Shell Game – Chapter 30 – Pawnbroker

Evan made a beeline for the flea market bazaar where he first encountered the pearl.

He grew in confidence that if Katherine possessed the pearl and if he could keep everyone’s eyes off Katherine, there was a chance that everything could work out. One question that he couldn’t get out of his head was if Lillian had stayed in her pearl-like state the whole time she’d been in Athens and possibly Colorado, how had she made it to the flea market? It didn’t seem like Jason Charles, Harold Huber, or Claire Porter would have been so careless to put it out of their sight. Still, that’s what happened, and there was only one thing to get to the bottom of it, and he figured the woman who sold it to him might be able to fill in some blanks.

Evan turned the corner to head up Commercial, and there was the market with its collection of small stands filled with beautifully eclectic junk. Evan walked with purpose up one row and down the next until he had canvased the whole lot. He recognized most things; the woman selling rare coins, the immigrant family displaying handmade pottery, the farmer who offered his meager vegetables and jerky. Every few feet was a new booth and a new adventure. He pressed on, resisting his urge to peruse and marvel. He told himself there would be time and perhaps money enough for treasure hunting if he could put this case to bed. However, if he didn’t, and some great disaster happened to him or Athens, there would never be a need.

He came upon a booth guarded by a plump woman who drew caricatures for a quarter. She was dressed in her Sunday best and sat still on her wooden folding chair, dozing a bit in the afternoon sun.

“Excuse, ma’am,” Evan smiled. The woman opened one suspicious eye to him. “I wondered if you could help me. I think I’m turned around.” The woman sat up and rubbed her meaty palms on the thighs of her dress. She pressed creases into the delicate, charcoal-smudged fabric. “I was here the other day,” Evan continued, “I bought a handful of necklaces and trinkets from a woman near this location, I think, and now I can’t find her. I wondered if you could help me out?”

The woman eyed Evan for a moment longer. Long enough, Evan thought, that she might not ever answer. Then, in a thick accent, German, Evan thought, she asked him what the woman looked like and what kind of goods she sold. After five or so more questions, the artist said that the woman Evan wanted was the wife of a pawnbroker. She said there was a shop over on East Street, and they only sold at the market when they had a surplus and were not a part of the regular sellers at the bazaar. Evan tipped his hat to the woman and thanked her as he aimed his body in the direction of East Street.

The bell on the door jangled as Evan entered the pawnshop. A man behind the counter read the paper and looked up to see his potential customer. Evan was relieved to see the woman he remembered engrossed with a notepad near some shelves taking inventory.

“Selling or buying?” the man grunted.

“Neither,” Evan said.

The pawnbroker stared at Evan.

“I was at your booth at the flea market the other day, and I wanted to ask you some questions about what I purchased.”
“No refunds,” the man growled, closing his newspaper and raising his torso to its full height. “I don’t check the stuff before I sell it. If it’s worthless, that’s the way it goes. You want guarantees? Go find a legitimate seller.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” Evan set his hat on the counter. “I just wanted to know a little bit about what I bought. Sometimes things come with a story that increases the value, so to speak.”

The man looked hard into Evan’s face before replying, “Go on.”

“Well,” Evan began, “I was wondering, how did you get the stuff to begin with?”

“Depends,” the man said. “Depends on what you got.”

“Just a pile of necklaces and the like.”

“You said this was when?”

“Two days ago,” Evan said.

“Right. Two days ago,” the man rubbed the stubble on his cheeks with both palms. He looked back at his wife before addressing Evan. “Well, how it works is, you get in a bad way and need some quick cash, see? You find something to sell. I ask you no questions about how you got it. Don’t ask for no stories. I take it from you and offer you a price. You can take the money and run, or you can have me hold onto it, and maybe you get enough money to buy it back from me. But probably don’t. So, in most cases, it becomes my property to do with what I like. I don’t like to keep things on hand, so I sell them here or at certain local bazaars and flea markets. How’s that? Enough of a story for you?”

“I assume you keep records of who gives you the merchandise?” Evan asked.

“Sure,” the man said slowly.

“Could I look in your books? There’s a name I’m looking for.”

“You a cop?” the pawnbroker asked.

Evan shook his head.

“Taxman?”

“No,” Evan said, “just trying to track down something for a friend.”

