell myself, and it always chimed a little early. I appreciate some advance warning. I shooed Randall toward the corner, pushing his bag into his hands and whispering “Quiet, now. Business.” My shadow flitted up toward the ceiling, so thin and wispy as to be almost invisible, and I willed her to drink. Through her, I felt a tingle of heat and the hot dusty taste of the light bulbs as she absorbed the light, causing the room to dim into darkness. A few candles on the counter, and in wall sconces, provided an eerie, not quite right illumination as the shadow swelled, filling the darkness with her own essence.
A young man stepped timidly into the shop. Through the frosted glass, I could see a few of his friends lingering outside, and urging him in. He huddled in his FUBU hoodie, gang color do-rag and discount bling, and tried to look tough and fearless. He walked with a swagger that looked a little silly in his baggy-ass pants, and attempted an insolent pout, but he was showing whites all around his eyes. “Well, hello,” I said, and he jumped a little, squinting and trying to find where my voice had come from while he looked around the dim shop.
I run a small jewelry store, though I do sell other items. I suppose it might better be called a curio shop. A dozen enclosed glass display cases show off the assorted baubles and sparklies that I’ve made or modified. Rings, necklaces, pendants and suchlike, in precious metals and stones. But I also sell gloves and hats, mirrors and small wooden boxes. A harp sits under a spotlight on a marble pedestal near the door, and in the long pause that follows the youth’s entrance, we could hear its strings humming softly to itself. Stairway to Heaven, sadly. On the counter near my elbow was a wolf’s skull, with brass and silver clockworks turning silently in the eye sockets. A coil of coaxial cable hangs on a hook on one wall, with a small, wet, beady eye bulging out of one end. An astrolabe several feet tall stood on a copper disc, tracking and measuring, oh, things. An onyx paperweight in the shape of a stallion floated just a little bit above a shelf. There are cabinets here and there that contained and kept out of sight other, even more esoteric goods. There’s a handwritten sign on my antique cash register that warns Beware of Owner: Shoplifters will be eaten.
I leaned forward, propping my elbows next to one of the candles and, if practice counts for anything anymore, seeming to melt out of the darkness. He swallowed, and crossed his harms. “I’m looking for Black Alice.”