After a casual dinner of penne doused in a mystery sauce with mushrooms and onions, several glasses of inexpensive Italian white wine, and a bowl of green Thompson grapes for nibbling, Peter introduced his treasure from work with a long and logical justification for sneaking it out without permission.

"I don't know, Peter, it could be very valuable."

"I'm sure it is to someone. So what?"

"Well shouldn't you tell Wendel?"

"No, why should I? He wasn't even there when this was put in the basement - none of us were for that matter. Besides, he doesn't own the place. Some anonymous corporation has that distinction. I told you, it's been there for a heck of a long time, Mare, at least since it was a burlesque house - and obviously forgotten."

She fingered the edge of the slightly corroded tin in the carton and let out a long breath. "So what's inside?"

"Let's see." He picked up a cardboard tube and, inserting two fingers, twisted the paper until it slid out easily then they unrolled it on the table. "Oh wow! It's a movie poster for an old western! Look at this!"

The poster read: RCADIAN FILMS presents Guns Across the Rio Grande with Arthur Bennett and Helen Sizemore. Directed by Raoul Cadian. Mary leaned over and squinted at the small print along the bottom. "It says printed in The United States of America, something, something. It's all smeared and then a date. Omigod, Peter! Nineteen twenty-nine. Do you think that's the picture in the tin?"

"It's only sixteen millimetre but I guess it could be." He picked it out of the box and turned it over. "Look, it says, GARG Run 84 min RCADIAN. Eighty-four minutes is a good length for a film that old, and sixteen mil is even more unusual."

"Open it and see."

"No way. Who knows what shape it's in, we could ruin it by exposing it to the air. This should be done by professionals."

"Who?"

"I can call the Film Institute and find out who does restorations."

"That could be expensive."

"I'm only asking, Mare, not committing."

******

Freddy Zisk hung up his phone and leaned back from his desk, tapping the end of his pencil on the blotter. The caller hadn't been very forthcoming about what he wanted restored, and his questions were beginning to tick the guy off, so he had given him a name and let it go.

He could try calling Cheryl at the lab, but she wouldn't really know anything without doing the same kind of prying he tried. The guy might not even go there. Still, she might find a way if he does - for a share. He picked up the phone and dialled.

Peter was still miffed with the jerk at the Institute, another nosy, goddamn bureaucrat. He had provided a name though. He dismissed his annoyance and walked the last few blocks from the bus stop, entering the ancient, faded brick building, and checking the lobby directory for Cinelab Productions.

An earlier call was placed to see if the company did what he wanted, and after giving as few details as possible, said he would come down. On the fourth floor he was introduced to a tiny reception area manned by an even tinier woman, with huge, horn-rimmed glasses and a headphone/microphone set clamped over a fuzz ball of silver hair. She jerked her head up without speaking and stared.

"Hi, I uh, I spoke to someone on the phone about restoring film."

"What company?"

"Huh?"

"What company are you with?" The fuzz ball vibrated impatiently.

"Oh. No company. Just me." He chuckled into her stern look.

"Take a seat."

Peter nodded and looked around, finding the sole chair jammed into the corner behind the door. He pushed the door closed and sat as ordered. The words weren't clear, but the cadence suggested his request was being passed on, with reluctance. He squared his shoulders and waited.

The ceiling was exposed ductwork and wiring, which had all been painted the same bile green and was now coated with a grey, grimy dust. He wondered how respectable the company really was, then he thought about the theatre basement - conceding a tie.

"You wanted to talk restoration?" The man burst through a door behind the reception, wiping his hands on a dirty rag, and rounding the counter on Peter as if to attack. Broad shoulders and muscled arms flexed noticeably with the action.

"Uh, yeah." He stood, pleased to note he at least had a height advantage. "It's about this can of film I fou- came across. I haven't opened it, so I don't really know what's inside but I would guess that it's sixteen mil."

"You know film?" The man took the tin and turned it to read the label.

"I work in a theatre."

"Projectionist?"

"I have experience but now I'm assistant manager."

"Eighty-four minutes. Hmmm, that's a lot for sixteen in, what did you say on the phone, nineteen twenty-nine?"

"Yeah. That was on the poster." Peter decided that this was the person he spoke with. "I brought it with me so you can read it for yourself."

The man unrolled the poster and studied it, asking without looking up. "So what do you want me to do?"

Peter shrugged and pointed to the tin. "I'd like to know what's inside but I don't want to wreck it. I thought you people might have special procedures you use."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, c'mon through." He turned, handed the poster back and marched back the way he came with Peter in tow. "I'm Harv Ballantine, the owner." He spoke over his shoulder.

"Peter Rabb."

The area was smaller than Peter expected, with three other people busy in different corners. The lighting was subdued and only on where necessary. The man crossed to a table against the far wall and set the tin down.

"Hey Cheryl, you wanna make out a work order for Mr. Rabb for a look-see estimate."

Peter turned and saw the only woman in the group slide her chair across to a file cabinet and rummage for some paperwork then slide back, beckoning him to come over.

"Uh, how much is this gonna cost me, this look-see?"

Harv put the tin down and turned to Peter. "A flat twenty-five to open the can and then when I have my look-see you get another estimate. Can't quote on what I can't see, pal."

"I know but, approximately? Worst case?"

He sighed theatrically and pursed his lips. "Worst case is the whole thing crumbles to dust. If it's not in bad shape, we can run it through our equipment and see what the image is like. The sprocket holes might be shot in which case we'd have to mount new ones. There're too many variables to guess."

"Are we talking hundreds? Thousands? Less, maybe?"

"Hundreds. But we still have to see it."

Peter swallowed hard. "Okay. Open it."

"Give him the form, Cheryl."

******

"Freddy? Cheryl here. Yeah, the guy did show up, and Harv opened up this film can he brought in, and you should have heard them."

"Why? What was it?"

"This really old western from the twenties by a guy named Raoul Cadian, on sixteen mil film. Harv says it's in amazing shape, and the pictures are crisp, and except for a few frames, just like new."

"So what's he doin' with it, the guy that brought it in? What's his name, anyway?"

"Peter Rabb. He's getting Harv to fix the bad frames and make a duplicate for a DVD burn."

"Did Harv say what it was worth?"

"The work?"

"No, Cheryl! The film. Jesus!"

"No, and don't talk to me that way. He did say it could be really valuable though."

"Yeah, okay, I'm sorry. Thanks for the info, I'll get back to you."

"Get back to me? What about this share you mentioned?"

"Huh? Oh- I need to do some investigating first. I'll just- I'll talk to you later." The line disconnected.

Freddy ploughed through his file drawer, cursing and grumbling, moving on to his desk with similar behaviour, and finally to his miscellaneous carton on the window sill where he whooped happily as he withdrew a card from the box.

Ralston Hughes, it read, President, Hughes Enterprises and a telephone number. He smiled and drummed his pencil on the desk as he waited for the phone to be answered.