Damaged Goods

by Heather Sharfeddin

  “Coke, I guess.”

  The girl nodded. “I’ll bring it right out.”

  “Do you know where Hershel is?”

  “He’s trying to get more help for the floor. Carl didn’t show.” The girl disappeared before Silvie could ask any more questions.

  She glimpsed Kyrellis as he took a seat in the front row. He nodded, keeping her in his sights.

  “A newbie,” the bully said, now standing where the concession girl had been. “What’s your name?”

  She considered him coolly but didn’t answer, which she knew would piss him off. She’d been appraised by too many men, some twice the age and income of this asshole. He might as well understand right now that she wasn’t giving what he was looking for.

  He leaned an elbow against the lectern, too close to her thigh—a bold act. His beard was cropped short, and he rubbed it with his palm. “Haven’t seen you around? Where you from?”

  “Mars,” she said.

  He laughed, but his eyes darted around the floor now.

  “Don’t you have things to do, Stuart?” It was Hershel, and his voice boomed, even with the noise of the crowd. The man jumped.

  “Just welcoming the new help, boss.”

  “She’s not ‘the help.’ She’s a friend of mine who was kind enough to do us a favor.”

  He nodded to Silvie. “Good luck.”

  Hershel took his place, squeezing Silvie’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry—you’ll be able to keep up with me. It’s a lot easier these days.” He took up his microphone, thanked the crowd for coming, and opened the bidding on a tap-and-dye set.

  22

  The smooth rhythm of Hershel’s auctioneering lulled Silvie, and she found herself losing track of the items and becoming swept up in the way he sang out the numbers. This man she’d come to know as hesitant in his speech and slow to find his words rolled through items with perfect tempo. Occasionally Stuart called out the name of an item when Hershel paused a beat too long, but they worked together like old partners. She scribbled down names, prices, lot numbers, and bidder numbers until her hand ached. Before she knew, it was nine o’clock. As she recorded the sales of glass doorknobs, six-panel fir doors, tin ceiling tiles, plaster molds, and dozens of other things she’d never heard of and had no idea how to spell properly, she began to see the potential in this weird business. In the run of ten minutes she guessed they’d sold a thousand dollars in merchandise, yielding more than three hundred dollars in commission. And all Hershel had to do was open his doors to bring it in and see it out again, in the span of a week. She glanced up at him as he called the numbers on a pristine porcelain sink from the 1930s. What she didn’t know about this man.

  “Okay, folks,” Hershel said after wrapping up the bid. “We’re doing something a little different tonight. We’re taking a fifteen-minute break. Come down and look at what we’ve still got. There’s lots of stuff down here that’s been hiding.” He switched off the microphone and bent down to Silvie’s ear. “You’re doing great. How do you feel?”

  She sat back, grateful for the pause in the frenetic pace. Her neck muscles were tense and her shoulders stiff. “I’m fine, but it’s harder than it looks.”

  “We’re halfway there.”

  Halfway? She tried to hide her dismay.

  Silvie wound through the crowd that descended from the bleachers and mingled on the sale floor. She scanned the room for Kyrellis, keen to keep her distance. The girl in the concession stand was so busy she didn’t notice Silvie, and Silvie didn’t wait for her, pouring herself a cup of Coke and grabbing a bag of popcorn. It was a poor supper, but better than nothing. And the smell of it had been teasing her all evening.

  Hershel wrapped up the sale at ten minutes to two. His head throbbed, but he’d gotten into a smooth pace where the names came back to him easily, and in his revelry he couldn’t bring himself to end the event sooner. The temporary floor men had taken to leaning on boxes until it was their turn to move something. Only Stuart seemed to appreciate the long night, maintaining his stamina and even smiling.

  Hershel could see that Silvie was exhausted. She sat back limply, yawning. “I’m sorry. I should have finished up earlier. You’re tired.”

  “I’m okay,” she said, straightening up in her seat.

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the real work had only just begun. Bidders had been checking out all evening, but the majority had remained for the exceptionally good merchandise tonight. And now they would line up to pay, find their items, and load them up. The crew in the back room would need Hershel’s help in exchanging the receipts for items. There would be squabbles over what they did and did not buy, especially with firsttimers. They didn’t know they were paying by the piece and had taken all twenty, or they thought they’d bought one thing but in fact had bid on something else. Once everyone paid, Linda would tally the receipts, and Hershel and the crew would stay until everything balanced to the penny. Stuart would sweep up after he’d helped the buyers load their items. They had at least two hours of work ahead of them.

  He handed Silvie his keys. “Why don’t you take the truck and head home? I’ll walk. You’re tired, and I’ve got more work to do.”

  “I can stay,” she said, yawning again. “What do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to go home and get some rest.”

  She seemed relieved that he hadn’t taken her up on the offer, and pulled on the work shirt she’d taken from his closet.

  “Are you sure you want me to take the truck? I can go through the orchard.”

  “I don’t want to have to send out a search party,” he teased, but still he watched her walk to the door.

