The Antique Shop

by Rod Hunsicker

He went to the window for the fourteenth time and peered outside hoping that there was nothing to see. There wasn't so he returned to the counter and stood impatiently by the cash register. Leaning forward he rested his elbows on the counter's chipped wooden surface and rubbed his temples with a groan. Things had to come to fruition tonight. He knew they were only hours away from locating him. If he were to survive he had to leave, but if he left he would have to start all over again. In the same way he knew that his enemies were coming, he knew that the descendent was coming. Tonight was the time and his little antique shop was the place. The danger was impregnated by the question of who arrives first.

His name was Lasco. On his driver's license his first name was John, but that was a fictitious name created for a culture that insisted on more than one name. Lasco was all he responded to, and that was what the few friends he had made in the neighborhood called him.

He was a tall man with a long, dark haired head, a hooked nose and a pair of shining black eyes. He appeared to be of middle years and preferred to dress in loose, comfortable clothing. He spent a long of time in the local coffee shop, though he drank little coffee, and was friendly and courteous to everyone he met.

Looking around the shop he laughed at the paucity of true antiques. These items were for the rubes, people who knew nothing about true antiquity. Tourists and housewives were his usual customers. He didn't mind this because the shop was only a temporary stop in his travels. The only way he could remain safe from his enemy was total seclusion, and this was rarely an option for Lasco because he couldn't find any descendants when he was away from people.

It was becoming more difficult to find true descendants. The bloodlines had become diluted with each generation. Now it was a matter of chance, and the probability of finding a descendent was less than being hit by lightning. Much less, he reflected with sorrow. It was becoming too hard to complete his task. He knew that some day in the near future there would be no more descendants. The modern gene pool was too wide, and even with certain gene-links that were supposed to safeguard the bloodlines, modern humanity was too great an ocean to find such small fish.

Tonight was different. Tonight a small fish would swim into his shop and discover that it was really a great white shark. Lasco had to stand firm; face his fear of the enemy and wait for the descendent. He was close; his knowledge was too deep and clear to be mistaken. All there was to do was wait.

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Rico Kinnison stood against the warm brick wall and leaned his head back with a sigh. He was out of work, out of money, and out of comfort. His one room apartment had no air conditioning, and it looked like it would be a while before he could afford one. The sun was just setting, a brilliant red orb in the western sky, and the heat would remain for hours after that. Another reason to flee his apartment had been the Hispanic music that the tenants below were constantly playing. Although Kinnison's mother had been half Hispanic, and he spoke conversational spanish, he had no taste for their music. He preferred classical music and traditional rock and roll.

His mother had been a dark beauty, but he resembled his father. His hair was light brown, eyes golden green, and his skin was a rich Californian tan. He was attractive, though not handsome, and his slightly better than average height was trimmed to a muscular tightness. Six years of public school wrestling had shaped his muscularity, and recently he maintained his fitness through his unsteady employment as a day laborer. Currently he was without a job and waiting for his next unemployment check. His last girl friend had left him for a college boy, so he was alone on a hot summer night.

He started to walk. Thrusting his hands in his pockets he kept to the side of the wall with his eyes glued to the sidewalk in front of him. There was nothing to look at. Just the usual gritty, ugly poor neighborhood that he had been looking at all his life. He thought about going to the park to play a little ball, but the idea of bumming around with those losers was depressed him. He kept an eye out for members of the local Chicano gang. As a loner he had no desire to get on the bad side of any gang members. The odds of survival were stacked against him or anyone else who went against a gang on their own turf.

Not that the gang was a big problem. Usually he minded his own business and the few girls he had dated were from other, higher class neighborhoods. He didn't even have a car so there was very little that any members of the gang would want from him. For transportation he either walked, jogged or rode his old bicycle. He was another young man with nothing to do and no future.

He stopped in front of the antique store and glanced in the window. He had no money to spare, but was still curious if there were any old baseball memorabilia inside. Slapping the dust off his jean shorts, he opened the door and stepped inside.

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When the young man walked under the arch of lights hung over the doorway, they began to shine brightly and brought Lasco out of his preoccupation with a small piece of wood he had been examining for ancient Celtic markings. The young man, little more than a boy, turned and stared at the lights, alarmed at their sudden luminosity, and looked as if he had done something wrong and had just got caught. He turned and opened the door again with the intention of retreating out of the store.

"No, no, young man," called Lasco, "its all right. Just the store's way of greeting customers. Please come in, I, Lasco, can use the business."

Kinnison paused in indecision, then came in. He looked around the store and was disappointed when he say that it was chiefly filled with items he wasn't interested in.

"Perhaps if you told me what you're looking for," suggested Lasco.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe some baseball stuff," offered Kinnison.

"Baseball stuff," mused Lasco. "Yes, I believe I have something I can show you." He walked over to a shelf and took down a large Louisville Slugger.

"Here, a bat signed by Big Shot Wilkins," said the antique dealer proudly.

"Big Shot Wilkins? Never heard of him," grunted Kinnison.

"Never heard of him. Are you sure you know baseball? He was a great player in the 40s. Played for the Dodgers," said Lasco. He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head in mock disbelief. Then a quick glance at the door reminded him that there might not be much time.

"I have something else. Its in the back. A baseball. Wait, I'll bring it out," said Lasco. While Kinnison turned the big bat over in his hands, the antique dealer went into an "Employee's Only" room and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Then he dipped his hand into a blue bowl and drew forth a gleaming blue-green globe from a sparkling liquid.

"At last," he muttered as he walked back into the front room.

