Bentley Little - The Store

Not exactly.

But she didn't feel she could just get up and walk out. Something was keeping her here, whether it was psychological pressure or her own emotional inability to stand up for herself, and the thought occurred to her that she was being exploited, taken advantage of.

Sexually harassed.

She had never imagined being in this situation, but now that she was, now that it had crept up on her like this, she understood how victims could remain silent about what happened to them, how they could keep these things to themselves and not tell anyone.

Because . . . there wasn't really any need to tell anyone. She could deal with this, she could get past it, it wasn't going to scar her for life.

She could handle it.

"Please fill up the bottle," Mr. Lamb said.

She nodded, stood, took the bottle from him. She placed it on her chair, then reached up under her skirt and pulled down her panties, taking them off, one leg at a time, not letting him see beneath the skirt.

"The skirt as well, please."

She imagined him dead, imagined herself kicking his head as he lay on the ground. But she nodded, took off the skirt, placed it on the chair.

She was no longer cold. It was hot in here, outrageously humid, and she was sweating. She tried to imagine what her parents would say if they were in the room but couldn't.

Squatting, not looking at Mr. Lamb, she held the bottle between her legs.

Filled it.

Handed it to him.

Now he _was_ smiling. "Thank you, Miss Davis. This concludes our interview. You may put your clothes back on. We will call you and let you know the results."

She nodded, put on her panties, put on her skirt.

She did not start crying until she was outside The Store and in the parking lot.

2

Another free day.

Bill woke up late, went for a jog, made himself breakfast, watched TV, signed on to Freelink and read today's headline news, then decided to take a shower and head into town. He didn't mind staying home all day when he was working, but when he was between assignments, the house made him feel claustrophobic, and he liked to get out as much as possible.

He stopped by Street's store, shot the breeze for a while, then walked over to Doane's to see if any new music had come in.

Doane was on the phone when he opened the door and stepped inside the small air-conditioned shop, so he merely waved hello and headed over to the New Releases bin, where he began sorting through the stacked CDs.

Although he'd always considered himself a rock fan, he had to admit that most of his recent purchases had been drawn from the Country section of the CD rack: Lyle Lovett, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Robert Earl Keen, Roseanne Cash, Bill Morrissey. He told himself that rock and roll was an attitude, not a specific musical style, and that if these artists had been around twenty-five years earlier, their records would have been placed in the Rock rack next to James Taylor and Carole King and Joni Mitchell, but the fact was that he was not really interested in most of the rock music being produced today. His tastes had changed over the years.

He wasn't sure he liked that.

Doane finished his conversation, hung up the phone, and Bill stopped looking through the CDs, glancing up. "How's business?" he asked.

The store owner shook his head. "Slow as hard-packed shit."

Bill started to laugh, but he realized almost instantly that Doane was dead serious. "The Store?" he said.

Doane nodded. "Bastards're lowballing me. They can _sell_ CDs for less than I pay wholesale."

"They don't have your selection, though."

"Not the backlist, maybe, but they're stocking the Top Ten two weeks before my distributor can even ship the discs out to me. Teenagers are my bread and butter, man. I don't get those hot tunes in the store and on the shelves, the kids don't come in." He sighed. "Even if I do get the music on the shelves, they probably won't come in. I can't afford to even meet The Store's prices, much less beat them."

"You think you'll be able to survive?" Bill asked.

"I hope so, but I don't know. Maybe I'm being paranoid and have an exaggerated sense of my own importance, but I really think The Store's trying to drive me out of business."

"And have a monopoly on music sales."

"Sure. Then they could jack up their prices and start making a profit instead of taking a loss." Doane smiled wryly. "If I'm touching your heart at all, feel free to buy something today."

"I will," Bill said. "I was planning to."

He ended up purchasing a CD of Cormac McCarthy's first album, a vinyl copy of Jerry Jeff Walker's "Viva Terlingua!" and a vinyl bootleg of a 1979 Tom Waits and Leon Redbone concert.

"Where do you get these bootlegs?" Bill asked as he wrote a check at the counter.

Doane grinned, tried to look mysterious. "I have my sources."

Bill walked out of the shop, carrying his purchases under his arm. The bootleg had cost a lot, and Ginny would probably get mad at him, but the album was rare and he considered it a true find, well worth the high price. Besides, he wanted to support Doane and help him out in any way he could. Digging through piles of used albums was one of his favorite hobbies, and he didn't know what he'd do if the record store closed. Shopping at The Store and looking at only new releases was not quite the same.

He walked slowly down the street, noticing for the first time the lack of foot traffic in downtown Juniper, and it brought home to him the fact that some of the businesses here might not survive. He'd known that intellectually, of course, but he had not understood it emotionally, and he now _realized_ that any of these stories could disappear at any time. He'd never thought about it before, but he had expected Juniper to always remain as it was, and he was thrown surprisingly off balance by the knowledge that even in a small town, stability was not a guarantee and nothing was permanent. They had moved to Juniper precisely because it was a small town. They liked that atmosphere, that lifestyle. They wanted to raise their children in a community where neighbors talked to each other, where storekeepers knew their customers by name, and they had expected the town to remain that way throughout their lifetimes, for families that had put down roots here to stay and not move away, for businesses to remain open, for nothing to change.

Now everything seemed to be changing.

He stopped by the cafй for a quick cup of coffee and saw Ben seated at the counter, eating alone, a half-finished bowl of Williamson James's heartburn chili in front of him. He snuck up behind the editor, tapping him on the right shoulder then quickly sitting down on the stool to his left. "Hey, stranger," he said. "Long time no care."

"Asshole," Ben said.

"Language!" Holly called out.

Bill ordered coffee, and Holly poured a cup and brought it over immediately. He took a slow sip, then shook his head, sighed.

Ben took a bite of chili, wiped his mouth with a napkin. "What is it?"

Bill described his visit to the record shop. "I knew The Store would affect local businesses. I guess I just didn't think the effects would be felt this quickly."

"A lot of places are hurting already," Ben said. "Most mom-and-pop stores operate from month to month, and something like this has an immediate impact on them." He shook his head. "Steve Miller told me he's thinking of packing it in.

That shop's been in his family since his grandfather started it . . . when?

Sixty years ago?"

"Isn't there anything he can do?"

Ben shrugged. "Joe Modesto, down at First Western Bank, is setting up a new small-business loan program, to try to help our local merchants out, but I don't think he's going to have too many takers. I think most people here would rather cut their losses than go further into debt." He smiled wryly. "The ironic thing is that the paper's flush. The Store's been taking out full-page ads ever since it opened. As I'm sure you've noticed. They're even adding an insert this week, a two-page pullout with coupons. Our advertising revenue's way up."