Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  He blew out a long breath. Maybe the guy was right. Hell if he knew. One thing he did know, no way he’d be able to stomach the twenty-five years to life Crowley kept threatening. He couldn’t go to prison. For one thing, the lights in jail stayed on twenty-four-seven. That fact alone had him planning imaginary escapes nightly, under the sick glow of the fluorescents.

  “Sure you’re okay, man?” Mitch asked again.

  “Yeah, sorry if I’m disturbing you. Had a bad dream. Decided I’d better get up and shake it off a little.” Deason leaned against the wall, resting the back of his head against the cool concrete.

  “No sweat. I’ve been there.”

  Mitch, an African American man in his early twenties, was in for fleeing the scene of an accident, a “fender-bender” he’d called it, and driving without proof of insurance. Mitch had more manners in his pinky finger than Jimmy’d had in his whole beer-bloated body. Deason took a liking to the kid right away.

  “Hey, Deason, since you’re up, mind if I ask you a question? If it’s none of my business, just say so.”

  “Ask away, I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t been asked before,” Deason said, expecting Mitch to ask if he’d killed Vic.

  “Gabby, from Suds. She your ex-wife?”

  Deason’s face warmed. “Yeah, that’s her. Real piece of work, isn’t she?”

  “Sure is. Up until lately, she’s always had a man on each arm and another waiting in the wings. I can’t picture the two of you married.”

  “Yeah, well, she couldn’t picture it either, that’s why we got divorced. She loves to serve her fellow man, that’s for sure.”

  Mitch laughed a little. “True. Never known her to have a favorite type, either. She even asked me out once. The girl isn’t too choosy, is she?”

  “Must not be too picky, if she asked out the likes of you.” Deason frowned with mock-distaste.

  Mitch shook his head, grinning. “Lately, Gabby’s different, though. She’s been acting nervous ever since they pulled Vic from that dumpster behind the bar. Haven’t seen many guys sniffing around either, unless you count that sugar daddy who’s stopped in a few times. She gets even more nervous whenever he shows up. When he’s around, she can’t even pour a beer. All you get is foam.”

  Deason’s antennae shot up. “Sugar daddy? Who is he?”

  “Gabby calls him ‘Trips.’ I’ve never seen him talk to anyone else. Hell, I’ve never really seen him at all—keeps his hat pulled down over his eyes, always seems to be walking around in a shadow.” Mitch frowned, as if trying to recall. “Like I said, he’s only been in a few times.”

  Deason pushed off the wall. “If you don’t mind my asking, why’s a young…non-redneck like yourself wasting so much time at Suds Bar?”

  Mitch chuckled. “I work there, helping Joe run the office and keep the books. I earned my degree in business management last year. Have to pay those student loans back somehow. It’ll do until something better comes along.”

  It was Deason’s turn to chuckle. “I bet those cow kickers love you.”

  “They’re not bad. Hate to speak ill of the dead, but the worst one was Vic Locke. Now that he’s gone, place’s calmed down quite a bit. That reminds me… Can I ask you another question?”

  “Sure,” Deason answered, rolling onto his bunk.

  “Did you kill Vic?”

  ****

  “Whoo-hoo!”

  Charis and Daphne, along with the handful of people milling around Deason’s lawn, snapped their heads in the direction of the approaching car. Hard rock music blared from the open windows and a cloud of red dust swirled as the Trans Am turned into the drive.

  “Yeah! Hallelujah, it’s a miracle.” Jagger killed the engine and swung open his door. “Deason McKindle’s mama and daddy must be pullin’ some strings up there.” He tilted his head back and squinted heavenward.

  “Can you climb out of the clouds long enough to tell us what happened?” Daphne asked, pulling him from the car by his wrists.

  “That oil man, Simpson, the one who looked at the trailer a few days ago. He wants to buy it. Wants the whole kit and caboodle. Said he’ll pay the forty-eight thousand we asked for—forty-nine if we throw in the furniture and lawn mower as part of the deal.”

  “You better not be kidding, Jag, or so help me.” Daphne doubled her fist.

