Mary And The Giant

At nine o'clock in the morning Joseph Schilling opened up the record shop, found the push broom in the closet, and began sweeping the sidewalk. At nine-thirty, as he was filing records away, Max Figuera appeared in his soiled coat and trousers.

"She didn't show up?" Max said, picking his teeth with a match. "I didn't think she would."

Schilling went on working. "She won't be coming back. From now on, I'd like you to come in every day. Until Christmas, at least. Then maybe I'll go back to handling it alone."

By the counter Max paused, leaning, an expression of wisdom on his face, a knowing dryness that dropped from him like fragments of skin and cloth, bits of himself deposited wisely as he went along. "I told you so," he said.

"Did you."

"When you first looked at that girl, the one with the big knockers. The one drinking the milkshake; remember?"

"That's true," Schilling agreed, working.

"How much did she take you for?"

Schilling grunted.

Max said: "You ought to know better. You always think you can take these little babes, but they always wind up taking you.

They will; they're smart. Small-town girls, they're the worst of all. They sell it high. They know how to cash in on it. Did you get anything for your money?"

"In the back," Schilling said, "there's a Columbia shipment I haven't had time to open. Open it and check it against the invoice."

"Okay." Max roamed through the store. He chuckled, a wet snicker. "You did get something, didn't you? Did she pay off at all?"

Schilling walked to the front of the store and looked out at the people, at the stores across the street. Then, when he heard Max rooting in the shipment, he returned to his own work.

At one-thirty, while Max was out at lunch, a dark-haired boy wearing a yellow uniform entered the store. Schilling waited on a fussy gentleman at the counter, sent him into a booth, and then turned to the boy.

"Is Miss Reynolds here?" the boy asked.

Schilling said: "You're Dave Gordon?"

The boy grinned self-consciously. "I'm her fiance."

"She's not here," Schilling said. "She doesn't work for me anymore."

"Did she quit?" The boy became agitated. "She did that a couple times before. You know where she lives? I don't even know that anymore."

"I don't know where she lives," Schilling said.

Dave Gordon loitered uncertainly. "Where do you suppose I can find out?"

"I have no idea," Schilling said. "May I suggest something?"

"Sure."

"Leave her alone."

Dave Gordon went out, bewildered, and Schilling resumed his work.

He did not expect that Dave Gordon would find her; the boy would search for a while and then go back to his gasoline station.

But there were others who might. Some of them had found her already.

That evening, after work, he remained in the store by himself, preparing a Decca Christmas order. The dark street was quiet; few cars moved by, and almost no pedestrians. He worked at the counter with a single light on, listening to one of the phonographs playing new classical releases.

At seven-thirty a sharp rap startled him; he looked up and saw Dave Gordon outlined in the doorway. The boy made a sign that he wanted to come in; he had changed from his uniform to a stiff, double-breasted suit.

Putting down his pencil, Schilling walked over and unlocked the door. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Her family doesn't know where she is either," Dave Gordon said.

"I can't help you," Schilling said. "She only worked here about a week." He started to close the door.

"We went down to that bar," Dave Gordon said. "But it isn't open yet. We're going to try later. Maybe they know."

"Who is 'we'?" Schilling asked, stopping.

"Her father's with me. He doesn't have a car of his own. I'm driving him around in the truck."

Schilling looked out and saw a yellow service truck parked at the curb a few spaces down. In the cabin of the truck was a small man, sitting quietly.

"Let's have a look at him," Schilling said. "Tell him to come over."

Dave Gordon left, stood talking at the truck for a time, and then he and Edward Reynolds returned together.

"Sorry to bother you," Ed Reynolds murmured. He was a slender, lightly built man, and Schilling saw some of the girl's lines in his face. There was a nervous tremor in his arms and hands, an involuntary spasm that might have been a suppressed abundance of energy. He was not a bad-looking man, Schilling realized. But his voice was thin, shrill and unpleasant.

"You're looking for your daughter?" Schilling said.

"That's right. Dave here says she worked for you." He blinked rapidly. "I think something's happened to her."

"Such as?"

"Well." The man gestured and blinked again. He twisted on one foot, his hands opening and closing, a shudder of movement that reached his face and put a series of muscles into activity. "See, she was hanging around with colored people down at this bar. I think there was one, murdered a white man. It was in the newspaper." His voice trailed off. "Maybe you noticed it."