He walked to Monument Square and entered one of the big name brokerages. He left quickly, put off by slick advertisements on the walls and expensively dressed men exuding earnestness. Farther along the Square, he found a local firm staffed by a short man with a tired expression. The top of his head shone. Brown graying hair started just above his ears, swept back, and hung loosely over the back of his shirt collar. He was eating a bagel. A grandfather clock stood in one corner.
"I'm thinking about opening an account," Oliver explained.
The man swallowed and raised his coffee mug. "Why?"
"I like your clock." The man gave him a longer look and sipped coffee.
"I bought it at an auction. Never been sorry. Sometimes, you've got to pay for quality; sometimes you get a deal."
"I like auctions," Oliver said.
"My name is Myron Marsh. I've been called, 'Swampy.' I've been called,
'Mellow.' I prefer, 'Myron.' "
"What! No 'Shorty?' '' The corner of Myron's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. "O.K., Myron. I'm Oliver Prescott."
"You live around here, Oliver?"
"State Street, near the bridge."