The next morning Dante gets to the skate
shop early—a little before nine thirty, and he’s thinking if he can
get started before ten, maybe he can leave before two if he’s
lucky. The front windows of the shop are dark and he presses his
face to the glass but doesn’t see much inside. If Bobby’s not here
yet, maybe he can get most of the stock up himself.
An alley runs down one side of the building
between Later Skater and the deli next door. Shoving his hands into
the pockets of his leather jacket, Dante ducks his head into his
collar and hurries down the narrow strip of broken tarmac, past the
cluster of garbage cans that smell of salami and stale bread, past
pallets propped up against the wall, out into the back where the
sidewalk ends in a short loading dock a few feet above a
