The last participant was the Asian guy, midthirties, athletic-looking, wearing a spotless royal blue polo shirt, pressed black slacks, and black loafers without socks. So far he’d bid on nothing.

Freshly shaved and aftershaved, the guy looked sharp in the Beemer convertible he drove up in. Bob wondered if he was some kind of art dealer, had the nose.

Worth keeping his eye on.

Pete found his key to 1455, released the lock, opened the door.

“Stand back, folks, private property,” he said. Saying the same darn thing every time.

Due to some weird state law, abandoned goods belonged to the owner until the moment they sold. Meaning you couldn’t approach them or touch them until you’d bought them. Then poof, the owner’s rights disappeared like a minor fart.

Bob had never understood the legal system. When lawyers talked at him, it might as well have been in Martian.

Pete ran his flashlight over the contents of the cell-like space. Bob had heard of people jerry-rigging electricity and bunking down in storage units, but he didn’t believe it. You’d go nuts.

“Okay,” said Pete. “Let’s start the bidding.”

The Asian guy said, “Could you please illuminate it one more time.”

Pete frowned, but obliged. The space was mostly empty, except for half a bicycle frame and two black garbage bags.

Pete coughed again. “See what you need to?”

The Asian guy nodded, turned his back on the unit. Maybe a fake-out, planning to jump in at the last moment. Or maybe he really didn’t want it.

Bob didn’t see any point in bidding on this one. So far he’d found that garbage bags held mostly garbage. Though he needed something to eBay, so if no one bid and it went cheap enough…

“Let’s hear a bid,” said Pete, not waiting before adding: “Fifty, do I hear fifty, fifty dollars, fifty, fifty dollars.”

Silence.

“Forty, forty dollars, bargain at forty dollars, metal on the bike is forty dollars.” Running the spiel, but without enthusiasm. So far, his commission hadn’t even added up to chump change.