"And why are we going to a pawn shop?" Dane still clutched the handhold, but he looked a bit more relaxed.
"I'm looking to score some dynamite."
Chapter Four
"Today is shaping up to be a real blast." Dane flashed me with a smile.
"If you can't do better than that I'll—"
"What?" His grin held a challenge.
I just smiled as I floored the accelerator, pressing us both back in our seats as we flew through the mousetrap, staying to the left and onto the 515 which would take us to the east side of town.
The Boulder Highway used to be the heavily trafficked main drag between Sin City and Boulder City, home to the Hoover Dam. Now the 515 Bypass to the east and the 215 to the south siphoned the traffic and the prosperity with it, relegating the Boulder Highway to has-been status. Home to smaller, local casinos, gun stores, dives, hotels that apparently took pride in their low hourly rates, and pawnshops, the whole area clung to the tattered memory of bygone riches—its hopes fading along with the aging-colored awnings bleached by the assault of the sun. That's not to say hope was completely gone—there were pockets of economic revitalization along this long stretch of asphalt. However, hunkered between a flophouse and bar called Balls to the Wall, which advertised in blinking neon an all-nude review, Payless Pawns wasn't in one of the sections on the upswing.
I eased the Ferrari into a tight space next to a couple of motorcycles—the skull and crossbones insignias did little to inspire confidence. Today would have been a good day to stuff my Glock in my Birkin. I smiled at the incongruity—the Hermes hit woman. It had a ring to it. A career possibility if this casino exec thing went down the slop chute—and just one more way to shoot myself in the foot. Biting down on my weakness for punniness, I tried to channel 'tough' as I filed the idea away.
I may have missed the boat on the gun, but I'd brought the next best thing—Dane.
He unfolded himself from the car, then looked down at me as he eased the door shut with an appropriate reverence. "You always introduce me to the nicest places. First Smokin' Joe's and his XXX videos, then your mother and her girls, now the Balls to the Wall which, come to think of it…"
I burst out laughing.
He tried to ignore me. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to soften me up." His grin flared as he realized the setup he'd just handed me on a platter. He held up both hands. "Don't go there."
Then he dropped his head when I said, "If that was my goal, I'd say my choices were a bit misguided, wouldn't you?" Following his lead, I too unfolded myself, then shut the door behind me. Putting the top up would be asking for someone to slit it, so I didn't bother. "After all, you guys have the hard part."
Looking up, he shot me a grin. "Do you ever do as you're asked?"
"I have authority issues, deal with it."
"I'm trying." He squinted an eye shut as he glanced around. "I can't decide whether to come inside to protect you, or stay out here and protect the car."
"The car, for sure." Somehow I kept the grin off my face and out of my voice. "You'll get more pleasure out of it in the long run."
"Probably true." His lust thinly disguised, his eyes raked the car then returned to mine. "Seriously, how do you want to play this?"
"Give me five minutes. I'll go in alone. Frenchie Nixon's sister owns this place. Last I heard, Frenchie still runs home when he finds his ass in a crack, and this is all the family he's got."
"I won't even ask what you want with someone named Frenchie. I hope I get points for that." His eyes flicked over my shoulder—a habit of my ever-watchful, former Army MP. "And after five minutes?"
"You'll get to do your whole Texas chivalry, saving-damsels-in-distress thing."
"I'm a little rusty." He didn't like the idea—I could see that—but he always was good about letting me hang myself.
"A knight in rusty armor—
now
you tell me." I pressed my nose to the storefront window but couldn't see anything through cracks in the mirrored film.
Four latches, each with a heavy-duty padlock hanging from it, had been opened and folded back from the door. Four? The necessity that required all the locks, plus the bars on the windows did little to inspire confidence. I took a steadying breath and hoped my black eye gave me a hint of badass. With more bravado than I felt, I threw my shoulders back and pushed through the single glass door. A bell dinged somewhere in the dark recesses.
After the bright sunlight, the interior murkiness was impenetrable. As the door closed behind me shutting out the sun, I paused allowing my eyes to adjust. Only three of the canned lights in the ceiling had working bulbs, which cast thin, milky light. Smoke and the acrid tang of desperation hung in the air.
