To my right, high up on the wall, fifteen hocked paintings had been mounted, artfully arranged around a security camera, angled on the two of us. This allowed me to view myself in full color as seen from above, me checking out the camera while the camera checked me. In my jeans and turtleneck I looked like a homeless person down on her luck. Below the paintings, shelves held an assortment of power tools, air tools, hand tools, nail guns, and socket wrench sets. The lower shelves were crowded with secondhand electronics: clocks, headphones, stereo speakers, turntables, radios, and big clunky television sets with screens the size of the windows in airplanes.

On the left, a row of guitars hung behind the counter, along with enough violins, flutes, and horns to constitute a small-town orchestra. A series of glass display cases ran the length of the shop, holding tray after tray of rings, watches, bracelets, and coins. Dispirited household items—a child’s bone-china tea set, a ceramic vase, a cut-crystal figurine, and four graduated teak nesting bowls—sat together on a shelf. There were no books, no weapons, and no articles of clothing.

This was where once-cherished items came to roost, sentiment surrendered for cash. I pictured a constant round-robin of relinquishment and redemption, items converted into currency and then claimed again as personal fortunes improved. People moved, people died, people retired into nursing homes where there was so little space that much of what they owned had to be sold, given away, or abandoned at the curb.

The place was doing better business than I’d expected. One man took down a wall-mounted leaf blower that he examined for some time before he carried it to the counter to purchase. A second man browsed the electronics while a third at the rear labored to affix his signature to a document with a shaky hand. Of the four employees I counted, two greeted Pinky by name.

The woman who stepped forward to assist him was middle-aged, with wavy red-gold hair that she parted on the side. A two-inch-wide swath of gray hair showed at the roots. Her eyeglasses were framed in thick black plastic that seemed too emphatic for her fair coloring. She wore slacks and a white cotton blouse with a bow at the collar, apparently meant to disguise the width of her neck, which put her in a league with weight lifters given to heavy steroid use. She winked at him, held up a finger, and then retired to the back room. She returned moments later with a padded tray covered in black velvet.

“This is June,” he said of her and then nodded at me. “Kinsey Millhone. She’s a private detective.”

We shook hands. “Nice meeting you,” I said.

“Same here.”

Pinky watched as she untied a ribbon and opened two cloth flaps. In the center was the ring, which to me looked small and unremarkable. Then again, Pinky never claimed it was a family heirloom, at least not in his family. The diamond was the size of a wee rhinestone stud, not that I owned anything so grand.

He smiled at me shyly. “You want to try it on?”

“Sure.” I slipped it on my finger and held it to the light, turning it this way and that. “Gorgeous.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I said, practicing my lying skills.

Shortly after that we got down to business. I handed over the $225 in cash while the two of them dealt with the paperwork.

Afterward I drove Pinky to the car-repair shop, which was six blocks away. As I pulled over to the curb, I peered past him through the passenger-side window. There was no sign of activity. The doors to the service bays were down and the office was dark. “Are you sure someone’s there?”

“Doesn’t look like it, does it? I must have misunderstood.”

“You want me to drop you off at your place?”

“No need. I’m up on Paseo. It’s an easy walk.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s right on my way.”

I drove eight blocks north on Chapel until I reached Paseo, where I hung a left. He pointed to a dark gray frame duplex and I slowed to a stop. There was no room to park so he got out while the engine idled. He closed the car door and waved me on. I wiggled my fingers at him in the rearview mirror by way of a farewell, though he was gone by then.

I returned to the office, where I donned a pair of rubber gloves and gave the premises a thorough going-over. Then I went back to my place and started a load of laundry. As a youngster, I was taught that Saturday was for chores and you couldn’t go out to play until your room was clean. The critical lessons in life hold sway whether you like it or not.

At 5:30, I put on my windbreaker, slid my paperback novel down in my shoulder bag, locked the studio, and walked the half block to Rosie’s. Another woman approached the entrance at the same time I did and we reached for the door simultaneously. When our eyes met, I pointed at her. “You’re Claudia.”