Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (8 page)

The old farmer thought about it, looking Dusty up and down twice. Finally nodding, he pocketed the money and pointed toward the cab.

The two men were soon on the road again. Dusty waited a bit before asking, “Was that a bank back there? I saw a lot of men coming out and counting their money.”

Misreading the curiosity, the older man said, “
They cash my checks there, señor. This time of day there is always a line. That place charges me less than any of the others.”

“Charges less?” Dusty mumbled
, already having guessed the station owner took a cut. “Why don’t you use a bank?”

The driver’s brow
wrinkled, “I can’t go to a bank; I don’t have a social security number. And the banks in Mexico, they charge more to cash a U.S. check than this place.”

Dusty thought back to the
line of landscapers, construction workers and other laborers waiting patiently.
There was a longer line here than at most banks
, he mused.
Talk about an underground economy.

A few
minutes later, Dusty was again curious, “I’m not trying to pry, but I receive the occasional check myself now and then. How much do they charge back there?”

“It depends on the check and if they know you. The ones I just cashed were from large corporations
that own the restaurants in Kemah, and I frequently cash them at the station. They took 3%, which is much less than typical. For a new customer, they will skim five or even ten percent.”

Amazing
, Dusty thought. He’d never considered where the undocumented workers banked. He filed the information away.
That might become important for a man living on the dodge
.

Their route lead into an even denser
cityscape, and before long the driver again slowed the truck. He pointed toward the motorcycle helmet resting on the floorboard. “I found this today. I think it has value. I’m going to see if this pawn broker will buy it from me.”

They parked at the Frontier Pawn and Jewelry, the
motorist wasting no time heading inside. Before following, Dusty took a moment and studied the nearby businesses, trying to memorize the landscape in case he had to make a hasty departure. There was a low-end hotel nearby. That’s probably where he’d end up tonight. He also noted what stores and restaurants were close, as he would have to walk for food or any other supplies required. He didn’t really know how long he’d be staying.

When he realized what he was doing, Dusty had to chuckle. “What interesting habits an outlaw develops,” he whispered to the evening air. “I might actually get good at this living on the
run.”

He turned and entered the
pawnshop, thinking a used laptop computer might help him become acclimated to his new surroundings a little quicker. “Gotta love the internet,” he whispered.

T
he swarthy, muscular man behind the counter was still consuming his fast food drive-thru hamburger, casting the occasional semi-uninterested glance at the motorcycle helmet the farmer was holding up. Dusty closed the front door, noting the heavy iron bars that secured both the front windows and the doorframe. After glancing around for a few moments, Dusty wondered about the security arrangement.

The fortress-like exterior was an
obvious attempt to protect the valuables stored within from burglars and nighttime thieves. The problem for Dusty was he couldn’t figure out exactly why anyone would bother breaking into the place.

Row after row of what appeared to be yard-sale
merchandise filled his vision. The assortment included power tools that were well past their prime, rusted wrenches and a shelf of televisions that looked like they had been manufactured in the 1960s. The early 1960s.

“Looking for something specific?” The counterman asked
, obviously not that interested in the helmet – or at least trying not to act as if he were.

“I need a laptop computer,” the gunsmith replied. “Nothing fancy, but it has to have wireless communication and a reasonable screen.”

Without moving anything but his head, the man indicated Dusty should look along the south wall of the store. He then returned to examining the farmer’s windfall merchandise.

Sure enough, there were several computers displayed
in the far corner, some of them looking to be in reasonable condition.

He heard the pawnbroker offer $20 for the helmet. The old man seemed happ
y to accept. After receiving his money, the farmer approached Dusty and said, “I’m not going much further into town. I turn off soon. Do you want to stay or go on with me?”

Considering the nearby hotel and availability of food, Dusty extended his hand to the man, “I think I’ll be good here. Thank
s for the ride.”

As Dusty
returned to studying the computers, the door opened and admitted another customer. Dusty spied a middle-aged, very attractive woman who was carrying something wrapped in a kitchen dishtowel. Curious, he watched her march up to the counter and unwrap a stainless steel revolver.

“How much can I get for this pistol?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Do you want to pawn it or sell it?” The broker asked, almost like a spider who sensed a fly buzzing by his net.

“I want to sell it… I think. Can’t I get more if I sell it?”

“Sometimes,” came the answer.

“Then I want to sell it.”

Dusty, being a man who earned a living working on firearms, was curious about the impending transaction. He’d caught just a glance of the wheel gun as the lady had unwrapped it, and wanted to get a closer look. He casually meandered toward a display case full of gold and silver, feigning interest in the shimmering baubles while casting side-glances at the weapon.

It was a .357 Colt Python, nickel finish with a snub
2.5-inch barrel. A classic!
It’s the pawnbroker’s lucky day,
Dusty thought.

After studying the computer screen for several moments,
the man behind the counter peered over the top of the monitor and said, “It’s not worth much. Everybody wants high capacity, plastic guns these days. I’ll give you $200 for it.”

It took all of Dusty’s discipline not to shout out
in protest. He wanted to find some way to signal the woman that she was being taken advantage of; he knew that weapon was easily worth $3800. This guy was trying to rip her off. He glanced up at the lady, hoping she would make eye contact with him. Her wrinkled brow made it clear she was trying to make a decision, but some inner voice was telling her it wasn’t a good deal.
Look at me
, Dusty kept thinking.
Look me in the eye
. 

