Authentic pirate collection. Rare papers. Anne Bonny. Priceless. Historical. Yadda yadda yadda.
I was about to quit when I caught it.
“ Oh .”
“Oh is right,” Shelton said. “Think maybe we should check that out?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
A rectangular border surrounded the ad, each corner embellished with a corny illustration. Skull and crossbones. Dagger. Treasure chest. Standard stuff.
Except for the image in the lower right.
That corner was decorated with a cross. Tall and thin, ringed, and oddly shaped, with the upper tine curving to the right.
“Where have we seen that before?” Shelton crowed.
Our high five echoed far out over the water.
CHAPTER 18
“H ow do we get there?” Hi wiped perspiration from his brow.
We were on the blacktop behind our townhomes. The sun was already beating down, the morning a scorcher.
Shelton was entering the pawnshop’s address into his cell phone’s GPS program. He wore a white polo and beige cargo shorts. Silent as usual, Ben stood beside him in his black tee and jeans. The heat never seemed to touch him.
“Ben will drive,” I said.
“I will?”
“We’ll take Kit’s car. He’s at work.”
“Kit said we could take his 4Runner?” Shelton sounded skeptical.
“He never said we couldn’t. That gives me a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“How do you figure?” Hi asked.
“If Kit gets mad, I’ll play dumb and apologize. He’ll let it go the first time.”
“I’m not stealing your dad’s car.” Ben was firm. “Call him.”
“Trust me, he’ll never know.” I checked my watch. “We have six hours to get there and back. We could make five round trips!”
Time for an ego tweaking. “You can drive, right?”
“Of course I can!” Last month, with everyone grounded, Ben had finally gotten a driver’s license. “That’s not the point.”
“There’s no other way,” Shelton said. “We can’t sail to North Charleston.”
Ben said nothing.
“Come on!” Sweat rings had formed around the pits of Hi’s sky-blue Hawaiian shirt. “We’re standing in the hottest spot on planet Earth. Let’s just go!”
“Fine. Everyone wears seatbelts. No radio. No distractions.” Ben shot Hi a stern look. “No running commentary.”
“Your loss,” Hi said. “To the pimp ride!”
Five minutes later, we were cruising the unmarked, one-lane blacktop that connects Morris to Folly Island. After passing through Folly Beach, we picked up State Highway 171 and cut north toward James Island.
I’d cranked the AC to maximum for Hi’s benefit, but I was only wearing a tank top, shorts, and sandals. The arctic blast immediately covered me in goose bumps.
Honoring Ben’s request, we rode in silence. It was strange for us, traveling alone by car. A first for the Virals. Outside, Lowcountry marshland slipped by on both sides. Here and there an egret or crane rose from the still water on long stick legs.
Turning right on the James Island Expressway, Ben crossed to the downtown peninsula and continued on Calhoun Street. A right on King took us north, away from the touristy, historic districts we usually frequented.
We drove past the Cooper River Bridge, a dividing line between blue blood and blue collar. A few miles farther and we crossed into North Charleston.
Myers is a tough district, filled with seedy houses, cheap high-rise apartments, liquor stores, and pawnshops. It’s one of the poorest locales in America—few residents finish high school, and even fewer attend college. Crime is common and frequently violent.
Those lucky enough to have jobs are mostly factory workers or day laborers. The homeless and unemployed gather on street corners, shooting up and drinking to escape the reality of their lives.
Myers was not a neighborhood to visit on a lark.
Hi reached over and hit the door locks.
“Next right,” Shelton said. Then, “There, on the left. Bates Pawn-and-Trade.”
“Are we one hundred percent sure about exiting the vehicle?” Hi’s
I was about to quit when I caught it.
“ Oh .”
“Oh is right,” Shelton said. “Think maybe we should check that out?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
A rectangular border surrounded the ad, each corner embellished with a corny illustration. Skull and crossbones. Dagger. Treasure chest. Standard stuff.
Except for the image in the lower right.
That corner was decorated with a cross. Tall and thin, ringed, and oddly shaped, with the upper tine curving to the right.
“Where have we seen that before?” Shelton crowed.
Our high five echoed far out over the water.
CHAPTER 18
“H ow do we get there?” Hi wiped perspiration from his brow.
We were on the blacktop behind our townhomes. The sun was already beating down, the morning a scorcher.
Shelton was entering the pawnshop’s address into his cell phone’s GPS program. He wore a white polo and beige cargo shorts. Silent as usual, Ben stood beside him in his black tee and jeans. The heat never seemed to touch him.
“Ben will drive,” I said.
“I will?”
“We’ll take Kit’s car. He’s at work.”
“Kit said we could take his 4Runner?” Shelton sounded skeptical.
“He never said we couldn’t. That gives me a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“How do you figure?” Hi asked.
“If Kit gets mad, I’ll play dumb and apologize. He’ll let it go the first time.”
“I’m not stealing your dad’s car.” Ben was firm. “Call him.”
“Trust me, he’ll never know.” I checked my watch. “We have six hours to get there and back. We could make five round trips!”
Time for an ego tweaking. “You can drive, right?”
“Of course I can!” Last month, with everyone grounded, Ben had finally gotten a driver’s license. “That’s not the point.”
“There’s no other way,” Shelton said. “We can’t sail to North Charleston.”
Ben said nothing.
“Come on!” Sweat rings had formed around the pits of Hi’s sky-blue Hawaiian shirt. “We’re standing in the hottest spot on planet Earth. Let’s just go!”
“Fine. Everyone wears seatbelts. No radio. No distractions.” Ben shot Hi a stern look. “No running commentary.”
“Your loss,” Hi said. “To the pimp ride!”
Five minutes later, we were cruising the unmarked, one-lane blacktop that connects Morris to Folly Island. After passing through Folly Beach, we picked up State Highway 171 and cut north toward James Island.
I’d cranked the AC to maximum for Hi’s benefit, but I was only wearing a tank top, shorts, and sandals. The arctic blast immediately covered me in goose bumps.
Honoring Ben’s request, we rode in silence. It was strange for us, traveling alone by car. A first for the Virals. Outside, Lowcountry marshland slipped by on both sides. Here and there an egret or crane rose from the still water on long stick legs.
Turning right on the James Island Expressway, Ben crossed to the downtown peninsula and continued on Calhoun Street. A right on King took us north, away from the touristy, historic districts we usually frequented.
We drove past the Cooper River Bridge, a dividing line between blue blood and blue collar. A few miles farther and we crossed into North Charleston.
Myers is a tough district, filled with seedy houses, cheap high-rise apartments, liquor stores, and pawnshops. It’s one of the poorest locales in America—few residents finish high school, and even fewer attend college. Crime is common and frequently violent.
Those lucky enough to have jobs are mostly factory workers or day laborers. The homeless and unemployed gather on street corners, shooting up and drinking to escape the reality of their lives.
Myers was not a neighborhood to visit on a lark.
Hi reached over and hit the door locks.
“Next right,” Shelton said. Then, “There, on the left. Bates Pawn-and-Trade.”
“Are we one hundred percent sure about exiting the vehicle?” Hi’s
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