The asphalt of the parking lot outside Forsythe’s Bargain Auctions was sticky underfoot and ruptured where fists of bittercress had forced their way through. The sallow sun cast a pall over the low-rise buildings. Thunderheads gathered above and static itched the air.
Clad in cheap aluminium siding and squatting between a dive bar and a Baptist chapel, the auction house itself was nondescript. The chapel and the bar showed few signs of life, but half a dozen cars and pick-up trucks were parked outside Forsythe’s.
Inside the building’s metal shell, the thrum of the air conditioner was constant, though it barely made a dent in the day’s heat. The main room was cluttered: a gallery of sun-bleached prints and paintings hung on one wall, along with a rack of firearms, and a tall glass display cabinet, sparsely filled. Rows of folding chairs had been set out in front of a small lectern, though few were occupied. The scent of must seeped up from the faded blue linoleum floor and lingered in the air.
At 10 a.m. sharp a compact woman entered at a brisk trot, a sheaf of papers and a small wooden gavel held to her breast.
A halo of stiff pewter hair framed her face, while the broad shoulders of her jacket gave her the silhouette of a linebacker. She placed her load down on the lectern and looked up at the assembly, beaming with pleasure…
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