9 DEADLY TALES
by R.T. Lawton
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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“The Retirement Fund” previously unpublished
“Nest Eggs” previously unpublished
“I’m a Bookie” previously unpublished
“The Bookends” previously unpublished
“Once, Twice, Dead” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, September 2001
“For Beans and Rice” previously unpublished
“Dead End Alley” previously published in Easyriders Magazine, November 1976 under the street name of “Pockets” aka R.E. Silverman
“...to ashes,...to dust” previously published in Easyriders Magazine, May 1977, under the street name of “Pockets” aka R.E. Silverman
“...a woman scorned” previously published in Outlaw Biker Magazine, January 1986 under the street name of “Hump” aka E.R. Silverman
Cover art and formatting services by Michael Kliewer @ KGraphics
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION TO THE EZ MONEY PAWN SHOP SERIES
INTRODUCTION TO THE BOOKIE SERIES
INTRODUCTION TO THE BIKER STORIES
INTRODUCTION TO THE EZ MONEY PAWN SHOP SERIES
I have found a certain fascination with pawn shops. They are the receptacles for goods brought in by people down on their luck and desperate for a few dollars to keep them going. Or the person doing the pawning may be a thief who does not even own the article in question, he merely purloined it as part of his trade and he has no access to a regular fence where he can unload his stolen merchandise. At least with a fence, both participants in the transaction know that the items being bought and sold have been acquired by illicit means. But with a pawn shop, some of them can be said to have turned a blind eye over the years. In any case, every item in these shops has its own story to tell. If we only knew what some of them were.
In researching for background, I visited a few pawn shops and interviewed various employees. I also talked to thieves. In the process, I learned how prices are set, how long an item sets in pawn before it’s sold if not first redeemed, how jewels and gold are tested and some of the scams that people attempt to pull on pawn shop employees. Along the way, I heard stories about some of the pawned or attempted to pawn items. Some were ingenious, some funny and some made you wonder what people were thinking.
My earliest personal experience with a pawn shop was while I was in college. A poor loser in a game of Blackjack being played in our dorm room decided not to leave empty handed. On his way out of the premises, he stole my watch while I was sleeping. I did find out later that my roommate had been playing with a marked deck of cards, plus the loser had some incredibly poor math skills, however I scarce found this to be mitigating circumstances for the theft, because it was after all my watch and I had absolutely nothing to do with the crooked game. By the time my roommate tracked down the thief, and…shall we say confronted him in a hardy manner, the thief had already been to a local pawn shop and headed home. He readily gave up the pawn ticket concealed in his sock. I immediately went to the pawn shop and redeemed my stolen jewelry. The shop owner was unapologetic, even while admitting that said thief had a long streak of pawning watches. Wonder where he got them. Adding insult to injury, the owner informed me how little my time piece was worth, but before I left, I took notice of the considerably marked up prices on similar watches in his showcase.
Seems everybody wants to make a dollar. You just need to keep an eye on some of them.
...return to Table of Contents
THE RETIREMENT FUND
“Not me, bud. I just sweep the floors and dust the merchandise. You want to do business here in the E Z Money Pawn Shoppe, you talk to the proprietor, Titus Kwaznuski.”
Using the feather duster, I pointed at the fat man in the faded pin-stripe suit standing behind the counter and under the PAWN sign.
The potential customer paused in the open doorway. Being a young guy, he seemed indecisive, so I filled him in.
“I know the proprietor don’t look like much at first glance and he’s got a slight accent when he talks on account of being first generation American, but don’t kid yourself none, Mr. Kwaznuski’s the brains of this outfit. Do your business with him.”
Then I waved the duster in the general direction of the young muscular guy standing under the REDEMPTION sign on the other side of the store.
“And, if I was you, I’d stay away from that short fellow over there, the one with the open-front shirt and all the heavy gold jewelry. That’s the proprietor’s associate, Axel B. Larson. Axel claims the ‘B’ stands for Psycho. Well, let me tell you...”
And I started ticking off what I considered to be important points on my fingertips.
“...one, Psycho starts with a silent ‘P’; two, there ain’t no letter ‘B’ anywhere in the word ‘Psycho’; and three, don’t ever try to correct his spelling. He’s a little touchy about criticism. And that’s all I got to say on that matter.”
