Milo doesn't so much wear his string vest as inhabit it. Thick curls of body hair and the occasional bulge of fat attempt to escape through tears in the fabric, but they never do. Nothing escapes from Milo. Ever.
His pawn shop isn't much more attractive than he is himself. Apart from the endless war which is fought between the spiders and small insects which inhabit the window display, there isn't much to entice the casual shopper. A set of bent golf clubs, a couple of sewing machines which will never be antiques no matter how old they get, a mouldering display card of some plastic things which appear to have no human purpose whatsoever. An empty birdcage.
As Milo himself admits, it ain't Harrods.
Somehow, though, this doesn't seem to discourage the steady flow of customers that he
receives. They are an eclectic bunch, Milo's customers, but they have one thing in common and that is their furtive air. Some of them even go so far as to hide their faces behind
pashminas or scarves or even, in one case, a false beard.
All of their transactions are done in cash, and all are done swiftly. And regularly. An innocent bystander, if he were paid enough to innocently
bystand for long enough, might suspect Milo of being a drug dealer.
Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth.
