by B Branin
* * * * *
B. Bruce’s Pawnshop was holding onto the goods my client’s sister had pawned. Not too surprising considering it is the most successful pawnshop in the city. I am, of course, familiar with the establishment and its owner. At Bruce’s you could find anything for the right price without the inconvenience of getting mugged in some back alley black market. Everything was legit but only because the cops didn’t want the headache of having to fill out all the paperwork they’d have when busting the pawnshop.
The owner, Bruce, was a young man with plenty of connections from people in all walks of life. Tall, dark and handsome, it seemed his only flaw was the way he mumbled when speaking. His garbled speech made most conversations a back n’ forth of “What did you say?”
Upon entering the shop, Fiona seemed instantly charmed by Bruce’s handsome swagger. He had that effect. It wasn’t that Fiona was a shallow or giddy school girl, it’s just Bruce had an aura about him that brought out the bashful or carnal side of a woman. I swear he could make a nun’s temperature rise! Ignoring my flustered counterpart, I walked up to Bruce who greeted me with his normal, undecipherable mumble that I assumed was a hello.
“I need to pick up something that was pawned by a Ms. Faye Ambrose.” I told Bruce, emphasizing every word just in case Bruce’s hearing had any difficulties as well.
“Got da tecket?” Bruce asked, taking the hint to speak up from my ear cocked towards him.
“No,” I replied, “But this is her sister. I’ll be happy to buy or pay off whatever Faye owes.”
The pawnbroker a mumbled response that could have either been “I might have sold the stuff already” or “No ticket no sale.”
“C’mon Bruce,” I pressed, propping my elbow up on a gun counter, “We both know that you haven’t sold anything hotter than a two dollar pistol in five years. You need some good, honest business once in a while.”
Bruce smiled because I was right. Of course since he was the one who sold me whatever documents Buggy couldn’t forge and fed me a steady stream of tips involving Zotkin’s activities, the pawnbroker knew I wasn’t trying to harass or blackmail him. This was just idle conversation and banter between two individuals who worked in the grey area of the law.
Fiona, obviously not realizing Bruce and I were just chewing the fat, stepped up and locked those impossibly green eyes on him.
“Please sir,” Fiona asked, with more than a hint of flirtation in her voice, “I would be so happy if I could just collect some keepsakes of my sister’s.”
Shooting me a look that seemed to say “where’d you dig this one up?” Bruce finally nodded and mumbled something to Fiona. I didn’t catch what he said but whatever it was made Fiona’s already healthy grin wider as the pawnbroker disappeared into the back of his store.
“I knew you’d be a big help.” I told my client.
Fiona beamed at my compliment, missing my sarcasm entirely.
A moment later Bruce reappeared and weaved through the glass counters that held jewelry, guns and a variety of knives (Bruce was even kind enough to keep a small cache of genuine Italian switchblades hidden in the back room just for me). With another mumble he placed a small cardboard box down on the counter between us.
“Heerez ya go,” Bruce announced, “Notmunch. Sha’ only got a hundie bucks for all of ‘dit. Even talked meh into giving her a three month loan. Didn’t buther to ask whay.”
Opening up the cardboard container, I discovered a portable CD player, a small jewelry box, a few rings and a paint set that included two brushes and a few tubes of paint. A hundred bucks? For this? No way. Bruce was obviously just happy to make a few legit sales so when he was questioned by police (a weekly occurrence), he could at least point out that he didn’t always deal with firearms.
“Thanks Bruce,” I told the pawnbroker as I began to sort through the contents of the box, “Want the cash now?”
With his hand motions that went from the box to Fiona, I assumed his mumbling was along the lines of telling me to keep the stuff since the next of kin was standing right alongside me. Fiona, apparently having sharper ears than I, thanked him graciously.
Repacking the contents so I could thoroughly rummage through them later, I looked up when Bruce asked me a garbled question, “Ya still gud width Zotkin’s boys?”
I decided to spare Bruce the story of how Zotkin had saved my ass from being framed for murder in return for help hunting down a drug dealing cult that I had brought to his attention. In short, I told the pawnbroker that I was in the crime boss’ good graces for the time being.
“Why?” I asked, “Has Zotkin’s thugs been asking about me?”
Bruce shook his head as he reached underneath the counter.
“Nmmph.” He grunted and nodded towards the window.
Turning around, I discovered the source of the pawnbroker’s agitation. Through the greasy and dirt streaked front window, I spotted four individuals of questionable nature heading towards the store. There was just something about them that set alarms off, telling us that they weren’t potential customers.
Of the four approaching, two were scrawny chrome domes dressed in retail camouflaged pants and white t-shirts that proudly revealed Swastika tattoos. Walking next to them were broad, ebony skinned men dressed in baby blue from grill to kicks.