Having said that much, I let the front door swing shut behind the new customer and went back to dusting the merchandise. Mostly, it’s all the same to me. Every day, me watching the steady flow of humanity come to hock their dreams of the past in exchange for hopes of a better future. Hopes that appeared to gradually diminish with the passage of time. And time it seemed was something I was rapidly running out of.
Ever since I started here a year ago, I’d had a feeling about the commerce Titus and Axel were involved in. Somehow, they carefully kept me away from their pawn activities, using me only for menial jobs such as cleaning up, running errands and unlocking the shop in the morning so as I’d have the coffee ready when they came in. They always said whatever happened at either counter and especially in the back room was none of my concern. All this time them treating me like a trained mushroom, me barely making more than minimum wage. I wasn’t inclined to do any more work than I had to, but then it’s tough for a two-time felon with priors like mine to get a job in this town, so I always do just enough to keep them satisfied and off my back. I mean, it’s not like I enjoy this type of work, but... Hey, any idiot with a sixth grade education can do the math, here I am at sixty-one, ready to draw early Social Security in a few months and it’s next to nothing to look at for my golden years.
And as if that wasn’t enough to put on my stooped old shoulders, yesterday, some hail-damaged street person shows up on my doorstep claiming to be my late Aunt Matilda’s boy and I was gonna have to take care of him for the rest of his life. At this rate, I’ll still be working when they close up my cardboard coffin with strapping tape.
Until they shut that lid though and gimme some rest, I’m gonna have to hustle for somebody’s dollar to put in my pocket. And a way to get it in there. That means I gotta know what’s going on all the time in order to make my play. It’s one of them bad habits I picked up in the joint, but forget about it. I don’t make no excuses to nobody for nothing.
Turning my back to the counter, I started dusting my way backwards over to within hearing distance of whatever was about to happen. Didn’t take long to figure out this particular customer had something special to pawn because I picked up on the vibrations in Titus’ voice when he called Axel to come on over and listen to this.
Risking a clandestine glance over my shoulder, I saw the customer had a set of blueprints laid out on the counter along with some other papers. Right quick, I ducked my head as Psycho stepped up beside Titus. Wouldn’t do to have them two catch me showing any interest in their doings. They might start putting their heads together after a while and could get some ideas about me.
Mostly, I just tried to pay attention to what the customer -- Billy B. Ashcraft he gave his name as -- was saying.
“I need cash to get my project going.”
Of course, Psycho wanted to know what particular item the man had to pawn and Titus tried to explain the situation for him.
“Mister Ashcraft here offers to put up his blueprints and written plans as collateral. In return the young gentleman desires about ten thousand dollars of our currency.”
I wished there’d been a mirror where I could’ve watched Psycho’s face change color. It truly pains that man to let go of money, especially if any part of it belongs to him.
“Get outa here! I wouldn’t pay that much for blueprints to get into Fort Knox. Not even if I had a gun and was going to take my money back afterwards.”
Then came the sounds of a short scuffle, like somebody was trying to drag somebody else over the top of the counter. I wanted to risk a glance over my shoulder again, but it was too chancy. For the last several months, I’d had them believing I was rapidly going half-deaf. No sense disabusing them of feeling safe to talk freely while I was working around the store. Never knew when I might learn something important. Something to give this old mushroom an edge with the cops, my parole officer, ...hell, with anybody.
Finally, Titus stepped in.
“Calm yourself, Axel. Unhand the gentleman and hear him out. This could be a lucrative venture if done correctly. Go ahead, Mr. Ashcraft.”
“As I was telling you before this other...uh...your young associate interrupted, I’ve got a blueprint of the guy’s house.”
But Psycho never could maintain what little patience he did have whenever he was faced with a situation he didn’t immediately understand. This minor flaw in his character kept a lot of customers from redeeming their pawned merchandise. As soon as they recognized that faint hint of spontaneous combustion in his glaring face hovering behind the REDEMPTION counter, most customers reconsidered their options and made an abrupt exit, leaving their merchandise unredeemed. Which meant that the store promptly sold that same merchandise for a lot more than its pawned value.
