by Graham Smith
It’s only when I look at the store’s merchandise and its clientele that I realise why my expectations were wrong. My thinking was of hard-up homeowners, pawning beloved items until they’d saved enough money to pay off the loan from the pawnbroker.
I’m decades out with my assumptions. Today’s pawn shops are more like a trading post. Teens with pasty complexions are buying video games by the handful, couples are examining the cabinet filled with jewellery, and there is a group, of what I can only assume are traders, scouring the cabinets containing cell phones, iPads and other digital equipment.
As I look for a member of staff who may be classed as a manager, or has at least started shaving, a pre-teen boy leads his father in and heads straight to the exchange counter. I watch idly as the father empties various video game boxes out of the backpack he carried in.
I pay attention to the boy and his father. The official buyers in a place like this must have a certain amount of seniority. I take Taylor’s hand and lead her across the room until we’re standing in line behind the boy and his father.
The words I whisper in Taylor’s ear get me a stern look, but she does as I ask and removes her necklace and places it into my hand.
My plan is a simple one. While there will be some known information about a video game’s value, jewellery is a different matter altogether. That requires someone with a certain amount of proper training and years of experience.
Taylor’s necklace is a good one. She told me it was a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday. Having been invited to her parents’ home to meet them over dinner, I know for a fact they’re not worrying about where their next buck will come from. Everything about them spoke of quality, without crossing the line into ostentation. I could tell from the one meeting that they dote on their only daughter, and I’d be happy to bet that Taylor’s necklace, while not overly fancy, will have a recognised hallmark and a price tag that’d equate to several months of my salary.
The boy’s father tries to haggle a better price than he’s offered, but the server is resolute and doesn’t budge. The father huffs and puffs a little but, after a minute of trying to wangle a more favourable deal, he gives up and takes the handful of dead presidents the server has laid on the counter.
I smile at the server and lay the necklace on the counter. ‘I’m told this is valuable. How much are you willing to offer me?’
The server runs a hand through the mop of un-styled blonde hair on his head, lifts Taylor’s necklace and squints at it.
‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks.’
‘Try again. I’ve heard it’s worth a lot more than that.’ I fix him with a stare. ‘You’ve just looked at it. Closely. You’ll have seen the hallmark. If a hundred bucks is all you’re offering, I’ll take it elsewhere.’
‘I … I’ll need to speak to my boss. He may be able to offer you more.’
Now we’re getting somewhere. The server was chancing his arm. I half expected as much. He’s played safe after seeing the hallmark. Perhaps he thought he’d get a promotion if he managed to buy cheap and sell dear. On the other hand, there may be a Miss Blonde Server he wants to impress; a necklace like Taylor’s would go a long way towards impressing whichever girl he had his eye on.
He goes into a back room and I hear him call out to a Mr Weil. I share a look of excitement with Taylor. This has been too easy. If it’s Halvard who comes through the door, we’re home and dry. If it’s not, I’ll lay a cent to a dollar they’ll be a close relative of his.
The man who appears isn’t Halvard. Not unless he’s been drinking an elixir of youth. Our man is in his late twenties, or early thirties.
He smiles at us and glances at the necklace. He takes another look at Taylor and me. It’s a scenario that’s familiar to me. With her elevated cheekbones and flawless complexion, Taylor has a timeless beauty; whereas I’m average. Average height, average looks, average build.
I’m punching above my weight with her and I know it. Fortunately, I’m good at punching. In fact, I almost consider it to be a hobby.
Weil pulls a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket and examines the necklace. When he lays it on the counter it’s with a delicate, almost reverent, care. The loupe is returned to his pocket.
When he speaks his tone is respectful. ‘I am prepared to pay you five thousand dollars for this exquisite necklace.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not actually for sale.’ I keep my voice low to remove any offence from my words.
Weil sighs, takes another look at the necklace, and another look at Taylor. ‘Six thousand and that is my final offer.’
