Pasadena facility, seven-by-seven room piled high with neatly sealed boxes. Most of it turned out to be old moldy clothes that he ended up tossing in a Goodwill box, but there were also some jeans full of holes and a wad of rock-concert T-shirts from the eighties that eBayed pretty good.

Plus the bag. Little blue velvet Crown Royal drawstring full of coins, including buffalo-head nickels and a few silver dollars. Bob took all that to a coin dealer in Santa Monica, walked away with two hundred twenty bucks, which was a fantastic profit, considering his bid on the entire contents had been sixty-five.

He thought of paying his mom back, but decided to wait until everything was squared up.

A yawn overtook him and his eye blurred. Pete the auctioneer coughed, then said, “Okay, next unit: fourteen fifty-five,” and everyone dragged themselves up the murky tunnel-like hallway to one of the padlocked doors that lined the cement-block walls.

Flimsy doors, flimsy locks, Bob could’ve kicked any of them in. The storage facility got two hundred a month per, talk about a good scam.

“Fourteen fifty-five,” Pete repeated unnecessarily. Rubbing a rummy nose, he fiddled with a ring of keys.

The other bidders worked hard at looking disinterested. Two were chunky old women with braided hair, looked like sisters, maybe even twins. They’d gotten a sealed steamer trunk for forty-eight bucks. Behind them was a tall, skinny heavy-metal type wearing an AC/ DC tee, fake leather pants, and motorcycle boots, veiny arms more tattoo-blue than white skin. He’d just won the last two lots: a room full of dirty-looking, mostly creased paperback books for a hundred and fifty and what looked to be rusty junk for thirty.

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.

“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.”

Holding out a mottled palm for payment.

Everyone smiling. Like there was some private joke and Bob was the butt. A cold, soupy feeling filled his stomach.

“Cash, sir,” said Pete.

Bob dug into his pocket.

Later, out in the parking lot, loading the bags and the half bike into his truck, he caught the Asian guy before he got in his Beemer.

“You do this a lot?”

“Me?” Guy smiled pleasantly. “First time, actually. I’m an anesthesiologist, have to be at Marina Mercy by six, thought it might help wake me up. And it kind of did.”

“What got you bidding on fourteen fifty-five?”

Guy looked surprised by the question. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Back home by seven, flies buzzing around the yucca plants that fronted his apartment building, a cruel sun fizzing through his dusty windows, Bob unloaded the garbage bags onto the floor of his grubby little living room.

Figuring he’d catch some sleep before the first Bloody Mary of the day, then go through his haul, then call the tree farm in Saugus.

He collapsed in his bed, still wearing dusty auction clothes. Closed his eyes.

Thought about Kathy. His fine. What his brothers said behind his back.

Got up and fetched a kitchen knife and sliced through the first garbage bag.

Inside were game boxes-Monopoly, Scrabble, Risk. But cracked and messed up, missing everything except the boards.

Great.

The second bag-the heavier one-held crumpled-up newspapers. Period. Why would someone pay to store shit like this?

With a real bad stomachache coming on, Bob got down on the floor and pawed through weeks of L.A. Times. Nothing antique, no historic headlines, just newsprint and those stupid ad inserts that fell all over the place.

Oh, man, he should’ve stayed in bed.

He said “Idiot” out loud and examined the half bike.

Cheap, flimsy junk. Made in China sticker pasted to what remained of a crossbar that Bob could bend with his hands.

Disgusted, he mixed a Mary in the kitchenette, sat down on the floor, and drank. Thinking about eighty wasted bucks made him more tired than ever, but leaving the bags around reminded him he was an idiot.