This minor blemish in his personality had also precipitated an increase in the hospital attendance rates whenever Axel, that is Psycho, failed to understand why debtors to some of Titus’ other business concerns couldn’t come up with the necessary cash for their weekly payments. Needless to say, the vig kept increasing the amount of principal they owed on these loans. Death was the only acceptable excuse for not having the required money in hand. And even then, Psycho was liable to show up at the funeral home just in case the deceased lying in his coffin was trying to take some gold jewelry to the grave without paying Titus first. When the man said you couldn’t take it with you, he was referring to Psycho’s collection techniques.
Axel definitely had a way about him.
“We’re not in the contracting business, you little weasel. What the hell are we going to do with blueprints?”
A slight quiver appeared in Mr. Ashcraft’s voice. Quickly, he blurted out the whole scheme in one breath.
“It’s the house of an art thief who has a concealed vault for stolen paintings and I need ten thousand dollars as a bribe to get the security alarm access code and combination to the vault from his ticked-off girlfriend and that’s where you guys come in.”
Crooks stealing from crooks. I liked that. If something went wrong, who was in any position to call for the cops? True, a guy could maybe get shot in an important place if he wasn’t careful, but nobody was going to prison. And, hey, if you couldn’t improve your quality of life then what was the sense of living?
However, it also meant whoever went into the art thief’s house would probably be carrying a gun himself as the final persuasion to any argument, just in case something went wrong during the retrieval part of the operation. That gave me some problems. If the cops picked me up carrying a firearm, the judge would throw the Big Bitch at me. I’d be serving natural life forever as a habitual criminal, which didn’t exactly fit into my plans for retirement.
“How much is our share?” growled Psycho.
“Well, it’s my plans and blueprints, so if you people put up the ten thousand bribe money, I’d be willing to split the profits fifty-fifty.”
“Hold on, sir,” replied Titus. “It’s true the plans are yours and I am the one to front the investment money. But consider the fact that while you are inside the house selecting the artwork, you need to make sure the original thief doesn’t return to his residence in the middle of your endeavors. Obviously, you need someone to protect your back. That’s where my young associate Axel comes in.”
“What would he do?”
“Ah, sir, young Axel here is the perfect specimen to follow your art thief when he ventures out from his domicile some dark night in order to ensure against the owner’s untimely trip home. Merely one glance at Axel’s face is usually enough to discourage the faint of heart. I assure you, sir, that my associate has many hidden talents you would not care to be the recipient of, therefore, I recommend a three-way division of the spoils. And that, sir, is non-negotiable.”
Pausing for a short break in my dusting, I could imagine the customer, staring open-eyed at Titus, then taking that one quick glance at Axel’s face, which quickly made up his mind.
“I believe I can live with thirds.”
“Naturally, I,” continued Titus while he still had the upper hand, “will assume the risk of fencing the merchandise, but there will be no additional fee for those services.”
This was great. First they bludgeon Billy B. Ashcraft from halves down to thirds and now Titus puts himself into a position to tell the customer at a later date how much the stolen paintings got fenced for. Of course, Titus would conveniently neglect to mention the true selling price, thus the customer’s share rapidly became less and less. Who said you can’t cheat a crook? Hell, Titus and Psycho did it for a living. You had to admire the way them boys operated.
That’s when I found out that Ashcraft might be a little naïve, but he wasn’t a total fool.
“Sure thing, Mr. Kwaznuski, you fence the goods. And understand it’s not that I don’t trust you people, but surely you have no objections if I go along with you to meet the buyer?”
Titus pursed his lips as though considering his alternatives.
“Not a problem at all, sir. ‘Keep the customer happy’ is our company motto. Of course you may accompany me to partake in the negotiations over price, after all, we do trust one another here. A gentlemen’s agreement as it were. However, in order to protect the reputation of our pawnshop, it would be too dangerous to bring the stolen artwork back to the store after you acquire them. Perhaps it would be best if we picked some private place to rendezvous on the following night. Some isolated area where we won’t be bothered by those outside our little agreement.”
“Sure, I know an abandoned farmhouse outside of town. I’ll draw you a map on how to get there.”
“An abandoned farm house? Excellent, quite excellent. When do you expect to do this job and when will you require the money?”
