Thirty minutes later I was standing outside the Easy Dollar Pawn Shop, one of the only store fronts still operating on the block. Two windows framed the single door on either side, the glass cracked and covered in faded advertisements and old graffiti to the point it was impossible to see inside. A stale smell hit me when I opened the door, finding the inside not much better than the out; shelves were placed in a maze throughout the single room, stacked floor to ceiling with a jumbled mess of dust-covered items, and I spotted everything from televisions to toasters to bird cages sharing the space. Guitars, violins, and an assortment of brass instruments hung from the walls just above an impressive stack of amplifiers and disassembled drum sets. At the far end of the room stretched a glass display case and behind it, a pot-bellied, balding man sat in a wooden chair before a desktop computer. He glanced up as I neared, his hand shooting too late for the mouse to click off the screen, giving me a full view of the porn he’d been watching before it blinked back to the desktop.
“Help you?”
He didn’t stand up, and I didn’t want to wonder why, pulling the ring box from my pocket and pushed it across the counter. “I’m hoping to sell that.”
He reached for the box and pulled the ring out with a grunt, finally heaving himself from his chair to pull a carton from the shelf behind him, extracting a black mat for the counter top, a scale and a magnifying lens. I decided not to watch, distracting myself instead with the contents of the display case. One side held a motley assortment of jewelry, all of which looked like it had been dug out of the attics of long-dead grandmothers: brooches, hairpins and gaudy clip-on earrings sat on faded velvet blocks, none of it giving me much hope for the sales potential of my ring. The other side, however, held an impressive selection of handguns laid out in various sizes. I knew nothing about guns—in fact, they’d always scared me, but my attention stayed on them, studying each one in turn.
“Well,” the man rasped out, causing me to jump slightly, “It’s real enough. What are you looking to get out of it?”
I’d been prepared for this, having been told on multiple occasions—usually in the middle of an argument—how much the ring had cost. “Five hundred,” I said immediately, “It’s worth at least three times that much.”
“Hate to break it to you, but there’s not much interest in engagement rings around here,” he snorted, “If you’re looking for a fair price you’d best take it into Emeryville and find a shop there.”
I grimaced. Emeryville was at least a four-hour drive from Dust, according to the road signs I’d passed on my way in. Industry City was a lonely dot on a lonelier highway, and while I believed his answer it was still a frustrating one. The bus fare to get there was probably far beyond what I could afford, which left me with no options. “Fine,” I sighed, “What will you give me for it?”
“I could go a hundred and fifty tops.”
Panic shot through me at his words. The ring had been my safety net since I’d left, the one thing I’d held onto as my emergency fund if everything went wrong. I hadn’t expected enough to fix my car situation or get out of Dust, but I’d been hoping for more than a week’s worth of rent in my shithole apartment. “A hundred and fifty,” I repeated, my voice raising slightly in pitch, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Sorry,” he grunted, shrugging a fat shoulder, “I really shouldn’t take it at all. Like I said, no one wants rings.”
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. I knew I should take the ring back and walk out; maybe there was another pawn shop in Dust, or maybe I could find a way to get to Emeryville and sell it there. The problem was, now that I’d made the decision to sell the fucking thing, I didn’t want it back. There was also the fact that he hadn’t put the ring down yet, which made me think he wasn’t as willing to let me walk out as he made it seem. Maybe there was a way to get something out of this deal that was worthwhile—after all, I was standing in a shop full of things I didn’t have. Like a toaster. Or a television.
“Alright,” I sighed, “What about a trade then?”
His eyebrows knitted together in a scowl. “That’d depend on what you wanted.” Christ. The shop was full of dust and garage sale leftovers, and he acted like a dragon crouched over it, protecting his horde.
I turned to look at the shelves, my gaze running over the mess. I needed dishes, pots and pans—the basics of apartment life that I was severely lacking, and yet my attention strayed back to the guns in the case. “What about one of these?” I asked him, tapping the glass, “Would you make that trade?”
He frowned thoughtfully, my ring in his hand when he crossed his fat arms over his chest. “There’s still the licensing, and background check fees,” he grunted.
“Oh, right. The fees and background check.” I tried to keep my voice casual, but I was already inching towards the ring box. Of course there would be a background check. I should have known better, but I’d never tried to barter a gun off a pawn broker before.
“You from around here?” He grunted, and I shook my head. “Thought so. Couldn’t sell it to you on an out-of-state license, anyway. Those are all registered to the shop.”
“Okay, thanks then. I’ll try somewhere else.” For all that I needed things, I couldn’t let myself trade my engagement ring for a bunch of chipped plates. I was ready to go, but his hand dropped over the box before I could pick it up, carefully tucking the ring back inside.
“I might still have something,” he stayed busy with the ring box, not looking at me. “I have a few guns that had the paperwork…” he cleared his throat. “Misplaced. They can’t be tracked back here, but they aren’t exactly legal, either. Depends on what you wanted it for.”
“I don’t really know,” I answered, watching as he pulled a box from beneath the counter and began laying out a small selection of handguns. “I just thought it might be a good idea.”