  “It ain’t no joke. The company Simpson works for is puttin’ a well down the road. He needs somethin’ close by. Said this would be damn near perfect.”

  Charis released the breath she didn’t realize she held. “That’s wonderful. But I thought you said Deason wasn’t parting with the land.”

  “I have a strong feeling that a man waitin’ with cash in hand will change his mind. ’Specially when I mention his mama and daddy helpin’ out from up above.”

  Daphne slapped Jagger’s back. “After the yard sale’s over, we’ll add up what we’ve got, including the stuff we’ve pawned and Deason’s paycheck.”

  “That reminds me, Charis. Deason mentioned a pocket watch. You happen to run across it?” Jagger asked.

  Charis’s eyes widened as all the moisture evaporated from her mouth. She couldn’t lie.

  “Are you accusing my best friend of holding back on us?” Daphne trapped Jagger in her green glare.

  “Of course not. Deason just mentioned his granddad’s watch might bring in a pretty penny.”

  “If this Simpson guy comes through, we’re gonna’ be real close to that fifty grand, watch or no watch,” Daphne said.

  Charis stepped toward a woman holding Deason’s wall clock in one hand and a dollar bill in the other.

  A few customers and several glasses of ice tea later, Charis and Daphne packed the remaining items into a couple of cardboard boxes. “Well, that’s all of it,” Charis said, her eyes scanning the grass for stray items. “I’ll take these over to Trenda’s thrift shop on Monday and see if she’ll give me a few bucks for them.”

  “Sounds fine. You going over to Mr. B’s now?”

  “Nah, I’m heading home. Wendell’s back from Albuquerque. He’ll be hanging around for a couple of days. When he’s around, I try not to be.”

  “I know what you mean. Something about that man gives me the willies.” Daphne shuddered, rubbing her upper arms. “And it takes a lot to give me the willies.”

  Charis picked up a box and stepped to her car. She unlocked the trunk, hoisted it inside then did the same with the box Daphne held. “Text me with the grand total later, after Jag tallies everything up. I really hope he can convince Deason to let go of the land. The decision will be heart wrenching but he has to get out of that god-awful jail,” Charis said.

  “What sucks is, he’s lost his home, his job, everything he had in life, and didn’t do anything wrong.” Daphne slammed the trunk.

  Charis hugged her friend’s neck. “Thanks for being such a good friend.”

  “Right back at’cha, girl.”

  ****

  The cowbell clanged noisily against the glass door of the pawnshop as Charis entered.

  “Afternoon,” a woman’s voice called.

  “Hello,” Charis answered, moving through rows of shelves laden with other people’s belongings. Treasures temporarily handed over for money, and then never seen again.

  Inside her front jeans pocket, Frank McKindle’s retirement watch grew heavy, weighing her down, making it hard to take another step as she approached the glass countertop in the center of the room. Behind the counter, a lady with an outdated hairdo and frosted blue eye shadow placed tiny price tags on pieces of jewelry. “What can I do for you today?”

  Charis gazed through the glass at the assortment locked inside. Expensive looking rings, pendants and watches. She touched the glass lightly over an intricate gold pocket watch. “May I see this one, please?”

  The woman tugged at the coiled plastic key ring encircling her wrist and unlocked the case. She gently removed the watch and placed it on the counter. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”<
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  Charis picked it up, turning it in her hand. “It is.”

  The woman took it from her and slid one long, artificial nail under the front cover, popping it open. “It still keeps time. Has an engraving, too.” She tapped the swirling calligraphy.

  To: Lloyd.

  The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another. Gen 31:49

  Love, Inez. 1941.

  The price tag read one thousand dollars. “Probably given to a soldier by his sweetheart.” She placed the watch in Charis’s palm.

  It saddened Charis to think such a precious heirloom ended up in a pawn shop. Hawked by a desperate son or daughter? A selfish grandchild? A well-meaning, love-stricken woman trying to bail her romantic interest out of jail? Charis nodded, sliding the watch toward the lady.

  “Can I show you anything else?”

  Charis lowered her gaze, studying her hands. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes and slid the freedom ring from her finger. “I don’t need this anymore. How much will you give me for it?” she asked, clinking it onto the counter.