“I need the money this afternoon. The man’s girlfriend is leaving for the Coast and claims she’s not ever coming back. Plus, tonight is the weekly poker game between the art thief and some of his like-minded friends, so he’ll be out of the house for several hours. Afterwards, I’ll stash the paintings for a day and we can meet tomorrow night. In less than forty-eight hours, you’ll have a healthy return on your investment.”
“I like the way you think, sir. Give me just a couple of minutes with my associate, if you don’t mind.”
At that point, I dusted my way across the room to an old music box with a mirror set in the front. I frequently found it convenient for looking over my shoulder. A slight nudge with the duster lined the image in the mirror up with the hallway leading into the back office where Titus kept his money in an old Poulard safe.
In the middle of the hall, Titus stood with his arm around Psycho and whispered in his ear. Psycho kept shaking his head “no”, but finally I saw a twisted smile come over his face. He glanced over at the customer and nodded his head “yes”. Titus then disappeared into the office for a couple of minutes and came out with a thick sheaf of currency. The two of them walked back over to the PAWN counter and Titus counted out several bills. Billy B. Ashcraft then recounted the money and signed a receipt that Psycho thrust across the counter top. I heard something again about “a gentlemen’s agreement” and they all shook hands.
As the three of them made their way to the front door, I dusted a route that took me closer to the store entrance.
Titus stood in the open doorway, watching as Mr. Ashcraft walked across the street.
“Wave goodbye to the nice gentleman, Axel. We want him to think kindly of you right up until you meet him at the abandoned farm house tomorrow night.”
Axel half raised his hand as Ashcraft got into a brown SUV and drove away. Titus continued talking in a low voice.
“As for tonight, ensure that our new customer has a suitable amount of uninterrupted time. Stick with the art thief wherever he goes. Understand?”
Psycho shot a quick glance at me, but I had already turned my back and was observing him and Titus out of the corner of my eye in the reflection of a shiny brass bowl. Apparently satisfied, Psycho turned his attention back to the proprietor.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep him from coming back too soon. Where will you be?”
“I, my good man, will be at my social club, establishing an alibi in case our pawn shop should ever become suspect in these matters. With this plan, neither you nor I will ever be on the victim’s premises during the burglary. The only one sticking his neck out will be our Mr. Ashcraft. Call me tonight when you’ve finished working.”
As soon as Titus headed for the back office, I knew his routine. He’d hang the old pin-stripe suit in the closet and change into an Armani he’d picked up in Italy or maybe one of the new Shantung silk suits from Hong Kong. A short stroll down the alley to his private garage and him and his BMW would be off to lunch. He wouldn’t be back to the shop until tomorrow morning. By then, he’d have several witnesses to his whereabouts. Not that the cops would ever suspect him for anything, but he did believe in planning for all possibilities.
Kinda galled me that Titus had the best of both worlds, while I was relegated to tomato soup made from ketchup packets purloined from fast food restaurants and stale sandwiches made out of day old bread and commodity peanut butter. I had the urge to reflect on the injustice, but had to do it quick because an idea had just occurred to me.
Now if Psycho would hurry up and leave, I could close the shop and go home for the day. As it was, I didn’t know if I had enough time to get together everything I needed. There was a costume shop a couple of blocks away that would probably have one of the necessary items on my mental list. And, with any kind of luck, my hail-damaged, alleged cousin would still be on my doorstep waiting for me to take care of him. Well, maybe there was a way he could help us both out.
#
Later that night, I eased my old panel truck over to the curb and into a dark spot two blocks up the street from the art thief’s house. The truck had been painted with one layer of flat black the year before to help make it invisible for night work. However, since I didn’t have much money at the time, the paint was a cheap, thin stuff I picked up on good faith from a street entrepreneur on the corner of Fifth and Walts. So, about two days after the paint job, I find the underlying white lettering started showing through. Now on both sides of the panel truck, you could faintly read the name of a recently bankrupt septic-tank pumping company and their slogan. It’s embarrassing what an honest crook has to go through these days, but then I had run out of money and paint at the same time.
Raising a pair of binoculars temporarily borrowed from the pawnshop, I scouted the area for Psycho’s car and found him parked one block ahead of us. That was good. Now this thing could get off to a fine start if the art thief drove the other way on the street when he left tonight. It definitely wouldn’t do for the thief to drive in our direction with Psycho right behind him. One of them two might remember the black panel truck with the strange lettering as having been hanging around the neighborhood. Then I’d have to find a way to get a different color paint job and no funds to do it with.