What was powerful enough to bring two neo-Nazis and two gangbangers together? Well, prison shackles for one. Since the quad of malice intention approaching us lacked any handcuffs, I assumed drugs were the safer bet. Only addiction had the power to make someone discard years of inbred hate, ignorance and violence to work with someone you loathed for the common goal of getting high.
With the criminal element in this city so tightly wrapped around Zotkin’s pudgy fingers, it wasn’t that odd to find a mismatched pair of crooks. I mean if a gang wanted to survive long, they had to either join Zotkin’s ranks or feed off the scraps the ruski slob left behind. Most opted to join Zotkin’s gangland pyramid scheme which forced bitter rivals to work shoulder to shoulder. But these four approaching us now weren’t on the crime boss’ payroll. The skinheads looked too green and the gangbangers looked too rough around the edges. If I had to guess, I’d say the approaching foursome must have ties with the Daughters of All. Who else would possess enough illicit substances that could create the false unity these four had?
That made me raise the question yet again: How the hell did the cult find me so fast?
“Friends o’ urs?” Bruce asked.
“No.” I replied, handing the box of goods to Fiona, “Do you have a back door?”
“No.” The pawnbroker informed me, “Barred n’ welded shut ‘ta kept out theeves.”
The mismatched crew threw open the doors to the shop and stepped in, radiating barely checked aggression. Four sets of bloodshot eyes, glazed with hatred, settled upon me. They didn’t even give Fiona a once-over, which told me they were highly motivated and focused on their target…which I deduced was yours truly.
“Broker!” One of the neo-Nazi’s hissed through a hysterically thick southern drawl, “You comin’ with us.”
“Sorry boys,” I declined with a smile, “I don’t have time to be your sponsor. Maybe next week?”
“Fuck it.” One of the baby blue garbed bangers spat, taking a step forward.
Behind me, Bruce mumbled something aloud. I wasn’t able to decipher it but the menacing sound of a bullet being chambered brought a smile to my face. Stepping to the side of the counter, I gave Bruce all the room he needed to wave his .50 caliber handgun at the fierce foursome.
“You didn’t think this through, did you?” I grinned at the odd couple, “What pawnbroker isn’t packing heat?”
“G’tfuk outta ‘ere.” Bruce declared.
“Get the fuck out of here.” I translated.
“We’ll burn this motherfucker d-” One of the neo-Nazis began to threaten.
A thunderclap shook everything in the room. Fiona dropped the box she held to cov
er her ears. Once the ringing in my own ears stopped, all I could hear was screaming as the mouthy neo-Nazi laid on his back, clutching the opened part of his right boot that had been blown open. He had only lost a toe so the idiot shouldn’t be crying that loud.
Bruce thumbed back the hammer a second time.
There are really only four things to do after recovering from the shock of gunfire. First and foremost, was to sit there stupidly providing the shooter time to line up another shot. Second was to get the hell out of the gunman’s sights and pray you don’t get shot in the back. Third was to comply with the shooter’s demands and lastly you could go for your own firearm and pray you were a quick draw.
These four each chose a different option simultaneously.
The injured neo-Nazi stupidly clutched at his wound, too shocked to realize he presented an ideal target (Option 1). The silent gangbanger turned and fled, nearly bowling over his companions (Option 2). The able-bodied neo-Nazi raised his hands in the air and began rambling on about how he was sorry and promising he’d leave right away (Option 3). The remaining gangbanger pressed his luck and went for his own pistol tucked in his pants (Option 4).
The moment the gangbanger lifted his baggy shirt and revealed his firearm, I made my move. Now if this were an action flick, I’d be able to kill the him three different ways from Sunday with a flying kick or an elbow. Unfortunately, I lacked the skills necessary to be a kung-fu master so I simply improvised…by poking the gangbanger in the eyes with my index and middle finger.
The Three Stooges would have wept tears of pride.
To the gangbanger’s credit he didn’t stop going for the pistol tucked in his pant’s waistband. However, temporarily blinded by my attack, he threw his free arm up to protect his face from any further eye-gouges. That short pause gave me just enough time to go for my trusty switchblade. Freeing the blade with a flick, I pressed the knife up against the gangbanger’s throat. While doing so, I grabbed his other wrist, preventing him from drawing the gun he had been going for. He tensed up and then held very still, proving that he at least had some brains underneath that bandana.
“Let it go.” I ordered in my best growl.
He slowly relaxed his grip on his firearm.
“’olice?” Bruce asked casually, looking down at the neo-Nazi who was bleeding all over his floor.
“Eventually,” I replied, letting go of the gangbanger’s wrist and than disarming him in one quick motion, “We should send ‘em to Zotkin first.”