Before she could respond, the jingle of a cell phone so
unded in her purse. She reached in and checked the caller-ID being displayed, quickly glancing at the broker and mumbling, “Give me a minute.” She then turned toward Dusty and answered the call.  

“They’re not supposed to turn of
f the electricity until five!” she hissed into the phone. “You go out there and tell that guy in the utility truck I have until 5:00 p.m. to pay the bill. They promised me when I called!”

She paused, listening to the speaker for a few moments before continuing. “I’m in
Laredo selling one of papa’s guns. As soon as I get the money, I’m going to pay the bill… okay… I will… love you too. We’ll be okay sweetheart; I promise.”

Dusty moved quickly as she fumbled to return the phone, trying his best to make
the collision seem accidental. His slight bump into the harried gal gave him the excuse to reach out and grab her shoulder – a benign gesture to make sure she was steady. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said, “Are you okay?”

She waved him off, “
Yes, I’m fine.”

Dusty didn’t let loose of her shoulder and leaned in closer. “That gun is worth $3,000. Don’t take his offer.”

For a moment, she didn’t seem to understand what he was saying. She looked into his eyes for what seemed like a very long time before finally whispering, “Thank you.”

Returning to the counter with new confidence, she reached for the pistol. “You’re trying to screw me… probably just because you think I’m
some dumb girl or something. That pistol is worth a lot more than 200 bucks. I’ll take it over to the other pawnshop and see what they’ll give me for it.”

“Hold on,” the man said, “Let me look at it one more time. So many of these look the same.”

Dusty couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “Ma’am, would you mind if I took a look at that handgun?”

“Sure,” she replied, nodding toward the beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

“A Colt Python .357 magnum,” Dusty began, holding it up to inspect the serial number. “This one was manufactured in 1978 at the factory in Hartford. See that small stamp right there?” he pointed, “That means this specific pistol was issued to a law enforcement officer.”

“Is it valuable?” she asked with an innocent tone.

“Oh, yes. Very. Many knowledgeable collectors believe this was the finest revolver ever made. This example, with its nickel finish and excellent condition, is worth a considerable sum.”

She played it well. Placing her hands on
her hips, she turned and stared hard at the pawnbroker. “Well?”

“I didn’t notice any stamp,” he grumbled, throwing Dusty a dirty look. “Let me see it again, please.”

Again, he punched keys on the computer, pretending to research prices. Finally, “He’s right. It is worth more than I offered. I’ll give you $1200.”

“Keep talking,” she replied with a firm tone, “You’re getting warmer.”

“I’ve got to make a profit, too,” he protested and then motioned around at the store. “I’ve got overhead costs, ya know.”

Again, Dusty held his comment, watching
as the shop owner considered his next offer. Apparently, he waited too long because the woman again reached for the pistol and began wrapping it in the dishcloth. “Okay… okay,” the guy finally conceded. “I can go $2200, and that’s my best offer. I will probably sell it for $2500 and make a small profit.”

The woman glanced at Dusty, obviously wanting to take the money and pay her electric bill. He shook his head
, indicating she should pass.

She tucked the gun under her arm and made for the door, saying “No thanks,” over her shoulder. Dusty, realizing he probably wasn’t welcome in the store any longer, followed her outside. “Ma’am, that firearm is worth about $3800 retail. I wouldn’t take less than $3200 for it.”

“I sure do hope you’re right, Mister,” she replied with frustration. “I’m running out of time. I’ve got two kids at home freaking out because they’re about to turn off our electricity, and there isn’t any milk in the fridge.”

Dusty was a little taken aback by her hostility
, and it must have shown on his face. “I’m sorry,” she continued, this time softer. “Things haven’t been going well as of late. I know you were just trying to help, and I appreciate that. I was ready to take his first offer out of desperation.”

She held out her hand and said, “
Penny Royce.”

Dusty accepted the handshake and replied, “Andy Booker,” using the name on his fake passport. He smiled and then added, “But people call me Dusty.
Where are you going now?”

“There’s another pawnshop. Armed with my new knowledge, I’m going to go there and see what I can get. I hope it’s at least two grand, because I don’t have time to shop around.”

“Are there any gun stores in town? They should give you a fair price for a weapon like that.”

“Yes. I went there yesterday, and they only sell used guns on consignment. They wouldn’t tell me how much it was worth… acted like they were annoyed at the dumb woman bringing in the gun and asking questions.”

Dusty scratched his chin for a moment. “I know you don’t know me, but if you want me to go with you, I’ll get you the best deal possible.”

“What’s
your story?” she asked, “I’ve lived around here for quite a while and have never seen you before.”

“I’m passing through, taking some time off. My wife recently divorced me
, and her lawyers have bled me dry. Those vampires still think I have some cash stashed away and have hounded me for the last three months. I had enough of it and just headed out. There wasn’t anything left back home anyway,” he lied. “Besides, I’d hate to see you get ripped off. I know how it is to be tight on money.”

She started to reject the offer outright, but then
hesitated. She looked Dusty up and down and made her decision. “You did help me out in there,” she said, nodding toward the pawnshop. “These guys see a woman coming in and think they can take advantage of her every time. I guess it would help to have a man along. I mean, what else could go wrong today? If you’re an axe murderer, could you please make it quick?”

Dusty laughed, shaking his head.
“Okay. Err… I mean, no, I’m not an axe murderer.”

“That’s what they all say. Hop in the back of the truck. It’s really not that far.”

Dusty walked to the tailgate of an old pickup and started to climb in. She watched him carefully and then changed her mind. “You might as well ride in the cab. I just wanted to see if you would really ride back there.”