Didn’t take my hail-damaged alleged cousin sitting in the passenger seat long to intrude on our comfortable silence.
“How long is this going to take?” asked Jack.
His real name wasn’t Jack, I have no idea how he found out about my Aunt Matilda and I seriously doubted he was any cousin of mine. But since most of his conversation consisted of his favorite saying, “You don’t know Jack”, I took it upon myself to nickname him Jack. Let him figure it out.
“Patience, Jack, patience. You’ll get to play your part soon enough.”
As if on cue, the porch lights came on at the art thief’s house. Pale yellow light spilled across the front entrance and cast murky shadows around the bushes. In a couple of minutes the thief’s car backed out of the driveway and he drove off in the opposite direction. Psycho’s taillights suddenly burst red in the block ahead of us as he pulled out behind the thief’s car.
I waited. Two players had left the scene, but we had one more coming.
Five minutes later, a brown SUV stopped in front of the house and backed into the drive. The headlights disappeared, but the porch globes were enough for me to see the driver walk up to the front door and fool with the lock. In no time, he was through the door and the porch lights went out. The inside of the house appeared dark, but it seemed as though the occasional glow of a muted flashlight floated from room to room. This had to be our man, Mr. Billy B. Ashcraft. We’d give him a few more minutes to get his business done.
In the meantime, we needed to get ready. I flipped on the panel truck’s interior light switch and checked on Jack’s costume. Naturally, I had to straighten out the plain black tie overlaying his dark blue shirt. Seemed that street people were lucky if they knew how to dress themselves.
“Okay, Jack, you sure you know what to do?”
“Yeah, I wait in the bushes ‘til he comes out of the house.”
I tilted the policeman’s hat on Jack’s head to a cocky angle. All the cops I knew had attitude; he might as well look the part he was playing.
“Good, Jack, only be sure the guy’s loaded the paintings into the SUV before you tell him he’s under arrest. You know how to do that?”
“Yeah, I been arrested lots of times. I holler ‘Freeze, Buddy, or I’ll blow your blankity-blank head off’, then I talk into this old walkie-talkie you give me and pretend that my police radio’s dead. Batteries or something.”
Jack paused in his recitation and looked me hopefully in the eye.
“Can I have a drink now?”
“Wait until we’re done with this thing. Cops aren’t supposed to drink on the job.”
“I’m not doing this ‘less I have a shot first. Otherwise, you can just go get yourself another policeman.”
“You’re holding me up here, Jack.”
“You don’t know Jack.”
Reluctantly, I got the bottle of vodka from under the driver’s seat and handed it over.
“Just one, Jack, and don’t breathe on the man when you’re reading him his rights.”
Jack spun the cap off the bottle like there was no tomorrow and took several healthy gulps. I grabbed the bottle back and screwed the cap tight.
“No more until we’re finished with the job. I’ll leave the bottle under the front seat for you. Now what do you do after you pretend your radio doesn’t work?”
A terrible belch echoed from Jack’s insides. One of us would be lucky if he remembered anything about the plan.
“Right, let’s see. I tell him we got to walk to the nearest phone. Got to call the ... uh ... precinct. That’s when I let him get away in the darkness. One more drink?”
“Later, Jack, later. Now, when he runs off, you come back here and drive the panel truck to the apartment. I’ll drive the SUV. Got it?”
“Right.”
I eased the old panel truck out from the curb and drove down to the mansion next door to the art thief’s house. There an ancient elm tree threw a large shadowed spot on the pavement away from the glare of the street light. As quiet as possible, I slipped the old truck into the darkness and parked. Jack didn’t move, so I leaned over him and opened the passenger door.
”You got your gun, Jack?”
“Right.”
“Well, be careful, the thing’s loaded. It’s a clean one I had hidden away from the old days, but don’t shoot anybody. Okay?”
“Right.”
“Then get out of the truck. You’re supposed to be in the bushes.”
I gave him a push and closed the door. He looked at me for a long time like he was thinking something over. I waved the bottle of vodka and pointed at the house. He appeared to make up his mind, nodded and weaved off into the shrubbery.