“’Y wud he wanna see deez dumbasses?” Bruce mumbled bitterly, apparently more irritated than alarmed over the blood spilt in his shop.
“If I told you the whole story, it’d involve drug dealing cultists, a demonic dermatologist and the previous owner of those items I just collected from you.” I informed the pawnbroker as I slowly backed away from the gangbanger and handed his gun over to Bruce.
“Eye’ll reeng Zotkin’s pigs.” Bruce offered.
“Dirty cops?”
“Da dirtiest der ar.”
“Good. Make sure these two get a sit-down with the ruski.”
Bruce mumbled something in the affirmative as I moved over to Fiona, picking up the box of her sister’s suspiciously pawned goods. My client was so pale she could make liquid paper jealous and she seemed unable to tear her eyes away from the wounded neo-Nazi.
“Don’t look, don’t look.” I murmured to her, realizing this was the first time I have ever walked someone through the end result of a gunfight. Unlike the incident at the Hell Scratch, Fiona wasn’t spared the harshness of the situation by mental overload. She was painfully aware of the violence and soaking it all up with those big, fearful eyes.
I kept forgetting how overwhelming this must be for my client who had been spared the harsher aspects of reality growing up. On the other hand, my first encounter with true, unadulterated violence was at age ten. Some bookies finally caught up with my uncle and decided to give him a good thrashing. Unfortunately they didn’t realize that this cornered drunk had some bite to his bark. I watched my beer bellied uncle shatter his half empty liquor bottle over the head of one bookie, then use the broken glass to stab the second one repeatedly.
I must have gone into shock because the next thing I remembered was my uncle slapping me upside the head and telling me to drive us home…nothing like a terrified ten year old behind the wheel of an automobile with a blood-stained drunk in the passenger’s seat to make for a perfect memory to try and repress.
Murmuring comfortingly all the while, I guided Fiona out the door with one hand, holding the box of her sister’s belongings in the other. Once out on the street I checked our surroundings for any other dangers. Bruce’s shop was comfortably nestled in the residential blocks that acted like a buffer between the Dock District and the Business District of the city. It wasn’t exactly a bad neighborhood so there were a few people out on the streets at this hour.
Of the few still out on the streets, no one seemed to notice us.
I left the thugs in Bruce’s care knowing full well he wouldn’t let me down. He was trustworthy and competent. In fact, in another life, I could see him going farther than just some pawnbroker. The only thing Bruce lacked was motivation but that might have been a good thing because it was hard to find a good fence in this day and age.
We had wandered about three blocks before Fiona finally found her voice and managed to squeak, “He shot that man.”
“Yes he did.” I replied, “To keep us safe.”
“I just…I can’t believe what I’ve been thrown into.” Fiona continued, walking and speaking as if entranced, “This…this is too much. Maybe I am crazy.”
I snorted, “Then I’m the sexiest figment ever to grace your imagination.”
The corner of her lips twitched ever so slightly before a full blown smile finally blossomed on Fiona’s fine features. The shock was probably giving way to adrenaline and it could affect her a great many ways. If I were lucky, she’d be one of those gals you always see in the movies that get hot and bothered after an adrenaline rush…but with my run of luck as of late, I doubt it.
“All of this…it’s just too much.” Fiona confessed, “Should we…should I…just let this all go? Head back home and forget it ever happened?”
Those words struck me hard. My first reaction was excitement at the prospect of letting this whole thing go. To finally be done with this paranormal bullshit! With Fiona gone, I’d be able to skip town guilt free! Maybe head to Europe for a few months as Zotkin went to war with the Daughters of All…but then the cold realization of our situation swept away all of the lofty thoughts of escape.
“We’re in too deep.” I sighed, “The things we’ve done, the people we’ve crossed…the cult won’t let us walk away.”
Fiona didn’t speak for a few more moments.
“If I’m the one who caused all this,” She pondered, “Why don’t you run leave?”
Why indeed? I couldn’t possibly have told her the truth about the incredible lengths the cult had gone through to get rid of me. She was blissfully ignorant of the power and influence that the Daughters of All possessed and it wouldn’t do any good to worry her with the truth. So in response to her question I did that what came naturally. I lied.
“It’s my job,” I said as heroically as possible, spotting a cab and flagging it down.
Once in the back of the taxi, I gave the driver an address while sorting through the box of goodies we had picked up from the pawnshop. If my hunch was correct, these items had something to do with Faye’s incomplete notes. The files Fiona had brought me were practically dripping with paranoia so I prayed I didn’t need a decoder ring to decipher the rest of what Faye had discovered about the Daughters of All.
“Where are we heading?” Fiona asked, not recognizing the address I had given the driver.
“Somewhere that no one would dare follow us,” I assured her, “Supernatural or otherwise.”
