I unlocked the store right at 8, bits of sun hanging over my shoulder. I made the usual preparations for the customers coming that day.
An hour later, the night shadows controlled the city.
9 PM. I flipped over an elegant white card by my obscured window. "THE SANDMAN. OPEN. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY." And then I waited.
My first client came in, scatting some song quietly under his breath, his eyes alight with the evening's possibilities. I avoided direct conversation with him as much as possible. His mouth ran at a mile a minute, real clever fellow, but was most definitely touched in the head, and if you didn't know the answer to one of his endless rain of questions, he got more than a little depressed. Really hurt the business. So while he went on about ravens and writing desks, I went to the back and came back with his order and a new catalog. He sprang the box open with childish delight, squealing giddily as he unfolded the green spandex bodysuit. At his request, I had done a complete redesign of the trademark logo on the front. The sleek curvy line seemed to be alive, a blob in a lava lamp, slinky, pulsing. The dot that punctuated it was bright red, his second favorite color. (I thought it made a pretty easy target, but we had been around that block before ...) He leafed through the catalog momentarily (bombs and guns), putting on a farcical air of seriousness, hemming and hawing at every page, rubbing his chin in consternation. Finally, tired by the endless desire to please, I offered a weak chuckle, and he latched on it like a bee to honey. He bowed preposterously, pulled a turnway 180, and marched out the door. Guy's a real enigma ...
Precisely at 10:30, my second client arrived. Tall, Germanic, expressionless face. His demeanor was cold, but I had grown accustomed to it. They all had their thing, that was no concern of mine. To be honest, I was a little hesitant about the appointment. Last time he had ordered some liquid nitrogen, and while normally it was a staple, my supplier had been manhandled by some teenaged vigilante wannabe and had had to dump the delivery in the Bay. I explained this to him in short civil tones. I offered him a 50% discount and a free upgrade to my newest bulletproof armor (in blue, of course.) He grunted assent. He seemed to acknowledge that my work was a dangerous one - or that he knew all too well the troubles of dealing with upstart punks roaming the streets, causing mischief by seeking it out. We shook hands as he left, and as I looked down at my frost-engulfed palm I saw he had left me a bonus: a perfectly cut diamond. Maybe 2 carats. I could make ten thou on the market with that ice ...
11 o'clock marked the arrival of a new customer. I had set up the appointment a week earlier. All of my appointments were by referral only. When I had first started up the business, I did jobs for everybody. Small timers, whole company operations, and everything in between. Between them all, I had been making a bundle. But then someone inevitably got shafted, and I got ratted out to Gordon and his little Boy Scouts. They had surrounded the warehouse, were preparing to come in, so I took matters into my own hands. I blew the whole thing to smithereens. It all burned, burned to nothing. They even declared me dead, though I was long gone out the escape hatch by the time it exploded. After that, I went around to two of my most trusted customers, explained my situation, and started up again, this time much more low-key. But then I got some stranger (real ugly fellow - from the left anyway) barging in on my store one night asking about split-screen security monitors and two-way mirrors. Told me he'd heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that I could assist in such matters. So after that I set up an appointment system, to keep things organized. But now I was up to at least 10 regulars. It was only a matter of time before another accident ...
Anyway, my 11 o'clock comes in, short guy, real sharp dresser. Tailored tuxedo, monocle, cigarette holder. Name's Copperbottom, or something like it. Doesn't really matter - this isn't the kind of business that's interested in junk mail listings and background checks. He asks about my business in a chirpy British accent, nodding snappily when I tell him it's good, cackling too loudly when I give him my standard follow up line ("...and the dynamite business is booming," deadpan.) He's nervous. Probably thinks this might be a trap. I hand him a catalog from underneath the counter, start pulling up boxes of assorted goodies for him to admire. Smoke bombs, gas grenades, rappelling hooks, plastic cuffs, lockpicks. He looks over them all; his shoulders ease up a little, his eyes dilate just a tad. Delusions of grandeur - Napoleon Syndrome, I guess. Then he asks me a question that any other business guy would find strange. He asks if I do umbrellas. I quickly reply that I don't but I will for him, and what does he have in mind? Expecting this, he has already unrolled several schematics on my counter. Pretty standard stuff, solid-state compressors, napalm chamber, a cane gun variation. I tell him no sweat, give me 48 hours. He starts a bit, gazing at me with a twinkle in his eye, a moment of wondrous appreciation at my abilities. Then he is cackling loudly again, heading out the door, squawking directions to his driver ...
Midnight. The old man comes. One of the original two customers I held onto. Distinguished gentleman, must be in his seventies. He's not the actual customer, though. Just the gofer. And whoever he works for is the baddest one of them all. He buys everything, and lots of it. The latest armored padding, audio and video surveillance, climbing gear, stuff so fresh it got stolen out of the Taiwanese R&D yesterday. Whatever stuff he's pulling, he means business. He's my best customer. And he's got a special thing for these boomerangs from Mongolia. They're cut pretty weird, but I bet with a little custom work, you could really go to town. I've got 500 of those for him, and a new Yamaha custom carburetor for a bike. The old man collects all of the order boxes - 11 in all - and I hold the door open for him while he makes his way back to the bright yellow Maserati. Every time he comes it's a different car; the license plates are untraceable. Not that I would know ...
12:30, my last customer of the night. She's so smooth, she's inside at the counter before I turn around. Asking about her order with a kittenish smile. She's amazing, and I never hesitate to flirt with her. While I'm getting her boxes from the back, I ask her why she hasn't thought about settling down, getting married, having kids. She tosses off the question with a laugh. I guess it's true, though. Customers at this kind of place aren't exactly the marrying kind. Though I'd make an exception for her. I stack the boxes up, ask her if she needs anything else. She just shakes her head, inspecting the packages and collecting them one by one. When she picks up the last one (carefully labeled "Latex. High Heels. Knives." in bold block lettering) I swear I can almost hear her purring with content. And then she's out the door with a wave of her hand. Real cool cat ...
One o'clock. I'm shutting down the place, flip the window card back over: "THE SANDMAN. CLOSED FOR REPAIRS." I'm just about to lock up when the phone rings. I think about not answering it, but I can't afford not to.
"Hello?"
"It's me. I need something pronto." The other original customer.
"Sure, what can I help you with today?"
"A tank of laughing gas, the special kind. No, two tanks! We're painting the town red tonight!" A gruff chorus of laughter emerges from the handset.
"I'll have it ready in 30 minutes. Anything else?"
His voice dropped to a low tone. "Yes, I need some more of those delightful purple silk boxers. Wonderful stuff, but doesn't really hold up to the strains of everyday mayhem. Let's say ten pair?"
"Yes, sir. I'll be waiting." I hung up the phone, made my way back to the window, reversed the card once more, and took a seat in the darkened office, waiting as promised.
In a city that never sleeps, The Sandman is king...