So, you collect antiquities?”

“Of course not!” the woman snapped, and walked off.

Heinrich blinked. What had he said wrong?

A chorus of chuckles came from the guys.

“Heinrich’s having his usual good luck with women,” Jordan said.

“Fuck you and fuck the rest of you. Especially you, Neil.”

“You sure you don’t want the Kewpie doll?”

“Maybe there’s some vintage porn around here somewhere,” Avram said. “That will cheer him up.”

Heinrich shook his head in frustration. It wasn’t the ribbing he was getting from the guys; that was par for the course. It was the bluntness of yet another rejection.

Why? He was a decent-looking guy, he made a good living, and he was in great shape from all the boxing and working out he did. Plus he was capable of giving a woman multiple orgasms on the rare opportunities he was given the chance.

So why was he always missing out? Every one of these jokers was married. Neil had been married three times. Why couldn’t he, Heinrich, get a woman?

After a minute, he shrugged it off. The brush off was too common for him to dwell on it for long. The guys had already tired of the game and were busy scouring the stalls for vinyl sides. Some of the tables that held a variety of antiques had one or two 78s. These were the best finds because the vendors weren’t specialists and didn’t know their real value. A few minutes later, a bargain on a near-mint-condition Leroy Smith from 1928 cheered up Heinrich. Only ten bucks? That was some serious bragging rights!

A lone 78 among a bunch of bric-a-brac drew him to another stand. He nodded to the African American man standing behind it, pulled off the sleeve, and checked the title.

THE FIERY CROSS

SUNG BY THE ALABAMA KNIGHTS OF THE KU KLUX KLAN

“What the fuck?”

Heinrich glanced at the rest of the table and saw old tin signs showing stereotypical blacks eating watermelon, an ad for a laundry soap in which a white child was dunking a black child into a washbasin and turning her white, and some postcards labeled “Gator Bait” showing crying black children being chased by alligators. Flanking the stand was a pair of lawn jockeys.

Heinrich looked at the black guy running the stand. He was young and tough-looking, with a camouflage jacket and a black beret.

“You’re selling this stuff?”

“None of it’s for sale.”

Heinrich cocked his head. Now he was doubly confused.

Jordan walked over. “Hey brother, this is a hell of a collection you got here.”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Oh hey, ain’t you the Light Bulb King?”

Jordan owned a light bulb factory. It wasn’t as glamorous as being a private detective, but it paid a hell of a lot better.

“In the flesh,” Jordan said, giving the man a fist bump.

“I didn’t know you were famous, Jordan,” Heinrich said.

“I was featured in the latest issue of The Black Entrepreneur.”

“Oh, missed that one. My subscription ran out.”

The dealer gave him a sour look.

Jordan plucked the 78 out of Heinrich’s hands and let out a low whistle.

“Now this is a rarity. How much you want for this?”

Before Heinrich could tell him it wasn’t for sale, the vendor said, “For you, fifty bucks.”

“Sold,” Jordan said with a nod.

“Wait. You’re buying this tripe?” Heinrich couldn’t believe it.

“Hell, yeah. This is part of our history.”

“And we don’t want it to fall into the hands of some cracker,” the vendor said pointedly.

Jordan made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, he’s all right. He’s no cracker, he’s just an asshole.”

Both black men laughed.

“What is this, pick on Heinrich day?”

“Don’t take it personally, white boy,” the vendor said. “I come to these exhibitions to show people like you that the good old days were good for only some. I don’t really come to sell, but if a brother wants to buy some of our sad heritage, that’s all right by me.