Seemed like only a few minutes after that when I heard the gunshot.
“Damn, Jack’s shot the guy.”
I leaped out of the truck and huffed and puffed as fast as I could across the lawn to the rear of the SUV. It ain’t easy being an old man with bad knees.
Rounded the corner and damn near stumbled over a body stretched out on the ground at my feet.
A voice came out of the dark.
“Jesus, I almost shot you...”
I glanced up to see Billy B. Ashcraft standing there. The gun in his right hand was loosely pointed in my direction. I noticed his mouth kept moving.
“...before I recognized you as the old geezer that sweeps the floors at the E Z Money Pawn Shop. Titus must’ve sent you over to keep tabs on things.”
I looked down at my alleged cousin Jack lying there on the ground with the gun still in his hand. Then I looked up at Ashcraft standing there with his gun in his hand.
It was a good thing I was speechless because Ashcraft just kept on jabbering into the night.
“I shot a cop. Is he dead?”
I picked up Jack’s right hand, the one with the gun in it and felt his wrist for a pulse. Well, Jack had been correct when he said I was going to take care of him for the rest of his life. It appears I’d bought Jack his last drink before his big send off. Guess I’d never know if he really was acquainted with my Aunt Matilda.
“Right, he’s dead.”
Ashcraft didn’t take that too well. He started moaning about how his life was over. Things about how he couldn’t possibly do time and that he was too pretty to go to prison.
As for me, I had to figure out what to do next. I knew for positive I wasn’t going to be the one headed off to a cold cement cell and I sure couldn’t let Ashcraft tell Titus and Psycho that I’d suddenly shown up at the scene of their burglary. Plus, I desperately needed money for my rapidly approaching old age. I didn’t see where I had much choice left in this situation. I had to go with what the circumstances gave me.
“Don’t even worry about it, Mr. Ashcraft. I’ll take care of everything for you.”
Putting my index finger over Jack’s, inside the trigger guard, I raised Jack’s hand and fired the pistol. Don’t think I’ll ever forget the startled look on Billy Ashcraft’s face.
#
Well, what was left to think about? I transferred the stolen paintings to my black panel truck and left the two bodies lying in the driveway. I’d given Jack cash money to rent the policeman’s uniform under his own name while I waited outside the costume shop, so I can’t be traced that way. Titus was probably still at his club for an alibi and Psycho’s out running after the art thief to make sure he don’t come home too soon. Them two won’t know nothing until they read tomorrow’s newspaper or Psycho goes out to the abandoned farmhouse and figures they got stiffed when no one shows up with the fruits of their crime.
The paintings are now stored in my new rental locker until I can find an out of town buyer. All proceeds to go into a retirement fund for my better future. Lord knows the E Z Money Pawn Shop don’t pay me nothing and like everybody knows, Social Security is a joke to live on.
In the meantime, to make it look good, I’m gonna have to sweep the floors, dust the merchandise and have the coffee ready in the mornings for Titus and Psycho and the next customer that wanders in. But, you see how it is, in these troubled economic times, a man’s got to find a way to increase his quality of life. You know, do what he’s got to do. Call it survival. Hey, it’s a tough world out there.
...return to Table of Contents
NEST EGGS
“Sorry, fellow, you don’t want me. I’m just the old man that dusts the merchandise and sweeps the floors here in the E Z Money Pawn Shop. The guy you want is Titus Kwaznuski. He’s the proprietor and brains of the operation. I’m only wearing this red and white hat with the cotton ball on the end because I’m supposed to look like one of the elves.”
I stopped moving the broom long enough to jerk my head toward the olive-skinned, fat man in the white beard and Santa Claus suit standing behind the counter and underneath the PAWN sign. Titus believed the suit gave him a more giving appearance during the holiday season and therefore people thought they’d get more money for their pawns. His real suit was usually an Armani or one of those Shantung silk suits hanging in the back office closet, while his new BMW, which he drove daily to his social club for lunch, was parked out back in the alley. He might look like Santa Claus, but believe me, you weren’t getting no free gifts from him.
Then I continued talking to the customer.
“Don’t let the owner’s Polish name throw you. He’s first generation American by way of a two century detour his forefathers spent in the Mediterranean after they left Poland in the middle of the night. A real mixed breed his family is now, but I got to say, his European accent isn’t near as heavy as yours. You must be one of them foreigners?”