I pull a sheet of paper from my pocket, unfold it and lay it on the counter so it’s the right way up for him to read.
‘The necklace isn’t for sale. I’m sorry to have jerked you around, but I needed a way to get to the person in charge.’
Weil’s eyes are fixed on the paper; I’m guessing he’s fighting back surprise. The paper holds the image of Halvard Weil, which Ms Rosenberg had so treasured. Alfonse has cropped her from the picture to maintain her anonymity.
I figure Weil is experiencing a gamut of emotions as he looks at an old picture of a younger version of himself. There is no doubt in my mind that he’s a close relative of Halvard. The hook of their noses is the same, as are the shape of their eyes and their chins. My guess is that he’s Halvard’s son or, at the very least, his nephew.
He looks up from the picture and into my eyes. His pupils are full of questions but his face is otherwise implacable.
I realise he’s not saying anything for a reason. He’s waiting for me to speak. Like all experienced negotiators, and that’s a lot of what pawnbrokers do, he knows when to ask questions and when to wait for someone else to speak.
‘I’m not going to insult you by asking if you know who’s in that picture. I’m going to tell you that I’ve been hired to find Halvard Weil by an attorney. The attorney is the executor of a will that Mr Weil is the main beneficiary of.’
‘I see.’
His words may not be a lie, but there are still questions in his eyes. He doesn’t see, not really. If I’m right about him being Halvard’s son, he’ll be busy trying to work out who’s died and why he hasn’t heard about it.
Maybe he’s too polite to ask, or he’s keeping his cards close to his chest like all good negotiators, but again he waits for me to speak.
I’m happy to oblige. The sooner we get this sorted, the sooner I can spend a little time exploring New York with Taylor. I’ve heard plenty about the Big Apple, but this is my first visit and I want to see as much as I can while I’m here.
‘Would I be right in saying your father is the man in this picture? That you’re Halvard Weil’s son?’
He nods.
‘I hope you’ll forgive my bluntness, but I take it your father is still with us?’
Another nod.
‘Would you be prepared to give me his address?’
A baleful look is followed by a shake of his head.
I begin to wonder if Halvard is fit and well. He may be in poor health and living in a care home somewhere; either waiting to die or being tormented by the imaginings of his mind.
It’s my turn to wait Halvard’s son out.
He’s stubborn and resolute.
So am I.
He cracks first.
‘I cannot give you his address as I do not know who you are, who you represent, or if my father will welcome a stranger coming to his door talking of an inheritance when nobody likely to leave him money has died.’
Now it’s me who nods at him. I understand where he’s coming from. His very presence indicates the existence of a Mrs Weil, which is why I’ve not used Ms Rosenberg’s name. The last thing I want to achieve is disharmony. I’m here to deliver a message of newfound wealth, that’s all. Causing trouble isn’t part of my agenda.
‘In that case, can you arrange for me to meet him?’ I spread my hands wide. ‘I can meet him at any time over the next thre
e days.’ Taylor’s elbow connects with my ribs. ‘With the exception of tomorrow afternoon and evening.’
I write my cell on the reverse of Halvard’s picture and tell him there are several hundred thousand reasons why he should get his father to call me.
Other than a slight widening of his eyes, he doesn’t react to the hint I’ve dropped about the size of his father’s windfall. Either the sum isn’t that significant to him, or he doesn’t believe me.
13
I shift from foot to foot and try not to look as uncomfortable as I feel. The suit I bought off-the-peg after visiting the pawn shop yesterday had seemed a better fit at the time. Now it is bunching where it shouldn’t and hanging loose in all the wrong places. To compound matters, every other guy in the room is attired in expensive, fitted tuxedos.
The wedding dinner is a meal comprised of several courses of foods I couldn’t easily identify. My tastes are simple when it comes to food. Give me a hunk of red meat and a heap of fries and I’m more than content. I’m not yet at the point where I need to eat again, but I’m not far off. With luck there will be a decent buffet that will allow a spot of light gorging before my stomach starts to protest its emptiness.