The pawnbroker looked long and hard at Evan before saying, “When was it you said you bought this stuff?”

“Two days ago.”

The man looked back at his wife. She nodded at him. The pawnbroker brought out a ledger book under the counter and dropped it in front of Evan.

“Let’s see,” the man began as he ran his finger down one page, stopped at a number, and then flipped back several pages to another record. The man tapped an entry, nodded his head, and clucked his tongue before looking up at Evan.
“You see so much stuff like that these days,” he said, “but I think I remember the man who sold those items to me. He was strange. Acted very, shall we say, nervous. Like someone was after him. I make it a policy not to ask questions, see? I mean, I don’t want to be selling stolen items, but who’s going to tell me that’s what they’re doing, am I right? I can always deny what I don’t know.

“This guy, he would’ve come in sometime last week if I’m remembering the right guy. Didn’t want a claim ticket. Just the cash.” The man wiped his hands together in a crisscross motion that said the deal was finished. Then, the pawnbroker spun the book around so Evan could read it and ran his bony finger down the rows of names and transactions before stopping about two-thirds down.

“Here it is,” he said.

In both print and signature, Evan read the name of Jason Charles.

“Jason Charles,” the pawnbroker said to himself, “I’ve heard that name before. Where have I heard that name before?” It was both a question for his mind to ponder and for Evan to answer.

“He was one of the fellows murdered the other night.”

“I thought you weren’t a cop.”

“I’m not,” Evan said. “I’m working for a friend trying to tie up the details of Mr. Charles’ affairs.”

“You don’t think…” the man stammered and unconsciously backed away from the book as if the ghost of Jason Charles pointed an accusing finger at him.

“No,” said Evan. “The police have enough other evidence not to implicate this place or you. Unless you’re the one pulled the trigger,” Evan said with a wry grin.

The man looked ashen. “No. I never touch a gun… but…”

“But what?” Evan asked.

“I followed him,” the woman said, stepping up to the counter as if drawn in by an invisible force.

“Why did you do that?”

The pawnbroker’s wife closed her eyes for a moment before saying, “It was strange. The whole thing. I couldn’t leave it alone. You bought the merchandise, I remember you clear enough, and then you talked with this man,” the wife tapped Charles’ entry in the book. “This Charles fellow. Never had a customer do what he did; something about him was up to no good. It got my curiosity up, you might say, with him showing up again and so frantic for the stuff. He was so sure he wanted to get rid of the items, so why did he want them back? As I said, it was strange. So, I followed him around after you two split up. Probably seen too many of those cloak-and-dagger flicks for my own good. That’s what he says,” she hooked her thumb to her husband. “Just saw that Manchurian Candidate one. That Sinatra can really act.”

Her husband cleared his throat, and so she continued, “Anyway, you know how imagination can take you places. I thought something underhanded might be going on.” Then the man leaned in and whispered to Evan, “You know, the Reds are everywhere.”

Evan nodded and looked over to the wife. “You followed him? What did you see?” Evan asked.

The woman shook her head.

“She didn’t see nothing,” her husband said, standing defiantly. “Nothing at all. At least that’s what we’ll tell the police if they come by here. But off the record,” he lowered his voice, “she said she saw him meet up with a young woman. They argued. Probably just a lover’s spat. You know how it is. Maybe the items were hers, and she wanted them back. Who knows?”

“I got bored of all the sneaking around at some point and came home,” the woman ended.

“What time was that?”

The woman blew out a long breath and tried to remember. “Midnight, maybe?”

Staring at Charles’ scrawl, the pawnbroker shivered. “To think my wife might be one of the last people to see that man alive.”

Evan was pretty sure the murderer was the last one to see him alive. He ran back through what he remembered of that night. Charles possibly came by twice to the agency office before meeting his fate. So far, her timeline checked out. But who was the spat with?

“Did you see anyone else with him?” Evan asked the pawnbroker’s wife. Again, she gave a curt shake of the head.

“She didn’t see nothing,” the pawnbroker said.

“And you don’t know why he wanted to purchase the items back?”

“Nope,” the woman said. “He sold them over to us fair and square.”

The smile across Evan’s face confused the pawnbroker. Evan could see he was about to start being the subject of questions himself, and instead of overstaying his welcome, he thanked the pawnbrokers for their time and help before hurrying out the door.