Chapter 8 Penny #2
“I shop nearly every pawnshop in the state, but I’ve never been here. Why is that?” I question, glancing around. “Paul, is it? Of Paul’s Pawn fame?” I gesture to the sign on the wall behind the guy.
All polite customer service fakeness drops away, and Paul goes shrewd, his sharp-eyed gaze considering me.
I know what he sees. First, I’m a woman, which is always a point against me in this type of environment.
Second, I’m young at twenty-five to Paul’s likely over fifty, given the elevens between his bushy brows.
Third, and most problematic in this interaction, I’m short and curvy, the type of woman men like to coddle and cuddle and fuck, not meet toe to toe as equals in negotiations.
But I’m a pro at this, having dealt with dozens of Pauls while growing PLDesigns from a seed of an idea to my main moneymaking career.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a shitty shopper.” He shrugs indifferently but reflexively flinches when Griffin steps up to the counter at my side. He’s not as unaffected as he’d like us to think. But it’s because of Griffin, not me, and that needs to change.
After a slow, theatrical scan of the rings in the case in front of me, I say, “Or maybe it’s because you’re selling cubic zirconia as real diamonds.” I tap my finger on the glass, intentionally leaving a smudge he’ll have to clean, as I point out a particular ring that’s reflecting light all wrong.
“I do not! All my merchandise is tested and verified, and comes with certification papers,” he claims. Figuring out that he’s underestimated me—fuck, I love it when people do that—he tries a new tactic, cutting his eyes to Griffin.
“You sure you want to marry this one? You’re never gonna have a day of peace with a bitch like her. ”
One second, Paul is looking pleased with himself for the cutting insult like he thinks calling me a bitch is somehow novel and shocking.
The next second, his throat is gripped in Griffin’s fist and he’s lying halfway across the glass display case, his face turning red and feet kicking in the empty air behind him, looking for purchase.
“Apologize.”
My mother’s always told me that for an apology to count, it has to be sincere and genuine and come from a place of true regret.
Paul’s apology is none of those things, but I still feel a little thrill at getting it.
Maybe I’m a little bloodthirsty too? It’s probably from hanging around hockey bros my whole life.
I’ll have to yell at Dom for that later.
Having gotten whatever apology he can, Griffin releases Paul by shoving him back across the counter.
“The ring was stolen about thirty minutes ago, less than a few blocks from here. This place”—Griffin looks around, his nose wrinkled as if the pawnshop smells—“seemed like the thief’s best bet to turn stolen goods into quick cash.
Do you have it? Because trust me, if you do, you don’t want it here.
I’m asking nicely. The next time you’re asked, it won’t be so polite.
” Griffin curls his hands into fists so tightly that his knuckles pop and crackle like Rice Krispies cereal.
Paul shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t have anything like that. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, man.”
It’s the truth. I can see it in his eyes.
I truly thought this nightmare was going to be over. That we’d hit this pawnshop, find the missing ring, and everything would be okay. But it’s not.
I gambled big, and now I’m going to lose big. Financially and professionally.
The reality hits me hard. Or maybe the ups and downs of this roller coaster of a day have finally sent me retching over the side of the cart, because I collapse, sitting on cold linoleum floor and leaning back against the display case.
“I’m so screwed,” I whisper helplessly, staring at the flecks in the commercial flooring.
Flecks that I’m not sure if are by design or are just dirt.
“Entirely, completely, totally . . . screwed.” I wish I had a thesaurus right now to better express how bad this is, but the dull roar in my head wouldn’t let me read one anyway.
Griffin squats down next to me, his knees splayed wide. “You’re not. I’m gonna fix this. I swear.”
I glance up, finding Griffin’s jaw hard and his eyes cold. But there’s something else. “Why are you doing this? Helping me? This should be your best day ever. Annoying Penny losing her shit and her shirt all in one fell swoop,” I accuse dryly.
It’s the truth. Griffin hates me and has taken pleasure in my pain more than once before, so this should be the Powerball of victories for him, except he doesn’t seem all that happy about it.
He shrugs, and he cuts his eyes away. “Dom will kill me if he finds out I let your ring get stolen.”
That makes sense. Griffin and my brother are close, as close as brothers without the blood relation, but Dom has a wicked sense of loyalty where I’m concerned.
He would destroy anyone who hurts me, even Griffin.
But there’s something else in his voice, his eyes.
There’s more, but before I can ask him what, Paul the Pawnshop Prick spouts off, “Wait. Did you say Dom? As in Dominic Lee? Are you Griffin Mahoney? Fuck, man, I thought you looked familiar!”
With the accidentally helpful hints of our private conversation, Paul’s clocked Griffin. If he says one word about how the Hawks can make the playoffs, I won’t be surprised to find him lying across the display case again.
As Griffin stands, I’m holding my breath. In fear? In anticipation? Maybe both.
“Yeah, that’s me. And this is Dom’s little sister. She’s a jewelry designer who does custom heirloom work, and one of her pieces was literally stolen out of my hand today. I need it back.” He clears his throat and swallows hard. “I mean, she needs it back.”
Paul seems much more interested in what’s going on now, and in helping us.
He glances around like someone might be listening, though it’s only us in the store, and leans in close.
“I don’t do stolen merch here. But there are places that sorta specialize in it.
And a few fences, depending on the size of the diamond you’re talking about.