Taylor is never far from my side but I’ve long given up trying to remember the names of all the people she’s introduced me to. There have been lots of polite handshakes, some hearty backslaps and enough air kisses to make a Hollywood actor feel at home.
It’s the backslaps that bother me the most. Every one of them seems to land on the same part of my back that East’s baseball bat has left bruised and tender.
There’s a hum of conversation in the air and, as befits the occasion and plush venue, it’s polite and reverent. The people are nice enough, but there’s so many of them I know nothing about. They are all talking about past experiences I haven’t shared and people I don’t know.
For Taylor’s sake I keep my smile fixed and my tone polite. This is her family occasion and I’ve come along as a last-minute addition. It’s also her Fifth Avenue hotel room I’m sharing, so the whole trip to New York does have its upsides.
While I may have been raised in a city, Glasgow never had the same metropolitan feel that New York exudes. This is a busy city, peopled by people who are important. Or at least to themselves they are. Glaswegian streets were busy, but not so busy that you couldn’t make progress round a slow walker. The Glasgow I grew up in was one where I knew, and was known by, every neighbour within two streets. It was a community within a city.
New York is different. It’s all hustle and bustle as its inhabitants strive to get from one important place to another. The importance of their journey is set on their faces but, to an outsider like me, the relative merit of any individual’s perspective is subjective.
I didn’t help myself when I was walking the streets – I’m sure my constant stopping, to look up at one landmark or another, was a nuisance to other sidewalk users. Sometimes I would just stand by a crosswalk and gaze along the streets, or look up at the towering skyscrapers that dominate the skyline.
The subway has been the worst part of my time in New York.
I’ve never been properly underground before, and my first experience being one that included huge crowds, a lost sense of direction and the impersonality of city life, didn’t endear me to subterranean travel.
Had Taylor not been with me, I would no doubt have gotten myself thoroughly lost. It’s not that I can’t find my way about; I’m spending so much time working out where I am, and where I need to get to, my progress is that of a geriatric sloth compared to the rest of the thronging crowd. This in turn made me feel rushed, which led to me making snap decisions about which direction to take.
Along with the sights, come the sounds and the smells of the city. In one block you can catch a whiff of coffee, burritos, hotdogs and a dozen other foodstuffs from around the globe. There is a constant pick-pocking of heels on concrete, car horns, and the murmur of a crowd as they grumble, cajole or shout into their cell phones.
Like many others before me, I’ve found New York to be an exciting and vibrant living beast that can turn intimidating at a moment’s notice.
The high point of my morning was a text I received from Halvard’s son. He suggested a meeting place from where he could take me to meet his father. I agreed to his terms at once to hopefully show integrity, but looking back I maybe should have been a little less eager.
Yet another member of the waiting staff offers me a flute of champagne, which I refuse. I’m quite happy with soda, and when I’m unhappy with a soft drink I’ll make damn sure I’m nowhere near Taylor or any member of her family.
Alcohol and I have an understanding. I don’t consume it and it doesn’t make me do stupid things like start fights, or wake up in a motel room, hundreds of miles from home, with no memory, wallet or clothes. Once in a while I’ll take a drink, but only after making sure I’m not in a place where I could hurt those I care about.
‘Hey there, gorgeous. You’re looking as good as you always have.’
The speaker is someone I don’t know. His whole demeanour is that of Ivy League entitlement. He’s got an arm draped over Taylor’s shoulders and his eyes halfway down her dress. I fight every one of my instincts that are telling me to punch him as hard as the garlic on his breath is hitting me.
I toss my gaze at Taylor’s face. Her expression is one of infuriated tolerance.
Behind Ivy League, trails a young woman who’s pulling at his sleeve. Her face bears a pleasant smile, but her white knuckles on Ivy League’s sleeve tell me she’s every bit as angry as Taylor is. When she speaks, her voice has the whiny tone of the long-sufferer.
