The Pawnbroker (11 page)

Here in the US, Gordon might end up in jail for what was likely to happen. He was small, so men of all ages usually thought they could take him. Unfortunately for them, Gordon wasn't only the better fighter, he thrived on the exercise.

Charlie walked to the lobby door, entered a small foyer smelling of cigarette smoke and Pine-Sol. There were mailboxes along the wall to his left, and on the right, a large, pastel watercolor of the Sandia Mountains. Ahead, also on the right, was a door labeled “Manager.” There was a small window in the center and as he approached, Charlie saw a red-haired woman sitting at a desk inside. He knocked lightly as he stepped into the office.

“Hi there, I'm Ruby, the assistant manager. How may I help you, sir?” The woman, in her early twenties with a generous bust in a V-necked green sweater, placed her cell phone on the desk and stood to face him. Her voice was low and sexy, and she was attractive enough, even with too much makeup and scary fire-engine-red hair. The diamond in the nose, though, was a turnoff, at least to a guy who wasn't into face jewelry. Not that it was going to be an issue. He hadn't had much luck with women lately anyway.

“Hello, Ruby. I'm Charlie, and I'm looking for a guy I met a couple of months ago at Sliders—that bar on North Fourth. Eddie, Eddie Henderson, I think, was his last name. Blond hair, longer than mine, broad face, but slender. Had blue eyes. He was thinking about having the interior of his gold Mustang redone, and I was supposed to call him, but I lost his number. I was passing by, then remembered him saying something about living at the Premier Apartments. Could you tell me what apartment is his? Or maybe I could just leave a note in his mailbox with my number.”

Charlie brought out his business card, but kept his thumb over the Three Balls name.

Ruby didn't seem to notice. “Sounds like our Eddie. Unfortunately he's moved on. Came into some money and left about four months ago. No forwarding address. He did some business with some of the guys around here—I never asked what—so maybe one of them knows how to reach him. I remember he said something about wanting to find a place with better WiFi.”

“Guys? Like the crew with matching tats hanging outside?”

“Hey, don't disrespect my friends. Word gets around and you're gonna get a beat down.”

“Sorry, don't want to get on the bad side of a gang. What kind of business did you say they have with Eddie?”

“I didn't say, and I don't want to know. Are we done here, Charlie?” Ruby said, crossing her arms over her chest, which had the opposite effect of intimidation, if that was her goal.

Still, it was clearly time to leave. “Well, thanks for your time, anyway. Gotta go. Bye.”

She'd already turned her attention back to her cell phone by the time he reached the door.

Charlie walked out to the parking lot. Gordon was leaning against the side of his pickup, cracking open roasted piñon nuts with his teeth, spitting out the hulls. The parking lot was empty.

“Where's our fan club?”

“They remembered a previous appointment.” Gordon pointed with his chin toward a splatter of blood on the pavement. It was now starting to cake in the noonday sun. “Watch your step.”

“The assistant manager was there, and, unlike her boss, she remembers Eddie. Four months ago he moved out, no forwarding address. Lady said he'd come into some money and was looking for place with better WiFi.”

Gordon blinked. “Four months? That's after Baza started to let his business go to hell, but before the bank closed him down.”

“So it's possible Eddie
had
come into the shop and interacted with Baza. Also, the assistant manager said Eddie had dealing with the gang members out here.”

“Dealings? Like drugs, break-ins, car thefts, guns?”

“She said she not only didn't know—she didn't want to know.”

“That's interesting. Maybe Eddie was selling guns for Baza—to the gangs. That would explain why there were no guns in the shop when we took over. And what if Baza screwed him on a deal?” Gordon offered. “Guess that
was
Eddie yesterday, talking to the shooters in that van.”

“Looks like. But there's gotta be more to it than just getting even. We've got to find Eddie. If he really came into money, you think he still operates a forklift at GA Foods? Maybe I should give them a call before we go over. The warehouse is close to Central Avenue, a half hour from here this time of day,” Charlie added.

“Do it. I'm hungry for a combo dish at El Pinto and a cold Dos Equis. If I recall, it's on the way.”

