Chapter 31: Lot Nine

"There's no lot nine," I said. "There are eight units on that sheet. I checked it."

"You checked the units," Wilma said. "Lot nine isn't a unit."

She pointed her gavel at the freight elevator.

"Lot nine is in Bay Two. Everybody downstairs."

Forty regulars turned around at once, like they'd been told ahead of time.

They had. I could see it on every face.

My crew was already in the bay when we got there, all twelve drivers in red shirts, standing along the wall.

The big roll-up door was shut.

Jubal's daughter stood beside it with her red clipboard and her own little gavel tucked in her belt.

"I'm the inventory," she told me.

"I can see that."

Wilma climbed onto an overturned crate so everyone could see her.

"Lot nine," she said. "Consigned by Mr. Quillen. Sold as is. Bidders stay behind the line."

She nodded at my oldest mover.

He hauled on the chain, and the bay door rattled up into the ceiling.

Afternoon light came in off the river.

A white Kenworth box truck sat in the bay with its nose toward me.

The paint was new. KITT MOVING & STORAGE ran down both sides in fresh red letters.

On the cab door, small, in my father's square style, someone had painted TRUCK 4.

I couldn't move.

"Where," I said.

"A hay farm in Dickson County," Jubal said behind me. "It was parked in a field with a goat living in it."

"A goat."

"I evicted him. By the book. He got thirty days' notice."

The regulars laughed. I didn't. I was walking toward the truck.

I put my hand on the front fender. It was warm from the sun through the bay door.

"Opening bid," Wilma said, "is one dollar."

Nobody moved.

Forty people who would bid on a broken treadmill stood with their hands in their pockets.

I turned around.

"One dollar," I said.

Wilma raised her gavel.

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