Damaged Goods (8 page)

She slipped upstairs and locked the apartment door behind her. There was nothing Hershel would sell that could interest her, even if she could take it with her.

As she sat alone on the sofa, the warmth of the sandwich shop and the woman she’d met there waned into nothingness. She was homesick for her mom’s tiny apartment. She could be making plans to drive into Casper with Laree right now. Silvie unlaced her shoes and tossed them into the corner, then dug through her backpack in search of a second pair of socks to put on. She wished that she had never found the box that was now snuggly tucked into the floorboards of her Volkswagen Rabbit. Failing to find a second pair of socks, she shoved the backpack into the crook of the sofa and used it as a pillow.

She considered how she’d gotten here. It had happened so fast. She hadn’t paused to think it through. She’d been looking for cash while her boyfriend—if she could call him that—showered. He sometimes kept hundred-dollar bills in his underwear drawer, and on a few well-spaced occasions she’d taken a single bill out of the roll.

Silvie pulled the blanket over her, knowing it was too early to sleep. The irony was that she didn’t need the money that badly—not this time, anyway. And he’d have given her the cash if she’d asked for it. That night he’d brought flowers. Some nights he took her to dinner. There were other occasions when he bought her new clothes or paid her mother’s electric bill when the power company threatened to shut the service off. There were many things about Jacob that were likable. He could be a very generous man.

The rhythmic flow of Hershel’s auctioneering lulled her. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine that she was still in Wyoming. The cadence of Hershel’s song, which was punctuated by the whoop of bidding, was an unfamiliar barrier between this place and her home. Silvie sat up again and stared at the snowy television, present like a quiet cat. She’d thought the same thing of her mother not more than a week ago. A woman hiding in the shadows, never drawing attention. Silvie thought she should call, but her mother couldn’t be trusted with the knowledge that she was safe, let alone somewhere in Oregon.

“Bring up that Fostoria crystal, boys. Let’s get that sold.”

Stuart cursed audibly as he squeezed down narrow passageways to find the requested stemware.

But Hershel hadn’t seen the KitchenAid mixer and didn’t call it out from its hiding place behind the refrigerator, and Carl was able to pick it up for five dollars late in the evening. It was when Hershel started auctioning off the vehicles that his concentration
faltered. He stumbled with the combine, pausing three times and waiting for someone on the floor to holler out the last bid.

“We’ve got twelve hundred from bidder three ninety-eight, now,” Carl sang. He glanced at Stuart, whose face had gone hard, the blood coming up in his cheeks.

“Stupid fucker,” Stuart mouthed to Henry, the plumber. Henry just shrugged and rolled his eyes.

But the Charger was almost a non-sale for the number of times Hershel started over. Carl watched as the poor man shook his head and stared down at the microphone, apologizing twice and beginning again. His hands trembled, and silent tension rippled through the crowd as bidders waited with expressions of disgust and frustration. At last he sold it to Kyrellis for a mere two hundred dollars—almost what he’d paid to have it towed up here from Newberg. Carl moved rapidly on to the Volkswagen Rabbit, calling out to the crowd the details that Hershel would normally provide.

“It’s locked, but no one has the key. We don’t think it runs. As is, folks,” he shouted. “But, then, so are they all.” He smiled broadly at the crowd.

As Hershel started the bidding on the Rabbit, stumbling from fifty dollars to seventy-five, Carl eyed Kyrellis. Why would a gun dealer buy a wrecked Charger? He’d rarely known the man to buy anything but firearms, except for one antique mahogany bureau six or seven years back and a few other small odds and ends Carl could probably count on one hand. His purchases had been primarily guns in the ten years that Carl had worked at the auction. So it surprised him even more that Kyrellis picked up the Rabbit, too, for a hundred dollars.

Hershel stumbled through the filbert orchard toward home, his flashlight cutting a sharp yellow path ahead of him. The rain had stopped and the moon shone down now, but he took no notice.
His mind wasn’t on the trees, or the mud that oozed beneath his feet, or the starlit sky above. He went back through the night, reliving the sale of the Charger and the embarrassment of forgetting his place. He didn’t care if people forgave him this because of the trauma he had suffered, though seeing their faces he didn’t believe that was the case. He could never forgive himself such a grotesque show of ineptitude.

Inside his century-old farmhouse, he went immediately to the kitchen and poured himself a brandy without removing his coat. He slumped against the counter and sipped the liquid.

You’re so fucked up, Hershel, he said to himself. You’re like a child. A pathetic little boy. Incapable of doing a man’s work. You’re worthless.

He swallowed the whole of the glass and poured another. “You shouldn’t have lived,” he said quietly.

“Where is my car?”

Carl flinched as Silvie rushed past him, nearly knocking him over. He’d forgotten that she was staying in the apartment. He hadn’t seen her at the sale. Carl lugged one end of a sofa-sleeper out of the warehouse to a waiting pickup truck. The man on the other end grunted under the strain of it. He was younger than Carl, by ten years at least. “Hold on,” he called to her. “Let me get this gentleman taken care of and I’ll be right with you.”

