Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [18]
I grasp the door handle and give a sharp tug and it opens with a metallic creak that must be audible back on the sidewalk. The thing that hits me first is the smell. It’s flowery—lilacs, I think. What it means is that Romero has a wealthy client who has expressed an appreciation for the flower. And for the money many of his regulars drop here, he does not mind going out of his way to tailor the shopping experience to their liking.
When I enter, I see my friend do the classic television double take and I smile at the surprise on his face and give him a little wink. I walk along the display of burial masks lining a portion of the street-side wall while I wait for the proprietor to finish with his customers. I imagine he’s giving them the short sell now, just trying to get them out of the place. I run a finger along a well-preserved interment façade from Southeast Asia and wonder at the use of archaeology as interior design.
Most of his merchandise comes from this continent, with arrangements by period and by region. Past the burial masks is an assortment of Aztec and Toltec totems, their squat and grotesque bodies acting as scene markers for some events that can give me the willies if I really think about them. I like that he’s left the shop as it has always been—free of clutter, decorative color, or unnecessary artwork. Instead, it is mostly white walls, gray carpet, and black metal lighting fixtures. The minimalism suggests a proprietor who has confidence in the product selling itself.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the old couple leaving, the man’s hand in the small of the woman’s back. Their body language suggests that Romero has made them quite a deal, and the buyer wants to get out before the seller realizes he has made a mistake.
I am still facing the burial-mask display when I feel Romero come up behind me.
“It looks like you just made those folks very happy,” I say as the door shuts behind the couple.
“Curse you for showing up unannounced and forcing me to undervalue my merchandise.”
“With the prices you charge, consider it a rebalancing of your karma.”
And then there are strong hands pulling me around and into an affectionate, too-tight hug. When he pulls away, Romero’s hands remain on my shoulders and he regards me with warm eyes. Romero Habilla is a large man, but still refined. I would almost call him elegant, except that word is appropriate for someone of slighter frame. He is a well-groomed bull.
“You don’t visit for six years and you expect me to concentrate on a sale?” He claps my upper arm and looks me up and down. “You’ve gotten heavy.”
My arm stings.
“One of the curses of academic life.”
He turns but leaves a hand on my arm, directing me toward a doorway on the other side of the showroom.
“Yes, I heard you were teaching. At first I didn’t believe it, but then I pulled up the Web page of your university and there’s your picture.” He squeezes my elbow and adds, “It’s not a very good picture.”
Romero’s office is a mirror of the man in its understated sophistication. It is small and sparsely furnished but the few items in it are high-end. There is no true desk, but rather an immaculate teakwood table on which sits a dual-monitor computer, a phone, and a single notepad and pen. A comfortable-looking leather chair is behind the desk, and there are two smaller matching ones on the opposite side.
Romero leads me to one of the guest chairs and lowers himself into the other.
“It’s good to see you,” he says.
“It’s nice to be back. A little strange, but nice.”
“Yes, we’re cosmopolitan now. Courting the world.” He gives a dismissive wave. “It’s veneer, my friend. The city is no different.”
“That’s not really what I mean.”
He looks at me in silence for a moment before grunting and leaning forward.
“I’m sorry about Will. When Esperanza told me, I . . .”
He trails off and I give him a small smile—one that tells him I appreciate the sentiment. I think he feels guilty about not getting hold of me after it happened, but then I didn’t make it easy for anyone to find me.
“My mom appreciated