He pushed the door open. "You're a real spoilsport, you know that?"

We both squinted into the dark. The only windows were the small panes of glass in the door. The shop was about the size of a two-car garage. Diesel closed the door behind us and flipped a light switch. Two overhead fluorescent fixtures buzzed on and threw a dim, flickering light across the interior.

"Boy, this is cheery," Diesel said. "This would make me want to buy toys. Right after I poked my eye out and slit my throat."

The walls were lined with shelves, but the shelves were empty, and train sets, board games, dolls, action figures, and stuffed animals were all jumbled together on the floor.

"This is strange," I said. "Why are the toys on the floor?"

Diesel looked around the room. "Maybe someone had a temper tantrum." An ancient cash register sat on a small counter. Diesel punched a key and the register opened. "Seven dollars and fifty cents," he said. "Don't think Sandy does much business." He walked the length of the store and tested the back door. The door was unlocked. He opened the door and we both peeked into the back room. "Not much to see here, either," Diesel said.

There were a couple of long, metal folding tables and several metal folding chairs. Crude wood toys in various stages of completion cluttered the tables. Most were clunky carved animals and even clunkier carved trains. The train cars were connected by large hooks and eyes.

"Look around for something that might have the address of the other workshop," I said. "It might be printed on a shipping label or box. Or maybe there's a scrap of paper with a phone number."

We worked both rooms, but we didn't find an address or phone number. The only item in the trash was a crumpled bakery bag from Baldanno's. Sandy Claws had a sweet tooth. The store didn't have a phone. None had been listed on the bond agreement and we didn't see any on site. The bond agreement also didn't list a cell phone. That didn't guarantee that one didn't exist.

We left the store, locking the front door behind us. We stood beside my CRV in the parking lot and looked back. "Do you notice anything odd about this store?" I asked Diesel.

"No name," Diesel said. "There's just a door with a small cutout of a wooden soldier on it."

"What kind of a toy store doesn't have a name?"

"If you look closely you can see where the sign was torn off," Diesel said. "It used to hang above the door."

"Probably this is a front for a numbers operation."

Diesel shook his head. "It would have phones. It would probably have a computer. There'd be ashtrays and cigarette butts."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"I watch television," he said.