Benjamin bent down slowly, his knees ached, his back protested, and picked up the photograph with both hands. He held it against his chest the way a man holds something sacred. Derek called security. Two guards appeared from the back, both tall, both stone-faced.
Derek pointed at Benjamin. "Remove him. He's trespassing. He's harassing our customers. And check his pockets on the way out. I don't trust that he hasn't taken something."
The guards moved toward Benjamin. One of them gripped his arm. Benjamin didn't resist. He let himself be turned around, walked toward the door, his worn coat brushing against a rack of silk scarves that cost more than his monthly pension. As they passed the front desk, Megan looked away. She couldn't meet his eyes.
But Allison didn't look away. She stared at the founder's portrait on the wall behind the register, a black and white photograph of a young black man in a simple coat standing in front of the original Sterling and Hale storefront in 1981. Then she looked at Benjamin being walked out. Back to the portrait, back at Benjamin. Her lips parted. She pulled out her phone under the counter and typed a message fast, urgent, her fingers shaking.
Derek didn't notice. He was too busy straightening his cuffs and accepting a quiet "well handled" from a customer in a cashmere coat. The front door opened. The guards pushed Benjamin out onto the sidewalk. The cold October air hit his face. The door closed behind him with a soft, expensive click.
Inside, Derek clapped his hands once. "Back to business, everyone. Show's over." And everyone obeyed because that's what people do when cruelty wears a nice suit.
Outside, Benjamin sat down on the bench beside the door. He smoothed the photograph on his knee. He tucked the handkerchief NW back into his pocket. He didn't cry.
He didn't curse. He just sat there, 72 years old, holding a picture of his son against the October wind. And he waited.
Across the street, a woman walking her dog paused. She saw Benjamin on the bench, an old black man sitting outside a luxury store, coat buttoned to his chin, staring at nothing. She crossed to the other side, didn't want the trouble. A delivery driver double parked his van, glanced at Benjamin, and muttered something to his partner.
They both laughed. Benjamin heard it. He pretended he didn't.
Inside the store, the mood had shifted from tension to amusement. Derek was holding court near the watch counter, retelling the story like it was a comedy set. "You should have seen his face when I opened the envelope. He mimicked Benjamin's expression.
"Wide eyes, trembling hands. The staff laughed. Not all of them, but enough.
"Eleven months of saving." Derek shook his head. "Eleven months and he still couldn't afford the cheapest piece in the case. That's not determination. That's a delusion."
A sales associate named Terrence Blake, tall, polished, 10 years at the company, chuckled and added, "At least he knew the reference number. Give the old man that." "Google," Derek said flatly. "Any bum with a phone can Google a watch. Doesn't make him a buyer."
Allison stayed silent. She stood near the stock room entrance, phone in her hand, staring at the message she had just sent. The reply came 30 seconds later. Two words. How long?