  The woman held it close to her face, adjusting her glasses. “Very unique. Don’t believe I’ve ever seen that open-wing design. White gold, isn’t it?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “The scrollwork is nice.” She peeked over her bifocals. “Looks like you’ve had it a while.”

  Charis followed the woman’s gaze to her finger, to the lily-white outline of wings on her skin. She remembered the day she’d picked up the redesigned ring from the jeweler. The thrill she’d gotten, just knowing she’d taken something destructive and made it promising. It had given her a vision for the future. Independence. Hope for her broken heart and weary mind. The ring was a vow to herself, from herself. A declaration of her freedom. “I’ve never taken it off.”

  The woman looked back down at the ring, turning it over in her hand. “How’s fifty bucks sound?”

  Charis knew that pawnshops only paid out a small percentage of the item’s worth, making it easier for the customer to buy the merchandise back later. If she didn’t buy it back in the allotted timeframe, it would hit the shelf with an elevated price tag.

  “Sounds fine.” The ring had helped her mend and grow, eventually becoming strong enough to fall in love again. It was someone else’s turn to discover it.

  What can I get for these? She pulled the diamond studs from her earlobes, placing them in the woman’s palm. They’d been a pity gift, given to her the night she’d graduated nursing school. Aunt Linda’s attempt to make up for the fact her sister was a terrible mother. It was the last time she’d ever seen her aunt.

  The woman took a jeweler’s glass from her apron pocket and eyed one earring then the other. “Good quality diamonds. Eighteen karat gold posts. I’ll give you a hundred.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The woman nodded. “I’ll write you up.”

  Charis browsed the store as the woman prepared the transaction ticket.

  “I need your John Hancock,” she called to Charis over the ching of the cash register.

  Charis signed and thanked the woman. Stuffing the money into her pocket, she paused to give the watch a gentle squeeze, convinced she’d made the right decision.

  On the drive home, Charis mentally tallied the money she’d collected that morning. Fifteen bucks from the two leftover yard sale boxes she’d taken to Trenda’s, plus the hundred and fifty from the jewelry she’d pawned. One sixty five. Every little bit helped bring Deason closer to freedom.

  She glanced at the dashboard clock, butterflies tickling her insides as she pulled into the driveway. Not much longer to wait, then she would see Deason. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she glanced down at her t-shirt and swiped a hand across her chest, clearing a streak of dirt leftover from the dusty boxes. A shower was definitely in order, she decided, sliding from the car.

  “How’s my girl?” she asked, tucking Kinko into her arm and walking through the house. She stopped in the bedroom to place Frank McKindle’s watch into the glass snail then continued to the back door to let the poodle out. “Hurry up, Kink,” she called, anxious to climb under a hot spray. Kinko came running. Charis knelt to kiss the little dog’s head then stepped into the bathroom.

  Half an hour later, Charis buttoned her jeans and smoothed her turquoise top. Running a hand through her freshly blow-dried hair, she reflected on how great the water had felt as it coursed over her tense muscles. “I guess that’s as good as it gets,” she said, eying her reflection in the bedroom mirror, resisting the urge to twist her hair into a bun.

  Her pulse and gas pedal steadily accelerated as she drew closer to the courthouse. She pulled into a parking space and checked her reflection once more in the rearview, deciding to add a little lip gloss before sliding from the car. Ascending the courthouse steps, she grinned and shook her head. Never in a million years would she have pictured herself like this. All gussied up as if going on a date, heart beating ninety to nothing, excited about sitting on a wooden stool and staring at her incarcerated garbage man behind a chunk of smeared Plexiglas.

  She thanked the deputy and sat on the same stool she’d chosen on her previous visit. A few other visitors, all women, occupied stools as well, their faces shielded by dividers as they chatted through the glass with their men. Absently, she wondered how long they’d waited, lives on hold. How long they would continue to wait.

