“Forty? Nothing at forty? Do I hear thirty-five-”

Without turning around, the Asian guy said, “Twenty,” and Bob sensed something in his voice. Not shifty, more like… calculated.

Figuring the metal on the bike was worth something-just the pedals might be valuable to someone who needed pedals-Bob said, “Twenty-five.”

Silence.

Pete said, “Twenty-five, do I hear thirty, let’s hear thirty, thirty dollars-”

“Sure,” said the Asian guy. Shrugging, like he couldn’t care less.

Bob waited until Pete spieled a bit more, then came in for thirty-five.

Asian half turned. “Forty.”

Bob said, “Forty-five.”

The old ladies started looking interested. Uh-oh.

But they just stood there.

Heavy Metal edged closer to the open unit. “Fifty,” he whispered.

“Sixty,” said Asian.

The mood in the passageway got alert and tight, like strong coffee kicking in for everyone.

Asian pulled out a BlackBerry, read the screen, turned it off.

Maybe the bike was super-rare and even half of it would bring serious bucks. Bob had heard of old Schwinns-like the one he’d ditched when he turned sixteen and got his license-going for crazy money-

“Sixty-five,” said Heavy Metal.

Asian hesitated.

Bob said, “Seventy.”

Asian said, “Seventy-five.”

“Eighty,” a voice awfully like Bob’s nearly shouted.

Everyone stared at him.

Asian shrugged.

Pete looked at Heavy Metal, who’d already walked away and was massaging a tattoo.

“Eighty dollars for this trove,” said Pete. “Do I hear eighty-five? Eighty-five dollars, still a bargain at eighty-five.”

Going through the motions, not pushing it. “Going once, going twice… eighty it is.”

Banging that little plastic palm-gavel against his clipboard. Scrawling on his sheet and telling Bob, “You’re the lucky winner of the trove. Eighty bucks, cash on the barrel.”