In place of the Slushy machine stands a firearms display.
This morning the sunlight slants through the steel bars covering the windows as into a prison cell. In the distance a train howls. Hiram starts the day with a nip of bourbon and its mist still warms his throat when a man- child in plaid western shirt and faded jeans stumbles in, struggling against the wind, face masked by a bandanna. Standing just inside the shop like a shy bank robber, he pulls down the bandanna and puts an asthma inhaler to his mouth. After a moment of wheezing he removes his cap and shakes it clean.
Hiram watches the dust settle onto his recently swept tile floor. I appreciate that, friend, he says. I was just telling myself how my clean floor needed some dirt.
Hiram has a Gregory Peck voice, rich and deep. A voice you hear on wildlife documentaries.
You the owner?
Hiram raises his chin. I might be. Long as you're not about to point a six- shooter at me and proclaim this a stickup.
I'm not sticking up anyone.
The newcomer puts his Colorado Rockies baseball cap back in place and tries to stand up straight, but it's as if his body is slightly crooked. He opens his mouth to speak and pauses. The fluorescent lights fill the white cap with a glow, giving him the aura of a farm- team Jesus, eyelashes long and girlish.
Hiram pushes a bottle of hand sanitizer toward the rockabilly. Do the honors, would you?
The man takes the sanitizer in a submissive way, rubbing his hands and then reaching out for a Kleenex to dry them.
What I hear is that you and me are family.
Hiram purses his lips. How so?
My name's Jack Brown and I'm your wife's second cousin. Honey Davis. Davis is her stepfather's name. Her real father was a Hostetter, and my mother is Dorothy Hostetter, his cousin. So Honey's my second cousin. Or third, I don't know. You just ask her. She'll tell you.
I'm sure she'd sing like a bird, says Hiram. But for the moment, let's say you're telling the Lord's truth. What can I do you for?
You've got a reputation, you know that? People always talking about what a shrewd customer that Mr. Hiram Page is. I even hear you got two wives.
Hiram blinks and again purses his lips almost imperceptibly. Both are sweet and pretty. And they smile when I walk up.
Jack Brown grins. You got me there.
Did you come in just to get acquainted? asks Page.
Brown steps forward, speaks in a hush. Thing is, he says, I need to borrow some money. I got to buy a pickup.
You do.
I know what you're thinking. Just 'cause he's my wife's second
cousin he thinks he can saunter in here like the king of England and get some money for nothing. But that's not it at all.
It's not the half of it, I'd wager.
How much you give me to borrow off a carat- and- a- half diamond wedding ring? You know, as collateral.
Carat plus? That's a big diamond.
You're telling me. I'd say it's worth twenty grand.
Hiram raises his eyebrows. These days you can buy a house in Little Pueblo for less.
I got no use for a house.
Hiram sighs. A pock- faced teenager scuffles in the door. He smells like weed and looks like trouble. His oil- black hair hangs in his eyes and between the bangs his gaze slides by Hiram and Brown like they're museum pieces and he's on a high school field trip.
Hiram paces down the counter, away from Jack Brown and toward the kid. What can I do you for? Let me guess. You're looking for something? A birth certificate?
The kid is chewing gum and pauses in midchew. He shakes his head. He wears sneakers with the laces untied and spiderweb tattoo sleeves decorate his arms.
Is the drum set in the window for sale?
You bet it is, says Hiram. And if you can play a drum solo, I'll drop the price 40 percent. Hiram looks at Jack Brown and winks.
The teenager smiles. I'll try.
You interested in that diamond ring or not? asks Brown.
Let me see what you have.
I don't have it here with me.
And you want to know what it's worth?
Ballpark figure, yeah. I mean, what I could borrow for it.
I can't estimate a value on a mythical ring, says Page. King Solomon had three hundred wives, but he still knew you have to bite gold.
I can get that ring. This afternoon, most likely.
The teenager gives the drums a steady roll and drowns out Jack Brown's voice.
Pardon? asks Hiram.
I can get it, shouts Jack Brown. It! he shouts. The ring! Later today.
So where is this Star of India?
It was my grandmother's! He shouts again to be heard above the drum noise. Two teenaged girls who have just wandered in cringe and go wide- eyed.
Hiram nods. Let me guess. She's no longer among the living?
Died two years ago.
The kid kicks into a drum solo. Jack Brown shakes his head. After a moment the kid stops and calls out, I get that 40 percent off ?
You got it, Ringo, says Hiram.
The whole set?
The whole set. I'll even throw in an extra pair of sticks.
The kid smiles and extricates himself from the drum stool. I'll be back later with the money.
You do that.
Hiram calls out to the teenaged girls in the electronics aisle and tells them to give him a holler if they have any questions.
Now, where were we? he asks Brown. Oh, yes. We were tak
ing a diamond ring off your deceased grandmother. Right. Have to dig her up and soap her finger, do we?
I gave it to a woman is what I did. Now I'm having second thoughts.
Hiram smiles. Clear as mud.
I asked for it back. I'm going to pick it up later. It's early yet.
And this Ophelia? She's happy to return said expensive romantic keepsake you gave her free and easy? She hasn't sold it already?
Not if she knows what's good for her.