  He stepped down onto the sale floor and headed toward the back room, but something caught his eye. An attorney’s bookcase in oak, with leaded-glass doors and brass knobs. It was identical to the one in his living room. He must have walked past it a thousand times in the past few months, but something about its twin, sitting here on the sale floor, slid its origin into place. It was from the Pete Ellis estate, and Hershel didn’t put the bookcase in the sale. He’d hauled it home and installed it in the living room. When Pete’s widow asked how much it went for, knowing it should bring more than a thousand dollars, Hershel had shrugged and said, “Couple hundred. Didn’t itemize everything.”

  She had insisted that it must have brought more.

  “Maybe so. Can’t remember exactly,” he’d said. “Sold a lot of stuff.”

  Very little that Hershel had forgotten felt good to remember. He stepped into the back room and helped the next person in line. He wandered into the catacombs in search of the shoe rack that number 361 had purchased for five dollars.

  Kyrellis, leaning against his car door, watched for Silvie. He was about to give up when she emerged into the damp night. As she walked toward Hershel’s truck he followed her, picking up his pace. She struggled with the lock in the dim light, and leaned a shoulder against the truck.

  “Evening, Silvie. How was your first night?”

  She started and let out a shriek.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  She kept a wary eye on him, but said nothing.

  “Can we talk?”

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t we go to my car?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She brushed her hair over her shoulder and stood to her full height.

  “It’s around front. Where there are other people who can hear you scream.” Kyrellis surveyed the empty back lot as if to make his point. “Besides, I have something for you.”

  He slid into the driver’s seat of the big Impala and gestured toward the line of customers waiting to pay for their items. “See, nothing to fear.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

  “I’m glad. I’m not going to hurt you.” He leaned over and popped the glove box and took out a photograph.

  She recognized it instantly and snatched it away
from him, then rummaged through the open compartment, looking for others.

  “It’s the only one.”

  “Where are the rest?”

  “In a safe place.”

  She shoved the picture into her backpack and zipped it tight.

  “If you want them, there are some things you can do for me.”

  “Like what?” Her face had gone hard.

  “Tell me about Jacob Castor.”

  “How do you—”

  “I told you I’d get his name one way or another.”

  “Did Hershel tell you?”

  “You’re learning. Perhaps you can’t trust him like you thought you could.” Kyrellis seized on this opportunity. “He is all about money. I’ve know the man a long time, and he’ll do anything for money.”

  Silvie turned away.

  “He asked about you.”

  “Who?”

  “Our friend Sheriff Castor, of course.” Kyrellis took a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard and held it out to her. She shook her head, and he extracted one, taking his time lighting it. “You matter to him.”

  “He just wants to know where I am so he can kill me.”

  “I thought of that, too. Do you know any of the other girls in the photos?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head.

  “I won’t tell him where you are. Unless you refuse to help me.”

  She wiped at her cheek, and he realized that she was crying.

  “This doesn’t have to be difficult.” He rested his hand on her thigh. She tensed. “I’ll give you a little time. Why don’t you come see me tomorrow? After you’ve had some sleep. I can see you’re tired.”

  “And then you’ll give me the photos?”

  “We can negotiate that. Here, I’ll give you my card. It has my address on it.” He glanced out at the dwindling line of bidders. “Hershel always spends Wednesdays here cleaning up. He won’t even know you’re gone.”

  She took the card and reached for the door handle.

  “Did you care for him at all?”

  She looked back as if she couldn’t say for sure. It gave him hope. He didn’t want the situation to be as bleak as it appeared. If there had been feelings between them, anything warm at all, it was better. She shoved the door open and got out, slamming it behind her.

  At Hershel’s house, Silvie looked at Kyrellis’s card. Oregon Premier Roses. He sold roses? How bizarre and unexpected. She had assumed he was something like a crew boss for road construction or metalwork. Roses? Roses had never been her favorite flower. Jacob always offered her roses after doing unspeakable things to her.

  She could still make out the scars on the insides of her elbows where he’d bound her too tightly, then gotten drunk while looking at her. The cords he’d used were thin and acrylic, and they cut into her flesh before he finally relented and let her go. He was horrified when he saw what he’d done, and he bought her roses. Silvie saw no romance in them.

  Silvie stifled a wry smirk, thinking it was somehow appropriate and even poetic that a man who sold roses would blackmail Jacob Castor. What had they said to each other? Jacob probably shouted. He got verbally abusive when anyone confronted him. Kyrellis probably talked in that smooth, soft voice, believing he had the upper hand. Did Kyrellis regret his plan? Was he smart enough to realize that Jacob was a man who must always have the upper hand? He met every challenge as if it were a personal affront. When they were out together he would say to her, “See that man?” He’d point to any man; it didn’t matter who. “He probably thinks he’s hot shit. But he’s nothing. He’ll never accomplish half of what I’ve done in my lifetime.” To Jacob, every man was someone to upstage.

  She tucked the business card into her backpack and climbed the stairs to bed. She felt an eerie sense of calm, a sheer exhaustion in her bones that came from something deeper. She brushed her teeth and showered the cigarette smoke out of her hair. Walking down the hall she reached for the knob to the guest room, then kept going and slid into Hershel’s bed. She couldn’t risk alienating him. As she lay in bed, the sheets pulled up to her chin, her mind buzzed with the day ahead.