  She jerked upright, nearly bouncing from the stool as Deason appeared in the doorway, a deputy following close behind. How he managed to make prison stripes sexy was beyond her, but in he walked, hazel eyes sparkling, dark hair falling over his brow, dangerous-looking five o’clock shadow shading his jaw. He smiled when he saw her, an enticing, slightly off center flash of straight white teeth. He looked like a smoking hot Hollywood hunk in a modern day version of Jail House Rock. The man could give young Elvis a run for his money.

  “Hey, you.” He pretended to tweak her nose through the glass as he spoke into the receiver.

  “Hey, yourself,” she answered, returning his grin.

  “I used to look forward to Tuesday mornings but Monday has quickly become my favorite day of the week.”

  Charis smiled. Visiting hours for Deason’s block were on Mondays, in fifteen-minute intervals from three to four p.m. “Mine too,” she replied.

  “How’d the garage sale go?”

  “Pretty good, actually. Jagger said we brought in just under three hundred dollars.”

  Deason nodded slowly, a shadow crossing his features. “Weird to think of my possessions sitting out in the sun waiting for someone to slap down a dollar and take them home. Stuff I’d never even thought about selling. The dishes I eat off of, the lamp I read by at night, the books I read. I know it’s just stuff but the thought of having absolutely no stuff...is a little bit unsettling.”

  Charis’s heart ached for him. She knew “unsettling” meant scary. Even big, strong, hero-types had the right to be scared once in a while. Especially, Deason. Framed and accused of a crime he didn’t commit, his life turned upside down—maybe even destroyed—while the one responsible roamed free. “Have you made a decision about the land?” She held her breath, hoping the question didn’t discourage him further.

  He averted his gaze and swallowed, slight Adam’s apple dipping in his muscular neck. “I’ve decided to sell. It’s just land, not even land I’m interested in living on anymore. Still, I’m having a hard time letting go. For some reason, my parents’ land and Granddad’s watch were the things most difficult to part with.”

  He returned his gaze to her, incredible gold-splashed eyes drawing her through the glass, into his soul. “I can’t even bear to ask how much the watch brought in—I don’t want to know. Just overly sentimental, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her eyes.

  “No, I’m sorry. You didn’t come here to bear witness to my pity party. Tell me what you’ve been up to. How’s Mr. Barnaby?”

  “He’s good.
” She returned her gaze to his magnificent eyes. “Wendell’s been home for a few days, so I haven’t been by to see Mr. B. I go back to work in the morning when Wendell leaves for Wichita.”

  “I bet Mr. Barnaby’s looking forward to your return. I’m sure he’d much rather look at your beautiful face all day than at Wendell.”

  Charis’s cheeks warmed. Deason locked his eyes on hers, his gaze tender. Electricity zipped through the barrier between them and her skin tingled as his eyes took her in. She knew, if he could, he would touch her face. Maybe even kiss her lips. Her insides quickened at the thought.

  She cleared her throat. “Jagger should be by in a little while to go over your…finances. Looks like you’ll be out of here in no time.”

  “I just hope I’ll be able to stay out, once I get out. My lawyer is still trying to convince me a jury trial isn’t a good idea. He’s pressuring me to plead guilty of a lesser charge so that my case doesn’t go to trial. He says if I enter a plea of not guilty, and the jury finds me guilty, I could get twenty years to life.”

  Charis’s breath caught. “Then you have to do what he says.” Panic seized her voice making it high-pitched and weak. “Crowley knows what he’s talking about. It doesn’t really mean you’re guilty—people probably do it all the time.”

  His gaze darkened. “I can’t. I did nothing wrong. I won’t plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit.”

  Acid flooded her stomach. “But if it means you’ll go free… if it means we can be together…” she spoke the last words softly, dropping her gaze.

  “Look at me,” he said, his voice gentle. “I want that too. God, hearing you say it makes me want it even more. But I have to do what’s right in here.” He slapped a hand to his chest and held it there.

  “I realize it’s an old fashioned way of thinking. Admittedly, I don’t know anything about plea bargaining, trials or juries. In fact, I don’t claim to know much about anything outside the life I lead. But through the years, I’ve found I’m usually better off trusting my heart, not my head. And my heart’s telling me, loud and clear, not to plead guilty to any charges—lesser or not—because I’m innocent.”