"In the window at Pinkney's," Niva said. "On the back shelf. I was waiting for the bus outside Florentine's and I looked in, and it was there. I didn't know it was hers at first. I mean, there are a lot of those. Pentax made like three million of them. Mr. Pinkney told me that later. They're the Honda Civic of cameras." She almost smiled, and didn't. "But it had the dent. On the top plate, by the shutter button. And I remembered the dent. I remembered Mom telling me how it got there. She said she dropped it on the steps at the Stanley Theater the night she and Dad saw Cats, and Dad was so upset about the camera he forgot to be upset about how bad Cats was."
"That's true," my father said, very quietly. "That's exactly true."
"So I went in." Niva shrugged, one shoulder. "And I asked Mr. Pinkney if I could hold it, and he let me, and I knew. I knew the second it was in my hands. I don't know how to explain it. It weighed right."
"How much," said my father.
"Dad."
"How much did he want for it, Niva."
She looked at him for a long moment. "Two hundred and sixty."
My father put his hand over his mouth.
"He gave you one forty," said Niva. "I know. He told me. He looked it up in his book. He keeps everything in this big green ledger, not even on the computer, and he found it, and he showed me your name. Benjamin Sokol. Pentax K1000, SMC 50 millimeter, case, strap. One hundred forty dollars. And then a line through it where it went from pawn to sale, because you never came back for it." She swallowed. "He said that's his markup. He said he wasn't trying to cheat anybody, that's just what they go for, and he was sorry. He actually said he was sorry. He was really nice about it."
"Lazar Pinkney," said my grandmother, from her chair, "has been nice about things on Bleecker Street for forty years. It's a strange business to be nice in. He manages."