"Not at all. You're into cowboy things, huh?" As I said it, I was overcome with the knowledge that this was "Billy the Kid," the original owner of the cowboy trunk. I don't know why I felt that way, but I did, with utter certainty. "Just trying to re-live a piece of my childhood, I guess. I'm Scott," he said, extending his hand. _Scott?_ I thought wildly. _Maybe it's his middle name?_ "I'm Jerry." The Upper Canada Brewery sale has many things going for it, including a beer garden where you can sample their wares and get a good BBQ burger. We gently gravitated to it, looking over the tables as we went. "You're a pro, right?" he asked after we had plastic cups of beer. "You could say that." "I'm an amateur. A rank amateur. Any words of wisdom?" I laughed and drank some beer, lit a cigarette. "There's no secret to it, I think. Just diligence: you've got to go out every chance you get, or you'll miss the big score." He chuckled. "I hear that. Sometimes, I'll be sitting in my office, and I'll just _know_ that they're putting out a piece of pure gold at the Goodwill and that someone else will get to it before my lunch. I get so wound up, I'm no good until I go down there and hunt for it. I guess I'm hooked, eh?" "Cheaper than some other kinds of addictions." "I guess so. About that Indian stuff -- what do you figure you'd get for it at a Queen Street boutique?" I looked him in the eye. He may have been something high-powered and cool and collected in his natural environment, but just then, he was as eager and nervous as a kitchen-table poker-player at a high-stakes game. "Maybe fifty bucks," I said. "Fifty, huh?" he asked. "About that," I said. "Once it sold," he said. "There is that," I said. "Might take a month, might take a year," he said. "Might take a day," I said. "It might, it might." He finished his beer. "I don't suppose you'd take forty?" I'd paid five for it, not ten minutes before. It looked like it would fit Craphound, who, after all, was wearing Scott/Billy's own boyhood treasures as we spoke. You don't make a living by feeling guilty over eight hundred percent markups. Still, I'd angered the fates, and needed to redeem myself. "Make it five," I said. He started to say something, then closed his mouth and gave me a look of thanks. He took a five out of his wallet and handed it to me. I pulled the vest and bow and headdress out my duffel. He walked back to a shiny black Jeep with gold detail work, parked next to Craphound's van. Craphound was building onto the Lego body, and the hood had a miniature Lego town attached to it. Craphound looked around as he passed, and leaned forward with undisguised interest at the booty. I grimaced and finished my beer. # I met Scott/Billy three times more at the Secret Boutique that week. He was a lawyer, who specialised in alien-technology patents. He had a practice on Bay Street, with two partners, and despite his youth, he was the senior man.