“I take it you don’t know much about guns,” he said, not waiting for my answer to pick one up. It was black with a silver handle, which pretty much summed up the extent of everything I knew about guns. “This is a Smith & Wesson 9mm. If you’re looking for a protection piece, it’s a nice one to keep handy. Worth around four hundred dollars new, and this one’s only been fired a few times.”
I didn’t want to ask why or how it had been fired only a few times before making its way into the shop. I reached to take it from him, surprised at the weight and the feel of the steel, cold against my skin. Once I had it, I didn’t really know what to do with it, turning it over in my hands a moment while I gauged how it made me feel. In truth, I felt a bit stupid—I didn’t even know how to load it.
“This one here’s also nice,” he took the gun from me and replaced it with another. This one was all silver and smaller, “A Ruger LCP, clean and lightweight.”
“Cool,” I said lamely. Going off just the visual aspect, the one I was now holding suited my tastes more—as in, it was shiny. I wasn’t about to say that out loud, though. “I like this one.”
“Good choice,” he answered quickly—too quickly, which made me think I’d picked the less expensive option. Either that, or I’d picked a murder weapon and he was eager to have it out of his shop. He took it from me and pulled a box of bullets from behind the counter, then slid the clip out and quickly gave me the most basic of lessons on how to load it and where the safety was. “It’s not a bad idea to have a gun in Dust,” he told me, putting the gun and the bullets into a large, pre-used paper bag that looked like I’d just gone grocery shopping, “But I wouldn’t flash it around too much. And remember, there’s no way to trace that back here, so if you get picked up don’t even try. It’s not mine, never was.”
“Got it,” I muttered, watching my ring go into his display case before he handed me the bag. I probably could have convinced him to throw in some dishes as well, but the paper bag in my hand seemed to weigh about a ton, making me question why the hell I’d made this deal to begin with. It was too late now, though—he was already sea
ted back in front of his computer, his hand poised over the mouse, just waiting for me to go. I shook my head and made my way to the door, then paused just before leaving to pull the gun from the bag and slip it into the pocket of my jacket instead. It wasn’t loaded, but I felt less like an idiot carrying it that way than in a grocery bag. I stowed the box of bullets in my other pocket and balled the bag up on my way out.
Back on the sidewalk, I looked at my watch to check the time: just after two, which gave me enough of a window to change before heading to the bar if I hurried. I started down the street, my attention preoccupied with the weight of the gun in my pocket—not noticing the figure leaning against the street light watching me until I was nearly at his side.
“What the hell,” I burst out, “Are you just following me around for fun?”
“Little bit,” he shrugged, the flame from his lighter flashing before he snapped the lid closed again. It was almost worth it to have a stalker this handsome, but he was really starting to get on my nerves.
“Well, knock it off,” I told him, “It’s fucking creepy.”
“No, it’s not,” he answered, falling into step beside me when I continued on down the street, “I think you like me.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar,” he said. I shot him a side-glare, and he grinned. “So, what are you going to do with it?”
“What’s it?”
“The gun in your pocket,” he chuckled, “The one you don’t know how to use.”
I missed a step, stumbling slightly. “How did you—”
“I’m not against you having it, I just think you should learn how to use it. Maybe you could watch a Youtube video.” I flushed in frustration and he sobered. “You need to be careful.”
“I hear that a lot.”
“And you should listen. I wouldn’t tell anyone you have that if I were you. Especially not your new boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. And why not?”
“People in Dust take what they need, Avery. Especially when they’re desperate. Lose your advantage, and there’s no point in having it at all. Understand?”
I swallowed hard and nodded, not sure what to say. We’d stopped just in front of the apartment building and I pulled the door open, expecting him to follow. When he didn’t, I looked back to see him standing in the middle of the sidewalk, gazing at me with that same intensity that caught my breath.
“Keep it loaded,” he told me.
A clatter of footsteps on the stairs drew my attention into the lobby, and I stood aside as a couple I’d never seen before pushed past me, too focused on the argument they were having to spare me a glance. When I turned back, however, he was gone.
“Well that’s just fucking great,” I said to the empty street as the door swung shut.
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
I braved two more tamales before changing into a black t-shirt and pulling my hair into a ponytail. I wasn’t exactly sure what a barback did, but I had a feeling it involved dishes and hard labor. I needed this job if I was going to survive another week in Dust, and Gina was making it easy on me. Whatever it took, I was determined to make it happen.
Five minutes later I locked up behind me and trotted down the stairs for Duke’s, feeling a slight flush of triumph when I walked in just before three.
“Hey,” Gina smiled from behind the bar, “On time and everything. That’s a first for this place.”
The bar was technically open, but there were only a few women clustered outside the door, all with a hollow-eyed expression that made me wonder if they’d been there all night. Inside was empty, save for Gina, and I felt a knot of tension relax inside my chest. I didn’t know what to expect working here, especially since my first introduction had come with threats from cult members.
