Pawnbroker: A Thriller

by Jerry Hatchett

  “How’s it going, Rasheeda?” I said with all the nonchalance I could muster.

  “Eight damn dollars,” he said.

  I moved right to go around him, but he sidestepped and blocked my path. Not good. Rasheeda was about six-six, near three hundred pounds. Body fat: Zero.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “You a big man when a brother’s down on his luck. Brung my VCR in there and all you’d give me was eight damn dollars.”

  I took another step to the right. Rasheeda moved again. Now everyone in the tank was looking our way. Except Stinky, who was still snoring away. A guy stretched out on the lone cot in the room, peered over the top of a magazine at me. He shook his head, as if to say “Damn shame, but you’re about to get your ass kicked.” He was Hobart’s physical opposite, a wiry little fellow who might’ve weighed one-forty.

  Enough was enough. “Yeah, I offered you eight bucks, and you know what? The piece of shit wasn’t even worth that, so next time why don’t you take it somewhere else?” We pawned a hundred VCRs a week, and I of course remembered nothing about his, but I had no intention of going through this nonsense all weekend, or even for the next ten minutes.

  “That right?” His faux smile was gone now, replaced by an angry scowl.

  “Get the hell out of my way.” I took a big step to the left this time, big enough that he had to take a real step himself to try to block me, instead of just sliding over. When his right foot left the floor, I placed a solid kick to the inside of his left knee. I felt the ligaments and cartilage give way as big Rasheeda Hobart melted into the floor, wailing like a baby.

  The sound of hard-soled shoes slapping concrete echoed off the hard surfaces of the jail as a pair of guards approached the tank. They took one look at Hobart and unlocked the cell door.

  “What happened here?” one of the guards said, a bored look on his face.

  “This craz—” Hobart began, but the wiry fellow on the cot cut him off.

  “—Sheeda fell down,” he said. “Bumped his knee.”

  Hobart whipped his head around, stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “Look here, Carlos—”

  “Ain’t no but, ain’t no nothing. Ain’t shit,” Carlos said to the guards without ever taking his eyes off Hobart. Through the pain on Hobart’s face, something else flashed. Resignation? Fear? The two guards helped him up and led him out, one on each side. A third guard showed up and re-locked the door before the whole party made its way off down the corridor.

  I looked at Carlos. “Thanks,” I said, wondering what the dynamic was that made the big man so obviously afraid of diminutive Carlos. Carlos nodded and returned to his magazine.

  The rest of my stay was uneventful and, blessedly, brief. Benton managed to get a judge back to the courthouse for a bail hearing. The judge looked like something from a bad B-movie: a big jowly head perched atop an obese mountain of flesh. It was the first time I’d ever seen a judge in a tight robe. His hair was an unruly white mop, wiry and thick, his eyebrows a briar patch covered in snow.

  An assistant district attorney was there for the prosecution, and I of course had Lucas Benton at my table, looking like he stepped straight from a GQ cover. Paying him for my defense would put me in the poorhouse, but as addresses go, the poorhouse beats the gas chamber every time. Benton was as good as advertised. The prosecutor tried to paint me as a hardened criminal and a flight risk, but Benton prevailed and got me out on a hundred-thousand-dollar bond. I could pay ten thousand cash, nonrefundable, for a bail bondsman to post the bail, or put up sufficient collateral to cover the hundred grand myself. I put up our house, which we had finished paying for a few months before. I held the pen, looked at the signature line. Just like our pawn tickets, it said PLEDGOR underneath. I signed my name, slid the paper across the counter, and slapped down the pen.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

  * * *

  The three of us sat in a big booth in the back corner at Hatley’s. After the waitress took our orders, Benton said, “Abby has been getting me up to speed on your background, Gray.” He shot her another of those smiles, but it looked different, almost intimate. Abby smiled back and it lasted a few seconds too long to suit me. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was getting ready to bed him, too.

  He took a smooth sip from his iced tea and continued. “I also had our firm’s investigator prepare a dossier on you, so I can see what the prosecution sees and hopefully get a glimpse of where they’re going. You realize that they will of course use your background against you.”

  “Background?” I glanced at Abby and she shrugged.

  “Gray, it’s imperative that you be forthcoming with me. We can’t afford surprises, and everything you tell me is—”

  “I have been forthcoming. What background?”

  “Twelve years ago, the incident in Arkansas?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I spoke truth.

  Benton sighed, reached for his briefcase. Opened it on his lap and pulled out a manila file folder. He pulled out a sheet of paper, handed it across the table to me. Abby and I read it together.

  Most of it was mundane: name, date of birth, education, employment history, typical vitae. It was the paragraph at the bottom that took a rather radical departure.

  CRIMINAL ACTIVITY

  Arrested 1990 in Little Rock, Arkansas, for aggravated assault and battery of a law enforcement officer. Incident described as Bolton having been stopped for a minor traffic violation, then losing his temper with the police officer, at which time he took the officer’s baton away from him and beat him severely. Left the scene. Subsequently arrested at a state trooper roadblock on I-40. Pled guilty to the charge, received a suspended sentence with five years probation.

