Chapter Two
Alara
“Is it toxic or something?” the woman in the flowing sundress with perfectly blown-out copper-red hair asked as I put on a pair of heavy-duty gardening gloves—the kind with the thick rubber grips—before reaching for the statue from the top shelf.
I was surprised she’d been around as long as she had. She was all out there in all of her thick-thighed, tits-out glory. With just a tiny swatch of fabric covering her vag.
She was stupid pretty.
But also stupid expensive.
And in this neighborhood, yeah, it wasn’t a big surprise she’d been sitting for so long.
But this lady with her designer bag and diamond studs that cost a few thousand bucks could more than afford her.
“No. Not toxic. But she’s a fertility statue,” I explained as I set the statue down on the counter. “It’s superstitious of me. But I don’t want any little mes running around. One me is enough for the world.”
“I have five children. I wouldn’t mind one more.” She reached out to stroke the statue’s flowing red hair.
Five kids.
That was just way, way too many.
With their sticky hands and shrill voices and their ability to forget every pleasant or educational thing you ever told them, but very clearly remember the one time you let out a string of curses… then repeat them in front of their parents.
Or maybe that was just me with my niblings.
“Well, hopefully she can help you with that. Not that you need her,” I added, taking the woman’s credit card and swiping it.
She was not only paying my light bill for the month but also getting me some good take-out for dinner.
“I’ll stick her in a box for you, so you don’t get jostled on the subway. ”
“Oh, no need. I have a car waiting.”
She scooped up the statue and made her way to the door.
Well then.
Fancy.
“Alright, Dotty,” I called to the woman who’d been patiently waiting her turn in the back of the store. “What do you have for me?”
I knew what it was the moment she made it up to the counter, her thumb turn, turn, turning it around her finger before she could even find the words.
She was there to hock her ring. From the love of her life who’d been killed overseas while serving in the military. Sure, it’d been almost a decade ago. But she carried her grief close, cuddled like a baby to her chest.
Things must have been really bad for her to be willing to hock her engagement ring.
“It was about five grand,” she said when she saw me eyeing the ring.
When it was new.
She knew the deal.
It went down from there.
“I just need to make rent. I had a gap in jobs. I have my new one, but I just… I fell behind on everything. And the landlord wants me out so he can up the rent for the next guy. But that was our home.”
I imagine it was still their home, a shrine to the love that had only gotten three years to grow before he passed.
Normally, that ring was something I’d only offer two grand for. But this was Dotty. She’d been a regular for years.
“How about twenty-seven-fifty?”
Her eyes brightened.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I’ll keep it in the back case,” I said, waving behind me. “Give you a few months to get things back on track.”
It was something I was known for—using the pawn shop as a sort of loan. If I knew someone was pawning stuff just to put food in their kids’ mouths or pay a medical bill, I tried to hold onto and hide it, giving them a few months to buy it back before I put it up for sale.
It was probably why I was getting by but not exactly making bank, despite owning a pretty busy business. But I was once the person on the other side of the counter, heartbroken, pawning my precious belongings. And in my case, we never got those things back.
So when I took over the shop, I wanted a career, yes, but I also wanted to be able to sleep at night. This was how I managed that.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” Dotty said, eyes going misty.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, giving her a smile even as I realized not only was I not getting take-out, but my light bill might be a little late.
I took the ring and stuck it in a special box in the back case. There was a pair of emerald earrings in there. And a men’s watch. Those two were coming up on their end date. I hoped their owners came back for them. I hated selling things that people didn’t want to part with.
“How’s three months sound?” I asked, filling out a form.
“That’s more than enough. Thank you. Really.” She was actively crying as she shoved the money deep in her purse before making her way out of the store. Whether it was relief or grief—or a muddy combination of the two—was anyone’s guess.
“Well, I guess it’s another night of trying to make a meal out of whatever is in the fridge, huh?” I asked the tiny little mutt sleeping on a bed at my feet. “Well, me. Not you. You get all that expensive-ass prescription food.”
You’d think a dog I found while eating foul-smelling fish from near a dumpster by a sushi place would have the stomach of a rock. Alas, my ridiculous little rescue not only needed special food but also allergy shots and anxiety medication. The dog had better healthcare than I did.
Tuna was a tiny little thing. The vet said her best guess was he was a combination of a chihuahua and either a rat terrier or a mini pin. He shook all day, even with a sweater on and in the summer. He was afraid of everything and everyone. And he only occasionally was willing to be touched.
But I loved the little disaster.
“Do you think that bag of lettuce has gone all mushy yet?” I asked him. “Who am I kidding? That lettuce is a science experiment by now.” I was probably looking at a few slices of plastic cheese, pretzels, and a bag of frozen broccoli for dinner. I’ve had worse.
