Dreamspell Magic Volume 1

“Where do you want these?”
Barry Maxwell glanced at the deliveryman standing inside the doorway of “Maxwell’s On Melrose,” beside a dolly loaded with dusty trunks, and sighed. The first person to cross his threshold in a week and he wasn’t a customer.
“Bring them through the alley to the back entrance.” Moving from behind the counter, he stretched a kink out of his spine and headed for the rear of his antique shop. Damn. No matter how often he ran the numbers, they still sucked. He’d known it’d be hard for the first couple years after leaving the law firm, but his bank account made the 1929 Crash look like a mere hiccup. Turning the deadbolt, he opened the back door.
“Just put them anywhere.”
Barry winced at the ringing phone, grabbed the extension and punched the line button. “Maxwell’s on Melrose.”
“Your check bounced.”
“Good morning, Sylvia.”
“Good morning, my ass. This is the third time this year.”
“We’re in a recession. Don’t you watch the news?” He paused and looked up. “Don’t block the restroom door.”
“What did you do now? Spend more money on worthless shit?”
He shuddered. His ex-wife didn’t understand why if he had to work a hundred hours a week he’d rather be buying and selling “worthless shit” than piling up billable hours.
“Probate auction from this great old house in Long Beach. I won the entire contents of the attic…I’m sorry. I forgot to move money to my personal account. Give me a couple days and redeposit the check.”
“No way, Jose. I’m coming Thursday and I want cash. Steve is taking me to—”
“Somewhere exciting, I’m sure. Come near closing time and I’ll have it.”
He took a deep breath, hung up, took the clipboard from the deliveryman, and signed the bill of lading. After locking the door, he trudged to the front.
Few people understood his passion for antiques. He could tell them why. The choice was simple. Assemble-it-yourself chipboard-and-veneer furniture or beautifully made, solid wood bookcases and armoires. Buy some injection-mold plastic toy or choose from his cabinet full of handmade toys that welcomed imagination. They just didn’t make stuff like this anymore. They also, it seemed, didn’t buy it anymore.
Sitting, he glared at the computer and his dwindling bank account. If he gave Sylvia $1000 Thursday, it wiped out his reserves until he could tap one of his rapidly depleting T-bills.
If he didn’t make more sales, he’d have to abandon his dream. That meant selling his soul back to a law firm for steady paychecks when he’d just reclaimed it.
* * * *

Grimacing, he put ten hundred-dollar bills in an envelope marked “Sylvia.” He slipped the envelope into his cash register drawer and shoved it closed.
He’d made a few hundred dollars today, but it wouldn’t cover the spousal support. “Thank God I only owe her for another nine months.”
He flipped the door sign to “closed,” secured the safety gates, pulled a small manila envelope filled with age-darkened keys from a drawer, killed the lights and hurried into the back.
He loved blind auctions and discovering wonderful items in miscellaneous trunks. Who knew what treasures lurked in this collection?
His hands itched with excitement. He pulled a trunk to the floor, dumped the keys onto his work counter and experimented until he found the right one.
He grunted as the lock resisted him, then finally gave way. Palms on the lid, he pushed. His hands slipped.
“Damn.” He grabbed a rag, wiped decades of grime off his hands and sprayed the hinges with a can of WD-40. Crouching, he tried again.
The lid screeched and creaked open. “Life magazines!” He lifted the top one. August 27, 1945. Water ballet swimmer on the cover, V-J Day articles inside. “Cherry.” He glanced at others, all 1945, looking as if they’d barely been read before being stored.
“These are worth a fortune. It looks like no one’s opened the trunk in sixty years.”
Assembling a bankers’ box, he carefully placed each magazine inside it. He knew a collector who would pay him fifteen to twenty dollars each for cherry condition Life.
A few layers down, the stack curved. He slid his fingers under the pile until they touched something. Lifting the magazines, he saw an odd wooden box. Crumpled rags and newspaper cushioned the sides.
He pulled them away and lifted it from the trunk.
Sighing, his fingers caressed it. “A Cathedral radio.” Shaped like a church window, its peaked sides walnut veneer, there was no mistaking this jewel with ornate front carve-outs, the brown-and-black tweed speaker cloth peeked out, teasing him. Two black celluloid knobs—volume and tuning—situated equidistant beneath a large, round, yellowed celluloid station dial. Its tweed-covered electrical cord hung from the back in mint condition.
He set it on the counter and plopped on his stool.
Grinning, he fingered the dial. “KFI, KMPC, KNX, KFWB, KHJ, KRLA!” Wonderful classic L.A. AM stations, some of them history.
“God, if it works… Between the magazines and this I’ve just recouped every dime.”
Before testing it, he grabbed a clean cloth. As he buffed the sides, smoke suddenly poured from the speaker cutouts.
“Oh, God, no.” He dropped the rag, bolted off the stool and raced for the fire extinguisher. Grasping it in both hands, he pivoted back to the counter.
The extinguisher clanked onto the floor.
The glittering smoke had coalesced into a swirling column. Barry’s breath caught in his throat as the funnel reached the floor and solidified.
Into a woman.
Unlike any he’d ever seen outside of old movies, posters, and photographs.