‘C’mon, Jason. I want you to meet someone.’
‘Goodbye, beautiful.’
Jason goes to plant a kiss on Taylor, but she turns her head at the last minute so he connects with her ear.
‘Who the hell does that guy think he is?’
‘The groom’s brother. He’s got a trust fund big enough to give him a life of luxury, even if he lives to be a thousand.’ She shakes her head. ‘Sadly though, he can’t buy class.’
I chink my soda against her champagne flute. ‘Very true. You, on the other hand, don’t need to. Me? I can’t afford it. Just say the word and I’ll follow him to the bathroom and recalibrate his sensibilities.’
Taylor’s melodic giggle draws a few smiling glances. ‘Every woman in this room under the age of forty would love to say the word. It’s not going to happen though.’
One of the things I appreciate most about Taylor is that she recognises me for what I am and doesn’t try to change me. My being in a lower social class than her isn’t an issue, but then again, class distinction is much more a British thing than a US one. Nor has she shown much concern about my tendency to use violence as a first option.
The only fear I have about our relationship, is that one day she’ll tire of her “bit of rough”. It’s not a scenario I enjoy thinking about, so I only give it brain space in my darker moments.
I see Jason coming back so I suggest Taylor makes herself scarce.
‘Hi, buddy. Great place this, isn’t it?’ Jason goes to walk past me, after Taylor, but it’s what I’m expecting and I sidestep so I’m in his way. Sometimes you have to take one for the team. ‘That meal was delicious, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, very good.’
His eyes focus on me, which gives me hope that Taylor has escaped his gaze. His head turns and he locates a member of the waiting staff. His fingers click and he waves her over.
‘About time, girl. Damn near died of thirst.’ His tone is full of entitlement as he grabs two glasses from the girl’s tray.
I have to give the server credit. She doesn’t rise to his rudeness and gives a polite smile as she turns away.
He thrusts a glass towards me. ‘Here, it’s a wedding. You should be drinking champagne, not soda.’
‘Not for me thanks.’ I keep both of my hands on my soda glass, and tr
y not to picture what he’d look like after a few well aimed punches. The temptation to find out if my imaginings are accurate may just get too much for my self-control.
‘You’re Scottish right? Thought you Scots were big drinkers?’
‘We can be.’
The glass is pushed forward a second time. ‘Then have a drink and don’t be such a pussy.’
There is nothing but challenge in him. He’s used to being the Alpha, and someone refusing him isn’t something he’s familiar with.
‘Thank you, but no.’ I keep my tone polite but I can hear anger at the edge of it.
‘I said … take a drink.’ He holds the glass in front of my face. His voice is cool enough to freeze the drink solid. ‘It’s my brother’s wedding and I think you should be celebrating it with a glass of champagne.’
‘Thanks, but alcohol doesn’t sit well with me.’
‘What are you? A man or a mouse?’
I toss a devil-may-care grin at him. Perhaps it’s the fact I’ve gone from picturing him bruised and bloody, to imagining what he’d look like on fire, but I’m calm and relaxed enough to let my smile be natural, as I lean forward and whisper into his ear. ‘I’m man enough to turn down a drink I don’t want. I’m man enough to refuse to conform to another person’s wishes when I know doing so is a bad idea. I’m man enough to stand up to bullies.’ I know I shouldn’t say what comes next but I’ve held temptation in check long enough. ‘I’m also man enough to kick your ass up and down Broadway, if the notion takes me.’
For a moment I think he’s about to do something stupid like curse me out, or even throw a punch. If he hits me, I’ll have to let him land a few before I subdue him. Any other course of action will see me labelled as the bad guy. That’s not what I want at an occasion where I am trying to put my best foot forward with Taylor’s family.
He throws his head back and guffaws loud enough for heads to turn. He’s the centre of attention again, which is just how he likes it.