The Blade Itself

Da

The chain felt warm as Da

The rattle of the El faded as they stepped into the cramped pawnshop office. Da

“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.”

Da

“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, Da

Shaking his head, Da

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 backs 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. Da

“Come on, man.” Da

“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.

Da

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. “All right, 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 Da

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 Da

An explosion. Somehow the owner’s stomach bloomed red. He collapsed like he’d been dropped from a great height. His gun clattered on the floor beside him. In the doorway to the office, Evan stood with one arm extended, the pistol in his hand.

Everything stopped.

The hum of fluorescent lights and the wet sounds of breathing. Da

Then adrenaline hit, and he lunged. The girl was frozen, eyes and mouth wide, and he shoved her aside to slam the door. He jumped back to avoid the slow spread of something red, Jesus, blood, a crimson pool of it, creeping from where the owner moved in a sort of crab-writhing, fingers clutched over his stomach.

“No.” The word slipped feathery soft from his mouth.

“He alive?” Evan asked, voice distant after the roar of the gun.

The man rocked back and forth. His hands were scarlet. A stain crept up his chest. There was a lot of blood. A kid from the South Side grew up knowing what blood looked like, broken noses and teeth knocked out, but to see it pouring from someone’s stomach…

“Da

“Yeah.”

“Ask him where the weed is. You,” gesturing with the pistol, “Little Darlin’. Over here.” White-faced and shaking, the woman moved next to a shelf of beat-up VCRs.

Da

It scared hell out of Da

Evan kicked the owner’s gun across the floor, then stared down at his prone form. “Look at that shit.” He popped his head to either side. “You ever see anything like that?”