“Alright, let’s get you acquainted while it’s quiet. The regulars come in around four on weekdays, and there’s usually a pretty decent crowd in here by nine.” She talked as she led me into the back room and flipped on the light. It was small, but clean and well organized; a row of kegs lined one wall, shelves containing various bottles of liquor, soda and boxes of supplies on another. There was a stainless-steel sink, an ancient industrial dishwasher with a stack of glass racks, and an equally old ice machine. At the very end was a door that led to a small bathroom. “No public toilet,” Gina shrugged, “I tore it out last year when a girl nearly died shooting up in there. There’s a gas station around the corner they can use if they need to, but no one else is allowed back here no matter what.”
The job itself seemed relatively simple—run glass racks and the dishwasher, bus the tables, replenish supplies as needed. By the time the first customers wandered in I’d been schooled in the art of cutting lime wedges by the dozen and scooping buckets of ice. I’d been right about the hard labor; the glass racks were heavy and the kegs nearly impossible to wrestle into place. I was sweating and fighting to get the latch shut on the dishwasher when the door to the backroom opened, and Alex strolled through.
“There’s a trick to that.” He made a fist to smack the dishwasher hard on its side. The latch popped into place and he smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
“Thanks.” I pushed damp hair out of my eyes to gaze up at him, my heart doing the familiar flip in my chest when he stepped closer to slide his hands around my waist. The warnings from my friendly neighborhood stalker and my own feelings of unease had put me on edge, but Alex made it easy to ignore all that. Especially when he backed me against the sink to kiss me.
“Hey!” Gina’s voice broke us immediately apart and I flushed slightly at the expression on her face from where she stood in the doorway. “I’m not paying you to make out.”
“Sorry,” I said hastily, reaching for a clean rack of glasses, but Alex beat me there, lifting it easily and using it as a makeshift plow to back his sister out of the door and back into the bar, the door swinging closed behind him. I stood for a moment, embarrassment and worry warring inside me. I really needed this job, and I could already tell there would be conflict between the two of them, with me stuck in the middle. I sighed and lifted another rack, shouldering the door open and stepping back into the main room.
It was busier now. Every stool at the bar was occupied and several of the tables. A large cluster of men stood around the pool table, though thankfully none of them resembled the two from yesterday. Gina was back behind the bar, methodically drying glasses from the rack Alex had brought out and I joined her there. “Sorry about that,” I started, but she shook her head sharply.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault, I told him not to go back there but he doesn’t listen.” She shot an irritated glance across the room to where Alex leaned lazily against the wall next to the door, surveying the room with a bored gaze. His eyes met mine and he quirked up a smile but dropped it a moment later when Gina’s scowl deepened.
“Gina,” I turned towards her, “Is all this okay with you? I really appreciate you helping me, you know. I don’t want to upset you.”
The towel slowed on the glass she was drying, and she looked away, not meeting my gaze. “I don’t care that you two are into each other, if that’s what you’re asking.” She shook her head. “He can just be a real dick, you know? This is my place and I need his help, but he doesn’t listen to a thing I say. He just does whatever he wants.”
“Must be hard working with your big brother.”
“Yeah.” Gina glowered at the glass in her hand, “I’d fire his useless ass if I could.” I laughed, and she shot me a begrudging sideways smile. The front door opened then, and Gina looked up, her smile fading almost instantly, replaced by a look of anger so intense I took a step back from her before turning to see who had come in.
It was a girl. Thin and pale, her long hair was pitch black, save for about an inch of light brown that had grown out at the roots. Everything about her was draped in black: a heavy black leather collar was fastened around her neck, just above a faded and t
orn black t-shirt displaying the logo of a heavy metal band. Black skinny jeans tucked into too-large combat boots. Black lipstick. Black eyeliner. She was pretty, with high cheekbones and large blue eyes that seemed too innocent for the child-of-the-night look she’d put together, and her arms wrapped nervously around her front as she stood just inside the door, her attention sliding from Alex to Gina and back again.
Alex stood up from the wall and turned to face her, his expression unreadable. He, too, looked to Gina before returning his attention to the girl as she spoke to him. Then he nodded, and she stepped past him towards the bar.
“Fuck you, Alex,” Gina muttered, and I glanced between the three of them in confusion, watching Gina’s body tense as the girl drew closer. My gaze fixed on Alex, but he wasn’t watching me—he had returned to his post against the wall, his eyes roaming the room in an exaggerated nonchalance that would have almost been believable if he hadn’t kept darting glances their way.
“Hey,” a nervous voice said, and I looked back to find the girl standing across from Gina, her entire being as anxious as Gina’s was angry. I knew I should get back to work, but there was something about the situation that made me want to stay, if only to understand it.
“What are you doing here, London?” Gina snapped, her tone causing me to flinch along with the girl she spat it at, “I don’t fucking want you here.”
London. Somehow the name fit her. She was even prettier from up close, though she looked exhausted. Even sick. Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, reminding me of the men at the pool table, only they had been menacing, and she seemed ready to shatter. “Gina,” she said quietly, “Please. I need your help.”
Into Dust: The Industry City Trilogy - Book One Page 7