“‘On the way' if you make a ten-mile diversion north.”

“Work with me, Chuck.”

They'd gone a mile, still winding through the eighties-era housing developments full of culs-de-sac and dead ends, when Charlie put away his phone. “Edward Henderson never worked there, and there's no Tim Gallegos. But Eddie got enough attention to be remembered, including his description, which fits our guy. Eddie came by the warehouse a few months ago asking about one of their two women employees, a lady named Ruth. He got real upset when they wouldn't let him speak to her. They had to call a security guard to walk him off the property.”

“That it?” Gordon asked.

“There's more. Eddie came back later at the change of shift and confronted two women in the parking lot. According to the guy I just spoke to, Eddie was pissed that neither of them were the Ruth he was looking for. He split when the women started yelling for the security guard.”

“Is that all?”

“That night, one of the vehicles in the employee parking lot got its windshield smashed.”

“The security guard who'd manhandled Eddie?” Gordon said.

“Exactly, but the outside cameras weren't able to ID the vandal. Wonder if he was looking for the same Ruth who worked for Baza?”

“Yeah, who else? Too much of a coincidence,” Gordon replied. “Her name keeps coming up. I wonder how Ruth figures into all this?” he added.

“When we finally get a look at these personnel files, maybe we can get an address on her, or at least a lead. Let's check into this—after lunch. For now, punch in the address of El Pinto on the GPS and get us out of this suburban maze.”

Another minute went by, then Charlie spoke again. “What happened to your sense of direction, Gordo? You can't miss the mountains. That's east. We need to go that way, bro.” He pointed toward the Sandia Mountains.

Gordon grinned. “I've been dicking around, hoping those two cars following us will finally catch up.”

Charlie glanced into the side mirror and saw the cars that had been outside Eddie's former crib. “Find a dead-end street. I'm pissed off anyway. Gina's in the hospital, my Charger's on life support, and I had to shoot a guy I don't even know. I could use a good hand-to-face workout to take off the edge.”

“I was hoping you'd say that. But please don't let them goad you into a firefight, Charles. We're running low on guns back at the shop. And let's not get arrested, okay? We could lose our pawnbroker's license.”

Gordon drove around the neighborhood, pretending to be lost, until he found a dead-end street. He turned down the narrow road, almost an alley, that led to a drainage canal on the flood-prone West Mesa. He stopped about fifty feet from two posts blocking the road, which tapered down steeply into a concrete-lined drainage channel.

Both late-model import sedans, one the black Acura they'd seen before, the other a gold Subaru, closed in, blocking their exit. The bump-bump of heavy bass from their massive speakers shook the ground.

Gordon looked over at Charlie. “They've got us trapped, the poor bastards.”

The rap tunes suddenly went silent.

Charlie and Gordon climbed out of the pickup at the same time and walked back toward the tailgate just as four, five, then a total of seven young men in their late teens to early twenties piled out of the two vehicles.

“Mommy!” a girl probably no more than five yelled from her plastic playhouse on the lawn of a nearby house. She stood there, pointing toward the cars for about five seconds. A heavyset young woman opened a patio door, ran out and took her daughter inside, never taking a cell phone away from her ear. Charlie knew she'd be calling the cops next.

“No guns, knives, or shit like that,” Charlie yelled to the advancing gangbangers, stopping at the tailgate and pulling out his pistol, setting it in the bed of the truck. “No innocent civilians get hurt today. Just you and your crew.”

“Fuck that. And what is this civilian crap, Indian? You ain't no cops, and if you're military, no wonder we've been fighting a war for ten years. You gotta be major stoopid, fucking with Eddie then wanting to throw blows with my crew. Your friend got lucky before, but now you're gonna pay, both of you.”

The young man with bleached-blond hair wasn't much taller than Gordon. He turned his back on them and said something to the others.

At least a dozen pistols, knives, and toys of violence were placed on the hoods of their cars.

“Looks like Baza and Eddie sold them all kinds of firepower. Cocky bunch, laying all that aside to try and take us on up close. Look who's stoopid,” Gordon said to Charlie. “At least now you get to hand out some payback to these guys bad-mouthing Indians,” Gordon said, placing his own pistol on the truck bed.

