Pawnbroker: A Thriller by Jerry Hatchett
Authors: Jerry Hatchett
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Conspiracies, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics, Technothrillers
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door. “You two mind the store. I’ll be back.”
Chapter 36
COURTYARD MARRIOTT, SUITE 135
MONTELLO, MISSISSIPPI
Ian Wainwright stood pole straight at the window, hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and weedy with a chalky complexion that bordered on cadaverous, contrasting sharply with his dark hair, which he wore slicked back with a gel that made it look perpetually wet. He stared out at the most pathetic excuse for a view he had seen in his fifty-three years: a bourgeois street in a bucolic town in a benighted state in a bastard country. It was as if the gods had retched, then deposited him right in the middle of their divine discharge. He smiled in admiration of his clever mix of alliteration and metaphor. He would most assuredly have to work that passage into the manuscript. Perhaps he could even work in an entire chapter from this miserable affair. Mayhap multiple chapters, everything from the clinical trials to the clichéd graveside ceremony, complete with an off-key group wailing of “Rock of Ages.” Yes. Perchance something useful could indeed be harvested from this most tawdry of life experiences.
“Please kill that whining pussy,” he heard the bumpkin say to the lummox. How very crass.
Wainwright glanced back over his shoulder. Docker stood, nodded his melon of a head, and left the room. Wainwright turned back to the window.
“The hell you looking at?” Ballard said.
“Simply admiring the lovely view, my good man,” Wainwright said, his British accent clipped and precise.
Ballard chuckled. “Yeah, that bait shop’s some kind of beautiful, huh?”
Wainwright wasn’t sure how to respond. The sheriff, simpleton or no, apparently had something of a penchant for brutality when offended, if the tales were to be believed.
Ballard stood, walked to the window, and stood beside Wainwright. “This whole place is a pus-filled boil on the ass of the world.”
Wainwright cocked his head, then slowly cracked a yellowed smile. “Indeed?”
Chapter 37
Doc always reminded me of Doc Brown in Back to the Future—his mannerisms, his hair, that crazy wild-eyed look—and this was a perfect example. He had on his white lab coat and spun around with a goofy, shocked look on his face when I posed my question: “When Milton brought the body to you, was it naked?”
“No, but how was I supposed to dissect him without undressing him?”
“I’m not accusing you of necrophilia, Doc, just wondering if his clothes are here.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Are they here?”
He disappeared into the mess that was his office and returned shortly with a black garbage bag. I dumped it onto the floor. Shoes, socks, pants, shirt, overcoat, the latter two with dried blood stains that were flaking off in places. I rummaged through the pockets. They had already been emptied. No wallet. No keys. No money. Of course no gun. I started stuffing things back into the bag and on about the third downstroke, my hand brushed against something.
My breath caught as I pulled out the folded piece of thin yellow paper. A pawn ticket from my shop! Correction. A piece of a pawn ticket. Just the top part that had my shop name and address. Anything that could have identified a particular pawn transaction or item was gone.
Nonetheless, it did narrow our search somewhat. He was probably there to pick up a pawn. It wasn’t a robbery. I had shot a man in the head who wanted to pick up a pawn, a customer? Of course, there had been the fact that he had a gun on me. But would he have used it? In that instant, it dawned on me that I would never know the answer to that, that for the rest of my life I would wonder whether I had acted in self-defense. Or not.
“You all right, Gray?”
“No, Doc. I’m not.” I shoved the ticket scrap into my pocket and headed out.
A bank of summer storm clouds had blown in while I was inside, dropping the temperature from unbearable to miserable. Several big
Chapter 36
COURTYARD MARRIOTT, SUITE 135
MONTELLO, MISSISSIPPI
Ian Wainwright stood pole straight at the window, hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and weedy with a chalky complexion that bordered on cadaverous, contrasting sharply with his dark hair, which he wore slicked back with a gel that made it look perpetually wet. He stared out at the most pathetic excuse for a view he had seen in his fifty-three years: a bourgeois street in a bucolic town in a benighted state in a bastard country. It was as if the gods had retched, then deposited him right in the middle of their divine discharge. He smiled in admiration of his clever mix of alliteration and metaphor. He would most assuredly have to work that passage into the manuscript. Perhaps he could even work in an entire chapter from this miserable affair. Mayhap multiple chapters, everything from the clinical trials to the clichéd graveside ceremony, complete with an off-key group wailing of “Rock of Ages.” Yes. Perchance something useful could indeed be harvested from this most tawdry of life experiences.
“Please kill that whining pussy,” he heard the bumpkin say to the lummox. How very crass.
Wainwright glanced back over his shoulder. Docker stood, nodded his melon of a head, and left the room. Wainwright turned back to the window.
“The hell you looking at?” Ballard said.
“Simply admiring the lovely view, my good man,” Wainwright said, his British accent clipped and precise.
Ballard chuckled. “Yeah, that bait shop’s some kind of beautiful, huh?”
Wainwright wasn’t sure how to respond. The sheriff, simpleton or no, apparently had something of a penchant for brutality when offended, if the tales were to be believed.
Ballard stood, walked to the window, and stood beside Wainwright. “This whole place is a pus-filled boil on the ass of the world.”
Wainwright cocked his head, then slowly cracked a yellowed smile. “Indeed?”
Chapter 37
Doc always reminded me of Doc Brown in Back to the Future—his mannerisms, his hair, that crazy wild-eyed look—and this was a perfect example. He had on his white lab coat and spun around with a goofy, shocked look on his face when I posed my question: “When Milton brought the body to you, was it naked?”
“No, but how was I supposed to dissect him without undressing him?”
“I’m not accusing you of necrophilia, Doc, just wondering if his clothes are here.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Are they here?”
He disappeared into the mess that was his office and returned shortly with a black garbage bag. I dumped it onto the floor. Shoes, socks, pants, shirt, overcoat, the latter two with dried blood stains that were flaking off in places. I rummaged through the pockets. They had already been emptied. No wallet. No keys. No money. Of course no gun. I started stuffing things back into the bag and on about the third downstroke, my hand brushed against something.
My breath caught as I pulled out the folded piece of thin yellow paper. A pawn ticket from my shop! Correction. A piece of a pawn ticket. Just the top part that had my shop name and address. Anything that could have identified a particular pawn transaction or item was gone.
Nonetheless, it did narrow our search somewhat. He was probably there to pick up a pawn. It wasn’t a robbery. I had shot a man in the head who wanted to pick up a pawn, a customer? Of course, there had been the fact that he had a gun on me. But would he have used it? In that instant, it dawned on me that I would never know the answer to that, that for the rest of my life I would wonder whether I had acted in self-defense. Or not.
“You all right, Gray?”
“No, Doc. I’m not.” I shoved the ticket scrap into my pocket and headed out.
A bank of summer storm clouds had blown in while I was inside, dropping the temperature from unbearable to miserable. Several big
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