Dead Silver

25

Bill Latray, proprietor of Bill's Bail Bonds (Got Jail Trouble? Help on the Double! Call 445-BILL), also operated a pawnshop out of the same storefront-a convenient accomodation for clients who couldn't raise the cash for a bond, but could lay hands on something valuable. Bill would acquire items for a fraction of their worth-nominally, he took them in hock, but very few were ever reclaimed-and resell them at a tidy profit. He was known for never asking where the merchandise came from. By his lights, that wasn't his concern.

Guns, jewelry, guns, musical instruments, and guns were his top moneymakers. But power tools in good condition were also welcome, and ours were on display when Madbird and I arrived at his shop. They weren't supposed to be on sale for the duration of the pawn ticket, another twenty-nine days, but Bill was also known for being flexible about that sort of thing. At least we'd gotten there before somebody beat us to it.

Bill was tending the glassed-in counter, where he kept pistols, rings, and other expensive items that might be easily pocketed. A rack of rifles and shotguns lined the wall behind him. At the room's far end, there was a small office where he ran his bail business. The rest of the space was filled with tables of used merchandise. Everything reeked with the smoke of the rum-soaked Crook cigars he favored and his brand of cologne, which would have broken up a riot faster than tear gas.

"How's it going?" he said, lumbering over to give us hearty handshakes. He was mostly Indian, built like an oil barrel on a pair of tree trunks, with a scarred, pitted face and a stare that made you want to shrivel down into your socks. In his younger days, he'd been the kind of barfighter that the toughest guys would take care to avoid-even now when he walked into a place, things tended to get noticeably quieter-and he'd done a couple years in Deer Lodge for assault. He even made Madbird nervous.

But he'd become my new best friend several months ago, when I'd done a little business with him. Since then, the situation had been somewhat like with Gary Varna. Bill made a point of being genial because he expected that one of these days, I was going to be in the market for another, much more expensive, bail bond, and he had his eye on my property as collateral.

"You guys looking for firepower?" he said. "I just got in a real sweet Glock forty-caliber. Just one owner, he hardly used it, and he ain't gonna be needing it again."

"Actually, Bill, the reason we're here-it's a little delicate," I said, and pointed at the tools. "A guy named Artie, you probably know him-he sold you those yesterday?"

Bill hesitated a beat, no doubt already seeing where this was going.

"Yeah?"

"They weren't exactly his to sell."

"Now, ain't that a bitch." He took a pack of Crooks from his shirt pocket, shook one loose, lit it in his thick cupped hands with an inhalation like an elephant sucking water into its trunk, and blew out a cloud of smoke that visibly darkened the room.

"Well, if I'd known it was you guys, I'd of kicked his ass and called you," he said. "But the way it is, I'm a businessman and I got an investment to protect. Plus handling, shelf space, all that."

"What'd you give for them?" Madbird said.

"Hunnert and forty," Bill said, with a touch of pride. I winced. Replacement value would be close to two grand, and he could sell them for at least half that.

"How about we cash you out and call it even?" Madbird said. "That way, you ain't lost anything."

"Yeah, but I ain't made anything, either."

"Come on, Bill, those tools are our living," I said. "We can't afford new ones, or even to buy them back from you."

He gazed thoughtfully out the window.

"What the fuck," he finally said. "Call it seventy, we'll split it. Just remember, Bill LaTray gave you a break."

We assured him we'd never forget, dug the seventy bucks out of our wallets, and schlepped the tools out to my truck. A chunk of cash and half a morning pissed away recovering our own property, but we felt like we'd won the lottery.

As Madbird and I drove away, I confessed my disloyal intentions.

"Let's get some lunch, but I might skip out on the job while Renee's here."

"You know, I wouldn't mind a couple days away from Split Rock myself," he said. "I ain't exactly Mr. Popularity out there right now."