“Where is it?” she shrieked, rushing out into the parking lot.

He found her turning circles in the gravel lot where the Charger had been.

“It’s gone,” she cried. Her cheeks were flushed, and Carl could see the telltale signs of tears coming. He braced against them. “What have they done with it?”

“What car?” he asked.

“Rabbit. It’s gone.”

“The little green one?”

“Yes!” She looked hopeful. “Yes, the green one.”

“We sold it. Last night.”

“You what?”
She stepped toward him as if she might punch him. “You have to get it back! It has everything
—everything
in it.”

“Okay,” he said, patting the air between them as if that might calm her. “It’s just a mistake. I’m sure we can fix it.”

She seemed unable to stop her tears now, sniffing hard. “I have to get it back,” she said with her face tipped skyward, as if speaking to God himself. “Oh, please
please please
get it back.”

Carl put a hand on her shoulder and guided her back into the building and to the door of Hershel’s office. As he unlocked it, he thought of the Glock. Hershel had been so distracted with the sale of the Charger that Carl doubted he’d done anything with the gun. “Wait right here,” he told Silvie. Inside, he found the gun exactly where he’d left it and slipped it into the top desk drawer, then went back for her. “You just wait here while I call Hershel. He’ll get this straightened out.”

“How could he sell it when it wasn’t his?” She ignored Carl’s instructions and sat down across from him in Hershel’s office, her brows pressed together.

“We have twenty-four hours to convey title.” Carl picked up the desk phone and punched in Hershel’s home number, keeping a wary eye on the girl. “That means whoever bought it will be back today.”

She nodded, sinking her teeth into her lip and staring at the floor.

“Boss, it’s Carl,” he said. “We have a situation down here. That green Rabbit we sold last night—”

The receiver was loud enough for Hershel’s disembodied voice to carry into the office. “I didn’t sell that Rabbit. It belongs to Sophie.”

“Silvie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Silvie.”

“Uh … actually, we did sell it.” Carl waited for Hershel’s response, going back through the sequence of events and realizing it was his own mistake—he’d put the Rabbit up as Hershel struggled to get his bearings. “Boss?”

“Shit.”

“I’ll look up the buyer,” Carl said. “You maybe wanna come down here and let Silvie know that we’re gonna get her car back. She’s pretty upset.”

“Fuck!” Hershel said.

“Boss?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Get the buyer’s name and phone number for me.” Hershel hung up before Carl could respond.

“He’s on his way,” Carl said to Silvie. “He’ll get this straightened out. Don’t you worry.”

She lurched forward out of her chair. “Oh God, please get my car back. You have no idea how important this is.”

To Carl, that seemed like the truest statement ever spoken.

Silvie shivered as she waited in Hershel’s office. She rocked out of nervousness, telling herself the car would be returned. She pictured strangers digging through her things, finding the box and spreading its contents across the hood. There was no way to know what they would do with their find. They could keep the car, she didn’t care, but the box … She closed her eyes, tears slipping through the lids and blazing down her cheeks. “Oh God, please,” she repeated.

Hershel came into the office, flinging the door so wide it banged against the wall. “How did this happen?” he asked Carl, who followed close on his heels.

“I … well, you were …” Carl’s voice trailed off as he regrouped. “It was my fault. You seemed a little off after selling the Charger. I put the Rabbit up to keep the sale moving. It was in the lot. I assumed—” He handed Hershel a piece of paper. “Kyrellis. Here’s his number.”

“Kyrellis what?” Hershel glared at Carl.

“Kyrellis bought the car.” Carl blinked several times, but kept his gaze on Hershel. “Bought the Charger, too.”

Hershel took the note. He stared down at the number as if confused. Finally he glanced up. “Are you sure?”

Carl nodded.

Hershel turned to Silvie with an apologetic expression. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “We’ll get it back.”

“Oh God, you have to,” she said. “You have to.”

“If we can’t get it back, I’ll pay you for it. I’m—”

“No! You don’t understand. I need to get it back. You
have
to get it back.”

Hershel eyed her, then picked up the phone and dialed the number. After what seemed ages, he spoke to leave a message. “Kyrellis, this is Swift. There seems to have been a mistake last night. My floor man—” He turned to Carl, who stared down at his worn leather boots. “My floor man put up a car that wasn’t for sale. The little green Rabbit you bought … we need it back. It belongs to someone else. Wasn’t for sale. Call my cell so we can arrange to come get it.”

She stared at him through tears, his image a dancing blur. He handed her a neatly folded handkerchief from his jeans pocket. It smelled faintly of bleach, and she held it against her face a long time, letting it soak up her tears.

Carl disappeared out the door.

“I’m sorry about this,” Hershel said again. “Why don’t you let me buy you breakfast? There’s nothing we can do but wait for him to call back, anyway.”

She opened her mouth in protest, but he put a hand up to stop her.

Something about his gesture reminded her of Jacob. The car had been a gift he never let her forget, as if accepting it had somehow enslaved her for life.