Finally, light filtered in and images hit my retinas. Musical instruments hung from the ceiling. A nice maroon Harley Springer Softail sat in the middle of the floor. A knight in full armor kept watch in the corner. Power tools hung from hooks forming an intricate pattern against peeling, puke green paint on the walls. A phalanx of bicycles stood in rows to my left. High in each corner, video cameras, their red recording lights staring like Gargoyles' eyes, captured my every move. Glassed cases filled with the high-end stuff formed a barrier in front of the back wall, protecting the lone entrance to a section marked 'private.' Snippets of a laugh track from some television show filtered through the closed door.
"Hello?" My voice, not exactly as strong as I wanted, was swallowed in the depths. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Anybody home?"
This time, the swinging door moved inward a few inches, just far enough to allow a side-by-side barrel to poke through, the business end pointed at my chest.
"Go away."
I recognized the voice, husky from decades of unfiltered Camels. "Gracie? You know why I'm here."
"He ain't here."
"Then he ain't far." I tried to look mean as I stared into the dark, evil holes of the shotgun. "He's probably next door drinking himself into the next life. But I know when he's in a heap of trouble, he hides in your skirts. And this time, Frenchie's brought trouble with a capital 'T' to your doorstep."
She lowered the gun and eased through the door. After breaking the gun, she held it over her forearm. The shells didn't eject, so she could slap the thing closed and be locked and loaded in a jiffy. Not a happy thought, being on the receiving end and all.
A tough woman forged in the fire of a hard life, Gracie was small and thin to the point of painful, with gray hair that hung in greasy waves down past her shoulders. Her face, long with hollowed cheeks, held deep-set, lifeless eyes and the slash of a mouth defined by thin lips. A few faded tattoos decorated her creped skin beneath the short, tattered sleeves of her white shirt, now yellowed with age. "I know his story. What's yours?"
"Your brother pinched some dynamite. I need it. And it would go a long way toward lowering the heat if he could tell me where he got it. I can tell you that, after a good grilling, the ATF guys will want to fry his ass. Probably yours, too," I bluffed. "I need something to douse the flame."
"He don't have no dynamite. He's just got himself a blistering headache, nothing's put a dent in it. I'm thinkin' maybe he's got a tumor or something."
"Or a nitro headache."
She shook her head. "Yeah, that boy ain't smart enough to hide from hillbillies. No way would he have thought to use rubber gloves when handling…" Her eyes grew wide when she realized what she'd said. Finally, after a moment of vacillation during which I held my breath, her face fell, laying bare the soft spot she had for her brother.
I went for the kill. "They'll throw him down a hole, Gracie, then bury him."
"Hell, his ass is a grape anyway. Might as well talk to you. Can't hurt him none. That boy's gone and done it now." She fingered a cross hanging from a gold chain around her neck. "He means well, know what I mean?"
Unclear as to how his proclivity for the ten-finger discount supported that statement, I said nothing.
She stopped fiddling and slapped me with a stern look. "You can help him?"
"I'm the only friend in his corner. I'll do what I can, but he's got to help himself first."
With one quick jerk, she flipped the shotgun closed. For a fraction of a second, I thought she'd use it on me. Instead, she leaned it against the wall. As she ran her finger around the barrel holes, she thought for a moment. Then she gave me a half-grin that lifted one corner of her lips exposing stained teeth. "Pretty tough, aren't you? You didn't flinch." Then she turned and shouted over her shoulder. "Frenchie, get your ass out here."
I thought about telling her there was a fine line between tough and stupid, but I didn't want to undermine my illusion of badass—it might still come in handy.
Just as Frenchie pushed through the back door, biting off the corner of a Pop-Tart, Dane walked in through the front, letting squint-inducing sunlight in with him. Apparently Dane was a bit more clever than I gave him credit for as he took stock of the situation with one glance. Then, he pretended not to know me as he sauntered over to the Harley. Gracie stepped around the counter to help him, leaving me alone with her brother.