  Kyrellis had no idea what he’d gotten into, and if Silvie didn’t believe Jacob was planning to kill her she would call him herself and let him know where he could find his pictures. She lingered on the idea. What if she did call him? She could be gone before he got here. She let that scenario play out for a few minutes: Jacob would show up here and start questioning everyone as if he were the law wherever he went. He’d swagger through the Berry Barn and sneer at the locals as if they were beneath him. He would find her car at Hershel’s business and pelt him with questions. She could see poor Hershel unable to answer them as quickly as they came at him. Jacob might become suspicious of him, and God knows what he would do. Kill him? It was not outside the realm of possibility.

  She rolled onto her side, resigned to the fact that she didn’t want to hurt the people here. Not Karen, not Carl, not anyone. Jacob Castor brought hurt wherever he went; there was nothing to be gained by bringing him here. She pressed her head back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. She closed her eyes and steeled her will to meet Kyrellis’s request. If that’s what it took to get the photos back, fine. That’s what she would do.

  23

  Hershel left Silvie sleeping and prepped himself to head back to the auction barn. As he shaved, he studied his face in the mirror. The scar across his forehead was still purple-red, but fading. It gave him a gangster-like appearance that he suspected the old Hershel would appreciate much more than the new one. He’d changed so much in the past few months, but not as rapidly as in the past few days. He turned and gazed through the bedroom door at Silvie, strands of hair like corn silk cascading over the pillow, her hands drawn up in tight little fists beneath her chin. She slumbered so peacefully. She had made him look at his life differently, to see what was truly important. Had he ever been a predator, as Kyrellis had suggested, he was no longer. If he had murdered Albert Darling, and he questioned whether he had, this Hershel could not have done so. But these questions only left him wondering who he was. Could he ignore his past? Pretend it wasn’t relevant?

  He rinsed his razor in the sink, tapping the water out of the blades and toweling the moisture from his face. His mind felt sharp and clear today. He glanced around the bathroom, naming objects in his head: soap, mirror, sink, cologne, bath mat. Bath mat. He wouldn’t have remembered that one a day ago.

  On his way out, he bent over Silvie and kissed her cheek. She woke and stared up at him, looking bewildered.

  “Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m heading to work.”

  “Can I borrow your truck?”

  “I’ll leave the keys on the counter.”

  “I need to get some new shoes for work.” She smiled at him, and he melted inside.

  “Go back to sleep,” he said again. “It’s still early.”

  Downstairs, he paused in front of the bookcase. This one was in better condition than the one at the sale barn; he kept only the very best for himself. He rummaged through his desk in the corner of the kitchen and wrote a check to Mary Ellis for a thousand dollars. He slipped it into his shirt pocket. He’d look up the paperwork and mail it when he got to work.

  He found the place locked, no sign of Carl. Where had the man disappeared to? Something about his absence felt very wrong, and Hershel went inside with a sense of loss riding him. Stuart had agreed to work today, predicting that they’d seen the last of Carl Abernathy. He guessed the man had drifted on to a new place, but Hershel knew better.

  In his office, Hershel looked up Carl’s hire date and stared at the year in disbelief. The man had been in his employ for a decade. How could he have underestimated the man’s commitment to him—to his business. Why? Hershel picked up the phone and called the police.

  “I think I should report a missing person,” he said.

  The woman on the other end asked a series of questions in a rapid-fire manne
r that left Hershel fumbling for answers, but mostly admitting that he didn’t know. Finally he explained that Carl had been a reliable, longtime employee who hadn’t been seen in three days.

  “Could he have just gone out of town?” the woman wanted to know.

  Hershel supposed he could have. It didn’t sound like much when he listened to himself try to explain his concern. But there was more to it, and he hoped it was nothing to do with some past transaction—something he was unknowingly responsible for.

  “Can’t someone just check into it?” he finally asked.

  She agreed to file a report and took down Hershel’s information.

  After a few minutes, he picked up the phone and dialed a new number. It rang several times.

  “Hello?”

  Hershel’s mouth went dry. “Mom?”

  She hung up.

  He listened to the dial tone, then gently set the phone down.

  Kyrellis trimmed the rosebushes on his patio, deadheading the spent blossoms and carefully picking up the clippings. He would show his prized flowers to Silvie when she arrived, take her on a tour of his garden and greenhouses. He wondered if he should cut her a bouquet. She couldn’t, of course, take it with her and risk questions from Hershel. Besides, he didn’t like to part with such perfection. It was a fault he knew he must overcome if he was going to make this business profitable again. He’d become more collector than grower, obsessing about the new hybrids to the point of not returning phone calls from his customers about the varieties that had built the establishment. He’d nearly run this nursery, which he could scarcely afford when it was operating in the black, into the ground.

  It was at Swift’s auction that everything started to unravel for Kyrellis. The auction had seen a different type of clientele in the past year or so. Gangs, mostly, looking for guns. It had made them all uncomfortable. Not just the way these newcomers strutted around as if they owned the place, but their brazenness. The gun trading had been successful, in Kyrellis’s opinion, because it was discreet.