The bell above the door dinged, bringing in a man in a dusty shirt and two large boxes in his arms.
“Hey. What can I do for you?”
“Take all this crap,” he said, dropping the boxes down. The contents kicked up dust into the air.
“Wait,” I called as he made his way toward the door. “Don’t you want me to appraise and pay you for this?”
“Sell it. Toss it in the dumpster. I don’t care. Just for fuck’s sake, don’t make me deal with it.”
With that, he was gone.
“Okay then.”
It was a surprisingly common occurrence: people moving out of the city and not wanting to take too much crap with them. Or, more often, the relatives who had to clean out an apartment when their loved one passed.
Judging by the first couple of tchotchkes I pulled out, this man lost his grandmother.
I hoped for his sake that he wasn’t in need of cash, because he was missing out with this box.
There were two sterling silver picture frames inside, each worth around a hundred bucks a piece; a vase that would probably go for forty to sixty, depending on if someone was going to haggle or not; a collection of cute salt and pepper shakers that wouldn’t be worth a lot, but were sure to sell relatively quickly; a couple of vintage lithographs that would sell eventually.
And, finally, at the bottom, a wooden jewelry box.
Inside was a collection of tarnished rings and earrings, along with some statement costume necklaces and bracelets.
The rings and earrings would get me the most money, but the costume jewelry would sell in a blink.
“Things are looking up again, Tuna Roll,” I told my dog, who spared me a long look and a slow blink before tucking his head back in the side of his circle bed.
I mean, it was no two thousand and seventy-five bucks. But it brought me closer to being in the black again.
I loved a good freebie.
No guilt.
No investment to pay off before I made money.
Just pure profit.
It was why I was still a shameless trash day curb lurker.
You never knew what you might find. Especially in the nicer neighborhoods.
I once found a box full of designer handbags that were likely just ‘out of style’ and therefore worthless to the woman who lived in one of the thirty-million-dollar townhouses.
I ate well that month. I even managed to finally buy myself some furniture for my apartment that wasn’t glorified cardboard and glue.
I was still putting price tags on the items and placing them on shelves when the door opened and two guys walked in.
My gaze moved over them.
They didn’t belong in my pawnshop.
I knew my clientele at this point. These guys were not it.
They were the wrong age, first of all—late twenties.
Younger and older wouldn’t raise my brow.
But something about their specific age bracket had me placing the salt shakers and moving back toward the front of the store.
Either to be close to the gun behind my counter or the door for a quick escape.
Then there was how they were dressed—with their thick silver chains, Timbs, jeans, and black tees.
They were clean-cut, one with no visible tattoos, the other with a rose on his forearm. Both had medium-brown hair and blue eyes. Brothers, maybe.
But those eyes were looking too hard.
Like they knew exactly what they were after and just needed to locate it.
It wouldn’t be the first time I had someone sell me something that didn’t belong to them. It wasn’t like I could demand someone give me proof of ownership. So shit happened sometimes. It usually didn’t freak me out.
But everything about these guys was rubbing me the wrong way. Maybe it was because I’d spent a lot of time around criminals now, so I felt like I had a reasonably good eye for spotting them.
Part of that experience was being stuck under a group of criminals’ thumbs for the latter part of my teens. The other part was when my sister married a capo in the mob.
Everything about these guys said they were organized in some way… but not in a polished way like the mafia was.
This was an unstable neighborhood. The organizations were always vying for power. It was almost impossible to keep track of everyone.
I opted for my desk and the gun under the counter. Mostly because I couldn’t even think of fleeing the shop without Tuna.
Keeping an eye on the guys, I leaned down and grabbed the very unhappy dog, tucking him in tightly at my side. He struggled for a few minutes before accepting his fate in air jail. Then I scooted toward the hidden spot where my gun was hiding.
In a pinch, I could grab it and shoot my way out of the store.
But I was hoping it didn’t come to that.
My gaze slid up to the round mirrors in the corners of the store, allowing me to keep an eye on customers when they disappeared. Theft wasn’t a huge problem, since most people didn’t know what in the store was actually worth any money, but it happened.
They made a beeline for a the second shelf full of decorative boxes.
Good luck, my dudes; I empty the boxes before they hit shelves.
I was about to reach for my phone to call my sister’s husband to come drop by when the door chimed.
Glancing over, I saw someone else who looked like a criminal. But this one was much more polished. Nice suit. Expensive watch. Dark hair, dark eyes. Olive skin.
If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed mafia.
But I knew all of the major players in all the New York Five Families. It was a hobby of sorts.
This guy was not familiar.
But he was too old for a typical associate, so him being new seemed unlikely.
“I’m here for the bag,” he explained as I just stared at him.
“Yeah? Who the hell are you?”