Standing in front of me, the elderly gentleman with a grey mustache and fedora--I assumed he was thinking about pawning something since he’d come in--seemed to be dressed in a once elegant suit that was now on the quick side of shabby. Like he’d had money in the past, only now his station in life had seriously deteriorated.
He hesitated so long over his answer that I almost went back to sweeping. Titus and his associate don’t like me conversing with the customers. Them two fellers get upset if I have any involvement in the business, except of course to do all the little jobs they don’t want to do. And naturally, I’ve got to have hot coffee fresh and ready for them when they get here in the morning. That’s the only reason they let me have keys to the front door. Other than that, they treat me like some kind of mushroom. I mean, hell, they don’t even pay a living wage for me to exist on, so my retirement years are looking bleaker than a flat tire. Appears to me that if a sixty-one year old, counterfeiter on parole like me is gonna have anything for his golden years, then I’d best make me a career change. This straight arrow stuff sure don’t pay nothing.
I started to go back to my sweeping when the customer finally asked a question.
“And who is the short, muscular young man wearing so much gold jewelry around his neck? The one standing behind the counter under the REDEMPTION sign? Who is he?”
I didn’t even need to turn around and look to know who he meant.
“That’s the proprietor’s associate, Axel B. Larson. He says the ‘B’ stands for ‘Psycho’, but if I was you, I wouldn’t try to educate him to the fact there is no letter ‘B’ in that particular word.”
I didn’t know how else to tell him that Axel gets a little touchy about criticism and is prone to fits of violence as a few patients down at St. Joseph’s Hospital can attest. That’s not counting Axel’s usual work for Titus as what you might call a leg-breaker and bodyguard. Guess you could say there is no redemption where Psycho stands.
At this point in the conversation, I noticed the delicate little girl huddling on the far side of the foreigner. I put her at about six years old, with a pale porcelain face and dark shadows around her sunken eyes. She wore a long print dress, gold hoop earrings and a brightly colored Ukrainian scarf over the top of her head with the ends tied neatly under her chin. Her small right hand seemed carefully clasped in the old man’s hand. On her left side, she clutched the handles of a black Rothchild’s shopping bag. I supposed the bag was from some elegant shop in Paris. Put it all together, they smelled like Old World currency in some stage of recent decline.
With the bottom of the shopping bag dragging across the floor, the girl slowly followed the older gentleman to the PAWN counter. I swept my way across the linoleum in order to hear their conversation with the proprietor, but not close enough to become too obvious. Would not do at all for Titus and Psycho to start having suspicions now about my extracurricular doings in their shop. At least not while I still needed the job to satisfy my parole officer. And yet, unfortunately, it was also necessary these days for me to be able to search for an edge in this racket where I could make some additional money on my own. A little something for the personal retirement fund shall we say. You bet I intended to pay close attention to this pending transaction for any personal possibilities on my behalf.
The old gentleman picked the little girl up with both of his hands around her waist and seated her gently on the countertop. Her white stockinged legs dangled down the wood front. Right beside her-–between her and Titus-–rested the Rothchild’s shopping bag.
From out of the bag, the old gentleman removed a well-polished mahogany box that he reverently set in front of Titus.
“I would not be here, Mr. Kwaznuski, except that my family has fallen on hard times and I must get them to the Coast where we have relatives. I need money to take care of my little Nina here who is quite sick.”
At this point, the girl covered her mouth with her tiny fist and coughed.
Titus, who had no sympathy for sad stories-–after all, he was in the pawn business and heard heartbreakers daily to go with every pawned item-–was none the less adverse to germs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him take a half step backward and shield his mouth and nose with a white silk handkerchief.
The old gentleman appeared not to notice and kept talking as he opened the wooden box.
“During the recent conflict, we were forced out of our homeland in Serbia before we had a chance to gather up all our possessions, however I did manage to acquire a few of the more valuable items such as the one I now hold in my hand. I hope you will be able to loan us enough money on this precious item to cover our travel expenses, plus the cost of the expensive operation needed for my little Nina. Special doctors cost so much money in this country. Naturally, I will redeem the item after we get settled on the Coast.”