“So,” said Bill, gesturing at the sign, “you sell… ‘stuff’. What kind of stuff?”

“We sell what you need.” The proprietor’s English was broken, accented: stereotypical Chinese-American.

Bill was an easy, playfully sarcastic sort. “So if I needed, say, a pound of heroine, you could do that for me.”

“That not what you need,” said the proprietor seriously.

“You know what I need?” Bill was politely incredulous.

The proprietor tendered Bill a crack-lipped smile and a happy nod. “Price same for everyone—one hundred dollar. We take cash money, all kinda plastic, even check, that all you got.”

Bill parsed this last, supplying the missing conjunction.

“You want? I go get your package.” Without waiting for Bill’s assent, the proprietor shuffled through a small wooden door into the storage room. Bill received an glimpse of myriad shelves arrayed beyond a spiral stair made of old iron.

The door swung shut on silent hinges, cutting off the sound of a fountain, and Bill was left to his own devices for ten minutes.