Kinnison looked up when the antique dealer returned, just in time to catch the ball that Lasco threw at him. The young man caught it impulsively, reflexively, and held it in his left hand with a bewildered look on his face.

"This isn't a baseball," he exclaimed.

"Something much more valuable than a baseball. Especially for you," said Lasco with a smile.

The globe glittered, shimmered and dissolved into the flesh of Kinnison's hand.
When it had first begun to do so he had tried to shake it off his hand, but it had stuck and eventually disappeared into his skin.

"What the hell have you done to me?" Kinnison shouted.

"Calm down. Its not bad; its something good. You should start to feel some pretty positive effects almost immediately, though it will take a long time for you to fully manifest the complete metamorphism."

"Are you nuts? What the fuck are you talking about? I don't do drugs, mister.
I ought to break your neck," said Kinnison. He took a few steps toward the older man, his two hands shaped into fists.

"Its not a drug, you fool. Its a catalyst. I don't have a lot of time. In a few minutes my enemies will be sending someone to eliminate me. So listen well.

"You carry the bloodline of an ancient family of super powered beings. Dormant in your genes is the complete structure required for the metamorphosis into something more than human. You will become better than you were. Much better. It may take months, perhaps years to reach your full potential, but if you are to survive, you must accept the reality of your eventual transformation because there are others in the world who do not want to see you transformed.

"I trust that you will become a force for good. I do not say this lightly, nor in jest or satire. However, what you will become is up to you."

Lasco tossed Kinnison a mask. "I would advise you to keep your identity a secret. Especially for those who may come after you. It will keep your personal life less complicated."

The antique dealer started for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Kinnison.

"Fleeing. My job is done here. I have a sort of sixth sense, or seventh, eighth and so on. My enemies are soon to arrive. These people will not be friendly to you so I advise that you leave quickly as well. One last thing: there are evil forces in the world. I know that might sound foolish or comical, but it is true. When people who are twisted and corrupt obtain superhuman power then tragedy and evil are born. I reiterate my hope that tonight something good was born." said Lasco with a smile. He opened the door and was gone.

Kinnison looked at the mask in his hand. Dumbfounded and skeptical he froze in indecision. When he finally looked back at the door he saw several large figures in front of the store. Stuffing the mask in his pocket, he ducked out through the doorway behind the cash register with the Louisville Slugger in his hand. He didn't know who those men were. Lasco had indicated that they were dangerous, and to a street bred youth that meant it was better to avoid them. He had nothing to gain by confronting them. Indeed the idea passed through his mind like an obscene intruder. Confronting several large, dangerous men shouldn't even have occurred to him. It was not just counterproductive, it was downright foolish.

He edged down a narrow hallway toward the rear exit of the store. Experience told him that there might be someone out back waiting for Lasco to escape that way. If he ran out into the rear alley he would be caught by those people. A quick glance into the alley confirmed that there were two men waiting out there. Kinnison sneered at his own stupidity. He had waited too long to leave. Now he was caught.

Not yet! He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could. He knew the men in the front had already entered to store when he heard them call out for service. The second floor of the building had little to offer so he went up to the third. At an attic window he looked out and saw that only one man was standing out front. This man kept his attention on the front door. Kinnison watched him to see if he would look up. In the space of a minute he did not.

The men were searching below. Kinnison heard footsteps on the stairs. They were coming up.

Careful not to disturb the dust on its sill, Kinnison opened the window and leaned out. There was a tree growing up from the sidewalk, but its closest branch big enough to support him was at least ten feet away. Above him was the roof. He doubted he could climb up on it without attracting the attention of the man below. Desperately he threw his glance around the attic. It was filled with old, musty things. Like most old attics it was built on a inverted V frame. Kinnison found a small crawl space that had been created when someone had erected a straight wall in order to build a square room. Squeezing through a very small opening, he crawled into the dusty darkness and squatted in the rear. Remembering the store owner's words, Kinnison pulled free the mask and put it on. If they caught him, and he had to try and fight, they wouldn't see his face on the long shot that he might actually get away.

Eventually they reached the attic. Heavy footsteps ascended and soon he heard their voices.

"I don't think that old bastard went up here. He's long gone."

"We have to check. At least look around. Slash will cut our balls off if we miss him up here."

Furniture was moved. Ancient items tossed aside. Some one sneezed. One of them came over to the window and looked out.

"Not much here, Bradford," this man said.

"Okay, the hell with it. Let's go down. My allergies are killing me with all this fucking dust."

Kinnison relaxed when they left the attic. After a long wait he crept out of the cubbyhole and looked out the window again. The same man was still standing outside.
After another hour he was still there, and the men below were still in the shop. Obviously they had elected to wait for Lasco's return.

Two hours later Kinnison stared at the tree bough ten feet away. He wet his lips as a wild thought began to agitate him. He was beginning to feel that he could make the jump. It was against all reason, but the more he stared at the tree, the more he felt he could do it. He bit his upper lip and walked away from the window. Even with the tree out of sight he still felt he could do it.

He returned to the window and stood there with tightly clutched hands. Sweat poured down his face under his mask. A terrible certainty swelled within him and quieted his fear and nervousness. He knew he could do it.

He opened the window and perched on the narrow ledge. The street was at least thirty feet below him. A fall would cripple or kill him. And Lasco's enemies would catch him even if he survived. It had been hot in the attic and the cool evening breeze felt good on his skin. Then he leaped!

And landed on the bough. Scarcely looking at the reaction of the guard posted outside, Kinnison scampered along the tree branches until he passed out of the guard's sight and then dropped lightly to the pavement. With a wild laugh he ran up the street and was gone.

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