In the shop windows hung seashells from the South Seas and dried fish, souvenirs from the sailors who came here to stock up on radio gear. East Radio Store. Superior Equipment and Repair. He decided on Ammon’s Radio Store.

He walked in and pulled out his list. The salesman looked at it for a long time. “A quarz with a transmitting range of over three thousand miles. What are you planning on using it for, anyway?”

“It’s not for me, it’s for someone I know.” He lapsed back into his German accent, as he always did when he was nervous.

“Do you use a radio yourself?”

“Yes, I’m an amateur operator.”

The list was now sitting on the display table between them. He wanted to just grab it and leave the store.

“But the quarz is supposed to have a range of over three thousand miles?”

“That’s not illegal.”

“Not yet.”

The salesman was eyeing him suspiciously and made no attempt to hide it.

“I don’t have a quarz like that in stock right now.”

“All right. I’ll be going, then.” And he took the piece of paper.

“Hold on now. I can get you the other parts.”

The salesman went down the shelves, grabbing some wire here, clips and rubber components there. Josef had hoped this would give him some time to think. But the salesman drew him into a conversation. He had shellac on the list—what did he need that for? Probably for isolation purposes, right? He’d advise against that. Paraffin or insulating varnish was better.

“All right.”

“Do you have tinfoil at home?”

“No.”

“Oh, but you’ll need it. You have to use it to cover the back of the panel, but don’t forget to leave room for the leads.”

He nodded absently.

He was still alone with the salesman. Should he just go? There was something about the way the man looked at him every time he put an item on the table, and the way he loudly announced what it was.

Then he took a receipt pad, warped from the humidity, and began to write down each item.

“You’re German?”

“I’ve lived here for fifteen years.” Josef picked up a clip, inspecting it, as if he hadn’t decided yet.

“But you’re from Germany?”

“I should think you can hear it.”

The salesman nodded. “Comes out to a hundred fifty dollars. And I’ll need your name and address.”

He hesitated.

“Better yet, just show me your ID. Then you won’t have to spell out that German name for me.”

“It’s not complicated—Joe Klein.”

The salesman looked up.

“How about that. That is easy. And where do you live, Joe?”

Something wasn’t right. But he told him, as if out of spite, his address.

“May I see your ID?” asked the salesman.

“No.”

“Then I can’t sell you these items.”