He came from the back of the store. He wore glasses, and he had a shock of black, unruly hair that toppled onto his forehead, giving his thin face a disheveled look.
"Where's your boss?" I asked.
"What?" He lifted his eye-shade, stared at me curiously. "Who?"
"Your boss. The fat guy with the bald head and the mustache."
He stared at me for another moment. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said at last.
"Look," I said, "your boss. The little guy who sold me the typewriter."
"What typewriter?" he asked blankly.
"The typewriter! My God, man, don't you know anything that goes on around here? The Remington Noiseless portable. The one that was in the window."
"A Remington? In my window?"
"Yes," I said patiently. "Right in your window." I pointed without turning around. "Right out there in your window. There. In the window."