The neon sign flickered once, then went dark, leaving the street to the dust of a decade that was already moving on.
A week later, the "Going Out of Business" sign went up. Dusty didn't mind. He realized that his shop was never really about the objects. It was a temporary harbor for things—and people—who were losing their place in the world. busty dusty 2008
Dusty, the owner, was a man whose skin looked like a well-worn leather jacket. He’d earned the nickname "Busty" not for his physique, but for his uncanny ability to find marble busts of forgotten Roman senators in the most unlikely dumpsters. The neon sign flickered once, then went dark,
He didn't haggle. He went to the back, pulled out a stack of crumpled twenties he’d been saving for his own rent, and pushed them across the glass counter. He realized that his shop was never really about the objects
"These are rare," Dusty lied, his voice gravelly. "Museum quality."