“And you're part of the tribe, Gordo.” He turned to the seven guys standing there, fists clenched. “Last man standing,” he said, loud enough for them all to hear. “Then we're out of here before the law arrives.”

“Whatever, asshole. Bring it on.”

Charlie walked just a few steps ahead of Gordon as they approached, knowing his partner would be the first target. One of the gangsters in front of the pack had a nasty welt on his forehead, and he hadn't taken his eyes off Gordon since stepping out of his car.

“They'll go for you first, en masse, not Chuck Norris ‘take turns' style.”

Gordon nodded. “I'll probably get at least four. We going back-to-back with a sweep?”

“Just like last time,” Charlie said, noting the group, each one with a black-dog tat on their right forearm, was closing in and spreading out. “Custer's Last Stand,” he added in a whisper.

“Except we're the Indians,” Gordon said, chuckling.

Charlie watched their eyes, anticipating a signal from their leader. Gordon would be doing the same.

They were about ten feet away when the bleached-blond leader, who'd been watching Gordon, looked at Charlie, then lunged, arm cocked, ready to punch. Charlie, having assumed a fighting stance, kicked up and across with his right foot. His heavy boot struck home, thumping the guy in the side of his knee. The man yelled, stumbling into the path of another attacker. Charlie, who was turning left, now had his right side to a third assailant, whose roundhouse caught air. Charlie countered with a right counterpunch aimed downward. He struck the onrushing man in the groin, which doubled him over.

Gordo had caught the closest attacker, who'd brushed past Charlie, with a rear, straight kick. He'd launched his left foot, turning right as he made contact with the gut of the attacker. His arms were up, blocking a jab from another guy who'd been forced to shift left to avoid the kick.

Gordon, also a student of Krav Maga, caught Charlie's reject in the face with a horizontal elbow strike. Blood flew from his attacker's mouth as he went down. Five attackers remained, but Charlie quickly sent another one onto his back with a shuffle front-leg kick to the chest.

That put Charlie out of position, and one of the remaining fighters came at Gordon's back. Gordon turned to look, at the same time spinning around, using his weight and power to catch the guy with the bottom of his closed fist, a backhand hammer blow.

The attacker partially blocked the strike with his forearm, but the power of the hit must have cracked a bone. The man twisted away, his arm frozen in place as he howled in pain.

Three gang members were left now. Instinctively, they backed off, side by side in a defensive position.

The guy on the left, almost as small as Gordon, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a switchblade, clicking it open. He waved it back and forth, clearly terrified. His friends sidestepped, giving him plenty of room.

“Take a step and I'm going to cut you both,” he said, licking his lips. His voice was shaky.

Two of the guys on the ground, still grimacing in pain, started to get up. Charlie brought out his own four-inch lockback, flipping open the blade with a sweep of his wrist. “Stay down, boys, and I won't get any of your pal's blood on your slacks.”

Gordon did a little loosening-up hop on his toes, then stretched out his arms, pretending to yawn. “I'll take away Shorty's knife,” he said, then grinned. “Left mine in the truck.”

The blond guy with the bad knee, the leader, struggled to stand, holding his damaged joint. “Enough. You guys know we mean business now. We can respect each other.”

In the distance, Charlie could hear the sound of more than one siren. “So, where's Eddie? He owes us a call. We'll keep coming back 'til we connect with him.”

“If you're looking for guns, forget it. I hear his source dried up. But he's hiring right now, and he pays well, so I'll tell him you're looking for him. Just leave us out of it. We're done with you.” The man nodded to his crew, who began to hobble toward their cars.

Charlie wished he had more time to push for answers, but the sirens were getting louder. Involving the police wouldn't help right now and the gangsters would clam up anyway.

“He knows how to reach us,” Charlie said. “Better clear out while you still can.”

The guy nodded, then turned and limped away. “Get a move on, assholes,” he yelled at the others, who were still collecting their weapons.

“Grab our stuff while I watch our backs,” Charlie said.