” He drops his chin and gives Griffin a meaningful look from beneath his brows.
“What do you want?” Griffin snarls.
“Two tickets to this weekend’s games against the Vortex.”
Paul is a salesman at heart. He has to be to run a successful pawnshop. Negotiating with people pawning their goods to give the least amount possible and negotiating with buyers to get the most amount possible. Still, I expect Griffin to refuse. He’s not one to kowtow to manipulation tactics.
“Done. Tell me everywhere you’d look if a valuable ring was stolen by a white guy with freckles and brown hair, wearing a red hoodie, that knew this neighborhood like the back of his hand.”
I didn’t realize Griffin had gotten such a good eye on the thief, and I can’t help but look at him in awe. The teeniest-tiniest bit, and then . . . anger. “You almost had him, didn’t you?” I snap.
He grits his teeth, not sparing me a glance. “Penny.”
Fine, he’s busy doing the menacing thing with Paul at the moment, but this isn’t over.
We get a list of pawnshops that aren’t always so particular about the origin of their merchandise and the names of a couple of fences, and leave with Paul reminding Griffin that he’d better see those tickets before the weekend.
Back on the street, I smack Griffin’s arm.
“If you saw the guy, we need to call the police back. Maybe he’s a serial mugger, and they know where he hangs out, looking for hapless shoppers to snatch their bags or purses or whatever.
” I sound like Velma having a jinkies moment, but a clue’s a clue, right?
“With this new information, they might be able to help us find the thief, or the ring, or both.”
“You already said they don’t give a shit, and I don’t care about the thief. Just want to get the ring back.”
It’s the right thing to say, but he’s looking around like he’s distracted by something. Or maybe just done with me and looking for any way out. That’s definitely more likely. He’s probably wishing he’d never run into me today and that none of this shitstorm had rained down on him.
I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Helloooo. Crisis, right here. Care to tune in for a second?” I point at myself to make sure he knows exactly where the disaster is, a beautiful one, but nonetheless, I truly am a disaster.
He takes a slow, deep breath. “I am tuned in. Unbelievably so.” He’s obviously annoyed with me again, his tone harder than rock.
Well, join the damn club, buddy. I’m annoyed too.
I swear, something like this could only happen to me.
My mom told me once that I’m like the calm in the eye of a tornado.
I don’t do any damage myself, but the debris that often swirls around me can take out entire swaths of land.
Or friends, or whatever Griffin is to me.
Brother’s best friend? Frenemy? Something like that.
Whatever he is, he really needs to watch out for the next incoming cow before it swipes him off his feet and carries him away to Kansas.
“Look, it’s getting late, and these places are closing right now.” He holds up the list Paul gave us. “Can you just give me tonight? Let me see what I can find out.”
“You’re not talking to them without me,” I declare.
I do not want to talk to criminals. I’ll probably do something stupid or accidentally spill their whereabouts to an undercover cop at the coffee shop or something else ridiculous. But I also don’t want Griffin cleaning up this mess himself. I have some pride.
Plus, I don’t trust him. He hates me, and while he’s been hot and cold today, I don’t know that he’ll truly do everything to get my ring back.
He might say he tried but actually spend the evening chilling on his sofa, watching old hockey games and laughing at the fast one he’s pulling over on bratty, bitchy me.
He sighs like I’m the one that screwed up his day and not the other way around but relents. “Fine. I won’t talk to them without you. I’ll pick you up at ten in the morning? We can hit A-to-Z Pawn first.”
I’m not sure about this course of action, but it would be sort of nice to have Griffin at my side if I’m going into sketchy pawnshops and talking to people who probably won’t want to discuss their illegal business model with me.
I mean, not Griffin specifically. Any huge, threatening asshole who’s willing to throw hands would do.
Most people wouldn’t have a lot of options that’d meet those criteria, but I do.
Several, in fact. Notably my brother. But I don’t even consider calling him and telling him what’s happened.
Mostly because I don’t want to hear another one of his lectures about how I make poor decisions and am too impulsive.
Usually, I can tune him out and pretend I’m Charlie Brown listening to a wah-wah-wah-wah adult, but in this case, he might have a teeny-tiny point, and I really don’t want to get kicked while I’m down.
Surprisingly, so far, Griffin isn’t doing that, though he’d be the first one I’d expect to line up to take his shot when I’m on the outs.
I nod, agreeing with Griffin. Except . . . “If you’re fucking with me, you should know that at 10:01, I’ll be heading there on my own. Don’t be late. And bring me coffee. Skinny vanilla latte, hot.”
He blinks, hopefully memorizing my Starbucks order if he knows what’s good for him.
“Deal.” He nods but pauses. “Don’t answer your phone or your email tonight. Or your door. And don’t ask me why.”
“Why?” I ask immediately.
He tilts his head, giving me a hard look. “Take it or leave it.”
I have no idea what he’s up to, but a semi-self-imposed evening of disconnect would let me cry into a slice of pizza and soothe my loss with a bubble bath, so though I’m suspicious, I agree. “Deal.”
I hold my hand out, and though he looks like the thought of touching me pains him, Griffin slips his big paw of a hand around mine and shakes, sealing our agreement. He releases me quickly, though, and I try really hard not to be offended by that, but it doesn’t work.
He hates me. Always has, always will. And I need to remember that even if he’s helping me, he hates me.