  * * *

  “You need a new investigator, because this did not happen.”

  Benton steepled his fingers, rested his chin on the spire. “Very well. I’ll have it run again. It’s probably just a computer error, a transposed Social Security number, something like that.”

  Dinner arrived and we all ate in silence. The scene in the jailhouse mirror played out over and over in my mind. I excused myself and walked to the pay phone in the restroom corridor. I dialed the police department and asked for Bobby Knight. I got his voice mail, and left a two-word message: I know.

  Chapter 13

  At home that night, I wrestled with whether to confront Abby over what I’d seen with Bobby Knight. I decided to sleep on it. The kids were in bed and Abby and I were watching a CSI rerun when a soft knock sounded on the front door. I checked the time. 11:42.

  I walked to the door, turned on the porch light, and looked out through the sidelight. Teddy. I unlocked and opened the door, and he barged right in. It’s the Teddy way.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Just checking on y’all.”

  I glanced at Abby as he was seating himself, then looked again. She was used to him showing up at strange hours, but she had an odd look on her face. Annoyance? Discomfort? Maybe he’d done something to piss her off. I’d ask later.

  “Not my best day,” I said. Abby stood and left the room without a word. I’d definitely have to inquire. “Want something to drink?”

  The phone rang, which was very unusual given that our only regular late-night caller was here. I grabbed the cordless. “Hello?”

  “Are you understanding how much trouble you’re in now?” RoboVoice said.

  There was no chance of me not taking him seriously now, but I was already tired of this cloak-and-dagger routine. “Who are you? And what do you want?”

  “It’s unimportant. Just know that I’m a friend. And don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “I do not know what you want,” I said.

  “You, Mr. Bolton, are trying my patience, but I’ll offer one more bit of advice. Get a copy of the autopsy report.”

  “I already know exactly what killed him, believe me.”

  “Yo
u don’t know nearly as much as you think. Get the report.”

  Then he was gone. I punched off the call and stood the phone back in its base.

  “Who was that?” Teddy said.

  Chapter 14

  Abby was unusually quiet over breakfast the next morning.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I said, wondering if her bizarre mood that started when Teddy showed up had carried through the night.

  “Nothing, it’s just that everybody I bump into, all they want to talk about is this...this...this mess.”

  “Like who?”

  “People, Gray, just people.” Her tone was irritable, bordering on bitchy.

  “Sorry I asked.”

  She said something under her breath that I didn’t understand. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired of being asked about this thing everywhere I go.”

  “You act like it’s my fault.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then rolled her eyes and said, “Have a great day.”

  “Whatever, Abby,” I said on my way out the door. At that moment, I hated her. And loved her. Damn Bobby Knight to hell.

  Chapter 15

  When I got to work, I called Lucas Benton’s office to tell him about RoboVoice’s autopsy report suggestion. He wasn’t in, so I left a voice mail.

  I wondered if Bobby Knight had gotten my voice mail yet. What would he do when he played it? Would he call Abby and tip her off? Would he even recognize my voice? Curiosity got the better of me and I dialed the station.

  “Montello P.D.,” the receptionist said.

  “Bobby Knight, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective Knight is in court today in Tupelo. I can connect you to his partner if you like.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. I hung up the phone and went back to work in the shop, trying to get my mind off it all.

  President Lindsey (yes, President is really his name) hobbled through the door. He’s old enough to be Moses’ first cousin and wears a permanent smile.

  “Say, boss man!” he said.

  “How you doing today, Prez?”

  “Oh, I’s doing all right. Needs to pay on my account.”

  “No problem,” I said. President’s a sharp one. He lives in a tiny box of a house, and has no place to safely keep his lawn mower. So he pawns it to me for one dollar, has it stored inside until he needs it, and pays a whopping twenty-five cents per month in interest: cheapest rent in town. I usually turn down these deals, but I like this old man.

  President took a squeeze coin purse from his front pocket, removed the four rubber bands that clamped it shut, and carefully removed a quarter and handed it to me. I processed the payment and gave him his receipt.

  “Thank you, boss man!” he said. He meticulously folded the receipt and somehow coaxed it into a wallet about three inches thick, then made his way out.

  As President was leaving, a nice-looking lady walked in. Make that very nice looking. Tall, sleek, shaped. Shoulder-length hair and stunning chestnut eyes, part black, part goddess. She looked to be around my age, early forties. I knew right away that she wasn’t there on shop business. Pawners present a lot of different images, but rarely one of composure and confidence. The lookers and shoppers have their own looks, too. She carried herself tall and proud, with purpose. She was her own category.

  LungFao was haggling with a customer over whether to loan eight dollars or ten on a VCR, and I instinctively looked to be sure it wasn’t Rasheeda Hobart. It wasn’t.

  “Can I help you?” I said to the lady.

  “I’m Penny Lane.” She extended her hand and I shook it. Firm, perfect. I drew a breath but before I could say anything she said, “No Beatle jokes, please.”

