Scar Tissue(30)

The chain felt warm as Danny detached it and crouched to check the revealed door. Twin Schlages. He slid the Crown Royal bag from his inside pocket. Some guys cut down hacksaw blades, some liked the professional kits. Personally, he'd always found the bristles of a street sweeper made the best lock picks, hard but flexible. He'd popped both deadbolts by the time Evan had stowed the chain.

The rattle of the El faded as they stepped into the cramped pawnshop office. Danny generally liked to take a moment inside to listen to the darkness, but Evan already had the flashlight out. As it glared to life, Danny caught a glint off the gun in the other hand. Showboating, chasing the thrill. He thought about saying something, decided against it.

"There." A battered metal desk winked in the flashlight beam, below a calendar with a swimsuit model cozying up to a carburetor. He could make out a rumpled mattress on the floor beside it. "Terry said the bag would be in the manager's desk."

"Not in a safe?"

"Owner's a gun nut, apparently. Figures no one will mess with him."

Evan nodded, moving over to test the drawer. "Locked."

Danny smiled, pulled out the Crown Royal bag again.

"I'm going to look around." Evan had the door half open already.

"What?"

"It'll take you a minute, I'm going to check the front room. See if there's anything in the register."

"The flashlight—"

"Relax, Danny-boy. I'll be right back." Not waiting for an answer, he slid into the pawnshop.

Shaking his head, Danny fumbled in the dark to find his own flashlight and set to work. He ran a pick down the inside of the lock, counting clicks. Four. Factory-issue. He eased in the tension wrench and started with the farthest pin.

Twenty seconds later, the lock twisted open. He pulled the top drawer, rifled around, his gloves inky in the flashlight's warm glow. Papers, pushpins, day-job junk. The second was crammed with Hustler Magazines from the seventies. In the third drawer lay a sleek black automatic pistol, big, with an extra long clip jutting out the bottom. It looked like it could punch through an engine block, and something about its cold, machined intent sent shivers down the back of his thighs. Next to the pistol sat a nylon bank bag with a brass lock. The bag was two, maybe three inches thick.

Jackpot. He stood up and slid through the door, his soft-soled gym shoes silent on the concrete. The pawnshop was a forest of dim shapes, electric guitars strung above what looked like power tools, a couple of racks of looming TVs. Danny couldn't see Evan, but a glow behind the counter marked his spot. The cabinet doors on one wall stood open, and there was a thumping sound.

"Come on, man." Danny pitched it low but urgent. "I found the money."

"Give me a hand." Evan's voice was muffled.

"With what? Let's go."

"I was thinking." Evan rose behind the counter, stretching, vertebrae popping as he flexed his broad shoulders. "Man sold weight, right? So there's gotta be a pound of dope here, maybe two. That's another couple grand easy."

"That wasn't the plan."

"Ah, fuck the plan. It'll take two minutes. Help me out, check those cabinets over there." Evan squatted facing the counter and started feeling around beneath. From his belt the gun handle gleamed like a lethal comma.

Danny felt a trickle of sweat run down his side, the drop cold against his muscles. Half the cons he knew—the smart ones, even—had landed inside because they got reckless, decided to push their luck. Anything could give you up. A stray flashlight beam. A pedestrian who heard voices. A beat cop on a random patrol.

Still, he knew Evan well enough to know he'd have to drag the guy out of here. It'd be faster to just try and find the dope. "Alright, damn you. Two minutes." He moved to the far side of the pawnshop and opened the first cabinet, his flashlight playing across stacks of neatly bundled cables, a box of computer paper. He tapped the inside, wondering if he'd be able to hear a false bottom. Wondering how a false bottom sounded different from a regular one.

As Danny moved to the second cabinet, he heard Evan stand up. "Nothing here. I'll check the office." Danny nodded, sorting through a selection of cheap porcelain figurines. A crystal unicorn winked in the flashlight. His mind drifted as he worked, thinking of Karen's apartment. Candles on the nightstand, traffic noises through the open window. Waiting in the sleigh bed for her to get home after her shift. Her melted smile to find him awake. He saw it all, and wondered why he was here instead of there.

And then he heard the sound.

A metal rattle, like—

"Evan!"

—a security gate. The front door swung open, the night street glowing outside. A silhouette, big, stepped in, saying "Come on little darlin', a couple puffs before we do it won't make you lose control. I won't do nothing you don't want me to." The lights flickered on as Danny scrambled to his feet, recognizing the owner they'd watched earlier. A bearded guy in an orange hunting vest, leading a skinny chick with bad skin. Everything went slow motion as the guy spotted him, a hand already sliding inside his vest, a practiced move that produced a shiny automatic. The man racking the gun as he raised it, the snap echoing. Spreading his legs for better footing. Danny thinking this was it, the owner was going to shoot his ass. Mind telling body to leap aside, but his muscles not moving. The man with both eyes open and the gun in both hands, a target shooter's stance that put the barrel square at Danny's chest.