The Wreckage

5

The pawnshop is on Whitechapel High Street, squeezed between a Burger King and a clothing emporium that has “ladies, gents amp; children’s fashion wear” spilling from bins and racks. Bernie Levinson’s office is on the first floor, accessible via a rickety set of metal stairs at the rear of the building that are held in place by a handful of rusting bolts.

In the basement there is a clothing factory where thirty-five workers, most of them illegal, sit crouched over sewing machines that operate day and night. Two shifts of twelve hours, Bangladeshi and Indian women earning three quid an hour. It’s another of Bernie’s business ventures.

A dozen people are waiting on the stairs to see Bernie, mostly junkies and crackheads. They’re carrying a selection of car stereos, DVD players, laptops and GPS navigators-none of them in boxes or with instruction manuals. Holly Knight waits her turn, clutching her shoulder bag on her lap.

Bernie sits behind a big desk next to an air-conditioning unit that takes up most of the window. A goldfish bowl rests on the corner of his desk, magnifying a lone fish that barely seems to move. Bernie is a short man with a doughy body, who favors baggy trousers and candy-colored shirts.

“Do a twirl,” he tells Holly. “Show me what you’re wearing, such a pretty bint. My daughter is the size of a cow. Takes after her mother. Bovine family. Built to pull ploughs.”

Holly ignores him and opens her shoulder bag, placing the contents on his desk. She has a passport, three credit cards, a mobile phone, a digital camera, four collector’s edition gold coins and some sort of medal in a case.

“What’s this?” asks Bernie, flipping open the box.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s only a police fucking bravery medal!”

“So?”

“You turned over a copper, you daft cow.”

“He said he was retired.”

“Yeah, but he’s going to have friends, isn’t he? Colleagues. Old Bill.” Bernie is waving his hands at her. Wobbling his chins. “I don’t want any of this stuff. Get it out of here.”

Resting her hip on the desk, Holly leans closer, letting the front of her blouse casually gape open.

“Come on, Bernie, we look after each other. What about that gear I brought you the other day?” She points to a dark leather briefcase sitting on top of his filing cabinet. “That’s top quality.”

She and Zac had turned over a suit in Barnes and scored the briefcase, a laptop, two mobiles, passports and jewelry.

Bernie grunts dismissively. “You’re getting sloppy. Taking too many risks.”

“It won’t happen again… I promise, but I’m really short this week. My landlord is going to give me grief.”

Bernie hesitates. Contemplates. The pawnbroker is not a soft touch. He thinks the only true sin is to surrender. He lost most of his family in the ghettos of Warsaw and at Treblinka. They meekly surrendered and were led away, a fact that Bernie despises. That’s one of the reasons he keeps a pistol in his top drawer, a shotgun downstairs and a bodyguard in the next room. Whatever happens, he’s not going to simply disappear.

Glancing at Holly’s cleavage, Bernie wets his bottom lip. “How much you short?”

“Eighty quid.”

“And what does Uncle Bernie get?”

Holly thinks, if Zac were here he’d reach across the table and squeeze your head until your eyes pop out. But she needs the money and she’d rather owe Bernie than Floyd, who charges interest with a silver knuckleduster.

Holly walks to the door and locks it. Then she pushes back Bernie’s leather chair and sits astride him, her knees on either side of his thighs, grinding her pubic bone into his groin. Her hand slides down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt so her fingers can slide across his chest.

Leaning forward she whispers something into his ear. Then she straightens and slowly undoes the buttons on her blouse, opening it a few inches. She’s wearing a black lace bra. Bernie takes a wheezing breath, lust painted all over his face.

Motioning to the cashbox, Holly waits while Bernie fumbles with the key. She takes four twenties and slips the notes into her shoulder bag. Bernie begins to unbuckle his trousers but Holly starts moving again, bumping and grinding. She increases the pressure, whispering in his ear, letting her tongue trace the outline of his earlobe. He tries to stop her, to lift her off, but Holly keeps moving.

Bernie groans. “No, no, nooooo…!”

His eyes roll back into his head and his molars grind together, shuddering.

Holly buttons her shirt and swings her body off his lap. The wet spot on his trousers is starting to spread.

“I want my money back,” he bleats.

Holly scoops the stolen goods into her bag and swings it onto her shoulder. Unlocking the door, she turns. “Here’s what I’ll do, Bernie, I’ll sign you up for membership of the Premature Ejaculation Society. They got a strict dress code. You got to come in your pants.”

She opens the door. Tommy Boyle, Bernie’s bodyguard, is outside. “Everything OK, boss?”

Bernie has a tissue in his hand. “Just shut the fucking door.”