An androgynous carbon copy of his sister, Frenchie sported the same painful thinness, the same long, stringy hair, the same tats. But instead of Gracie's closed, wary look, Frenchie's face was open, approachable—childlike in a way. And while his sister decorated herself with a shotgun, Frenchie wore a simple tool belt slung low on his hips with screwdrivers, vice grips, and wrenches hanging from the loops—ready to fix or filch.
"Hey, Ms. O'Toole." His eyes, clear and blue, met mine. If he was scared, he had me fooled. "You wanna sit? Look's like life's slapped you around a bit." With one hand, he lifted a stool from behind the counter and handed it to me as he bit off another bite of the Pop-Tart, which looked like a strawberry one. My stomach growled—I'm a slave to the siren call of food.
Grateful, I shot him a smile as I took a load off. Behind me, Dane peppered Gracie with questions about the motorcycle, keeping her occupied. "Heard you got a bit of a headache."
His expression turned quizzical. "Yeah, a real pounder. Been poppin' Aspirin like it's Blue Bennies, ya' know?"
Thankfully, I didn't know, and I don't think it mattered. "Caffeine."
"No shit?" He looked doubtful.
"Caffeine is a vaso-constrictor. It counteracts the dilating effects of the nitro."
"Well, I'll be damned." Frenchie set the remaining bit of his pastry on the filthy counter making me cringe, then turned to push through the door to the back. "Hang on a sec. We got a fresh pot on the burner. Want some?"
I shook my head. When he returned with both hands gripping the mug as if it were a lifeline, I started in again. "Tell me about the dynamite. Short and sweet, okay?"
"Me and Flea were wampin' around the desert north of here, out the 95, messing in some of the old mines and stuff." Flea was the leader of the motorcycle gang that had taken Frenchie in, probably as a pet or mascot. He didn't have enough macho to scare anyone, so what use would he be to the gang? I had no idea. Amusement? I looked at him as he snagged the remaining bit of Pop-Tart, polished it off, then licked his fingers one at a time. If he was their amusement, they were desperate.
"We found a crate of the sticks in one of them," Frenchie continued after swallowing, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Anything else?"
He gave me a quizzical look. "Nothin' of any value."
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that? One man's trash, another man's treasure." I glanced around the pawnshop. "You should know that better than anybody."
"Okay, there were some old clocks. You know, those wind up things that you can't even get rid of at the flea market?"
I nodded. "Anything else?"
"Some little tubes filled with some silver liquid, blasting caps, an old briefcase with some papers in it…nothing important."
"What did the papers say?"
Frenchie shrugged. "Impossible to tell—they'd pretty much fallen apart."
"So all of this was pretty old stuff?"
"Yeah, the dynamite was leakin' like a sieve." He snorted. "Not worth much. I thought I'd scored big when this suit offered me a couple of c-notes for three sticks."
"Three?"
"Yeah. The guy was a nutcase, all twitchy-like. And stupid. Those sticks didn't have much pop left in them. Hell, half the nitro had soaked into the wood."
My heart fell. Three. I knew what had happened to two. It was anybody's guess where the third one would turn up. "Oh, those sticks still delivered."
Frenchie's eyes widened. "No shit?"
"Pretty much leveled Jimmy G's place."
Frenchie blinked rapidly as he tried to absorb that. "Anybody hurt?"
"Only me."
He backed up a step. "Shit, I'm sorry, man. I thought I was sellin' that dude a dud, know what I mean?" Wrapping himself in a hug, he started shaking. "I never thought…"
"The guy you sold the stuff to, have you seen him around before?"
"No. He had that out-of-town look to him—three-piece suit, five bill shoes."
"Can you describe him?"
Frenchie stopped shaking as his eyebrows snapped into a thoughtful frown. "A thin, white guy, tallish like you. Dark hair. Mean eyes. And always looking down his nose—talking down like I'm trash, you know?" Frenchie's eyes met mine. "I didn't like that, so I charged him double what I woulda took. Fool paid it."
"A man on a mission." I eased off the stool. "How old?"
"Like you."
I didn't want to ask him what age he thought that might be—I'd established the guy wasn't seventy, so he wasn't Boogie. "How'd he find you?"
"It was real weird, you know? He was out on the highway. Goin' for a drive, he said. He flagged us down when he saw us comin' out of the mine."