  “Gray Bolton. What can I do for you, Ms. Lane?”

  “Call me Penny. We’re going to be spending some time together.” She handed me a card that said PENNY LANE, INVESTIGATOR, SHEFFIELD-BENTON LAW FIRM.

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Benton tells me you questioned the accuracy of my report.”

  “Your report is flat wrong. Before now, I’ve never had more than a traffic ticket, and I’ve never even been pulled over in the state of Arkansas.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Hundred percent.”

  She looked into my eyes, studying me, looking for subconscious clues that I was lying to her. There were none to find. After about fifteen seconds, she abruptly said, “If you’re telling the truth, and I believe you are, it doesn’t bode well.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “I double-checked my research. There was nothing wrong with my work. The incident is right there in the NCIC, Mr. Bolton.”

  “Call me Gray. Since we’re going to be spending some time together.”

  That drew a smile. “All right. Here’s the problem, Gray.” The smile faded. “Mr. Benton says you were apparently set up—”

  “Not ‘apparently.’ I was set up.”

  “Calm down. I’m on your team.”

  “I’m a little edgy.”

  “My point is this: If someone has gone to the trouble, and has the means, to inject false information into a federal law enforcement network, what else have they done? I mean, this thing certainly doesn’t help your case, but they probably won’t even be able to mention it in court, so it’s of dubious value at best.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Great. You have a small table I can work from? I’ve set up a temporary office in my hotel room, but I’d like to spend this first day here with you.”

  “Sure, come on back. We’ll find you a spot.”

  Chapter 16

  Penny Lane worked from her makeshift office for the next several hours. Mid-afternoon, Xavier “X-Man” Miller walked in. He was even tougher to look at than Bill Berner. X was a happy sort and grinned a lot. All good and fine except for a mouthful of rotten black nubs that always made me queasy. He was one of the customers who had shown up the day after the robbery to pledge their undying loyalty should I ever need anything. X waved at me, then headed toward LungFao. The phone rang and I picked it up.

  “Gray’s Green Cash.”

  “Listen carefully,” RoboVoice said. “I won’t have time to repeat myself.”

  “All right.”

  “Go to your bathroom. Cover the motion detector with something; it’s a camera. Look in the tank on the back of the toilet. Flush what you find there.”

  “What—” I started to say, but he was gone. I walked to the bathroom, which did double duty as a storage area for pawned guns, and casually glanced up at the motion detector above the door. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that it was not the unit that had been there for years. It was similar enough that I hadn’t noticed the difference, but this one had a tiny black circle right in the center. A camera lens.

  I turned around to get something to put over it and jumped when I saw Penny Lane standing there.

  “What?” she said.

  Not knowing if the camera had audio capability or not, I whispered, “Camera,” and pointed. She arched her eyebrows. Robo had been on the mark thus far, and he—I assumed it was a man—had said to hurry. I grabbed a cap and tried to hang it over the detector, but the plastic detector had round edges and the cap kept falling off.

  I walked to the tool table, grabbed a hammer, returned to the bathroom, and beat the camera-cum-motion-detector until shards of plastic rained down. I lifted the lid off the toilet tank and set it aside. Submerged in the bottom of the tank was a cube-shaped object. I reached in and pulled it out. It was wrapped in several layers of plastic, secured with duct tape. I ripped the layers off.

  “They’re really out to get you,” Penny said when the last layer of plastic came off and revealed a six-inch cube of densely packed white powder. She stuck her finger in it, then tasted it. “Cocaine. Really good cocaine.”

  “Sonofadamnbitch!” I said, as I started dumping it
into the toilet. Penny looked on wistfully. “You use this stuff?” I said.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah. Good.”

  Chapter 17

  Just as I flushed the toilet, a commotion erupted out in the shop. As soon as I was confident the contraband was safely down the hole I stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Hands in the air!” said the leader of a four-man gang of black-clad goons, no doubt Montello’s version of a SWAT team.

  I raised my hands. The leader, who was holding a Glock on me with one hand, shoved a piece of paper at me with the other. Unlike the svelte commandos who populate the special-ops police squads of Hollywood, this guy’s belly was doing its best to escape from the bottom of his flak jacket.

  “That’s a search warrant, asshole,” he said.

  Penny was already on her cell phone. “Put Lucas on right now,” she said.

  “For what?” I said to LeaderMan.

  “The entire premises.”

  “LungFao, get a camcorder and tape every bit of this you can.” His eyes were the size of saucers but he grabbed a camera and had it running within a minute. X-Man was in hasty retreat, headed for the door. Undying loyalty on display.

  “Here,” Penny said, shoving the cell phone my way.

  I took it. “Hello?”

  “Gray, this is Lucas. Stay out of the way and let them do whatever it is they’re going to do. I’ll be there in the morning. Let me speak back to Miss Lane.”

  “Roger that,” I said as I passed the phone back to Penny.

  “Right...right...no, I’m certain of it...okay, bye.” She punched off.

  Not surprisingly, LeaderMan was already in the bathroom, looking in the toilet.