The last rays of the sun fell upon the dirty front window and died trying to get through. The man sat in the front room of the record shop studying an auction circular of rare 78s. He made little checks next to certain entries with a red pencil, drinking occasionally from a greasy water glass. A pint bottle of Four Roses bourbon sat near to hand.

      The red lightbulb in the ceiling went on. The man put the paper down and walked through the curtain to the back door. He checked the peephole, then opened the door partway. “Boss,” said a confiden­tial voice in the dark. An ancient panel truck was parked in the alley behind the shop, “Cousin Beto’s Scrap Metal” painted on its side. A short, slightly­ built man with a large cardboard box stood waiting.

      The box contained 78 records which the man with the pipe began to take out and examine. He handled the records expertly, like a bank teller counting money. The short man was Mexican, or Mexican and something else like Greek, with oily black hair duck­tailed in the pachuco style and a wide leering mouth full of gold teeth. He watched the man closely.

      “Nice, boss. Look at the condition,” he whispered. The man with the pipe regarded the Mexican and spoke for the first time with the pipe­stem clenched in his teeth. “Whiteman, Whiteman, Whiteman, Nick Lucas, Vernon Dalhart. Bunch of crap. Where are the sleeves?”

      “I had to get out of there fast, boss, I had to leave the sleeves. But I got something special, something you really gonna like. Columbia Black Label, brand new.” He held it properly, as the man had taught him always to do, by the edges. His gold rings flashed in the light, especially the ones on his right hand, since there were six fin­gers instead of the routine five.

      The man took the record and turned it this way and that, examining the grooves and the silver inscription that read “Ma Rainey, colored singer with piano acc. by Clarence Williams, recorded in New York, 1923.”

      “Where’d you get this?” he said in a flat, accusing tone.

      “Boss, listen. It’s a lady, down on Thirty-third. Her old man was a collector, like you. They’re in the garage! Bluebird, Paramount, Columbia, Okeh! This is el mero mero, boss.

      “What’s the set­up?”

      “She’s a gabacha. In the house twenty years. Two poodle dogs inside. Garage is in the back. Original boxes. You gonna love it, boss!”

      “Who else knows?”

      “A kid brings her groceries from the tienda on the corner. He’s always looking for old cars down there. He got the key and went into the garage. He found this. He says it’s got muchos hermanos más!”

      “The key?”

      “She likes him, she lets him see.”

      “Get it.”

      “She keeps the keys on a string around la cintura.”

      “Get the key.”

      The deliveryman pointed to the box of records on the table. “Y éstos?”

      “Junk,” said the man, turning back into the doorway. The deliveryman took the box and put it back in the truck. It had seen better days and was full of rust, but the motor made almost no sound as he drove away.