Upon A Pale Horse

EIGHT Legacy

“What do you mean, you lost him?” Thorn growled, his voice slightly distorted by the cell phone signal.

“He rounded the corner, and by the time I caught up he was gone. The car was paralleling him up a block, but couldn’t swing around in time.”

“Do you think he spotted you?”

“No. The guy’s a boy scout. I think it was just unlucky timing. Besides, based on what we heard at the girl’s apartment, he’s headed for his brother’s condo, so we can pick up the surveillance there. We’ve got it wired; we’ll know if he so much as farts. I just wish we could get the tracking going on his cell — this is doing it the hard way.”

Three seconds of silence went by, the emptiness on the line hanging heavily in the air.

“I’m working on it. Should be any minute. In the meantime, get over to the condo. And no more screw-ups. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. And if I can make a suggestion, until we have his phone live, let’s get a three-man team on him. Obviously two aren’t enough.”

“Whatever you need. I’ll make the call.”

The field operative switched the line off, slipped the cell back into his pocket, and glared at his partner, sitting to his left behind the wheel of the sedan they’d been assigned, stopped at a red light.

“Get over to the condo. We know he’s going there.”

“Crap. Traffic’s going to be a bitch headed that direction.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know. The big guy wasn’t happy, by the way.”

“No, I don’t expect he was. But as you pointed out, it’s not a catastrophe. We’ll pick him up on that end.”

“Besides which, we’re probably wasting our time. You heard him. He doesn’t sound like he knows anything.”

“Agreed. But that’s why we get paid the big bucks.”

“Remind me again when that starts?”

“Soon. Really soon.”

“Tell me the one about the three bears next.”

The light turned green and the car in front of them surged forward, the German import’s powerful engine catapulting it down the street like a heat-seeking missile. The driver stepped on the gas and their Dodge sedan lunged after it before the driver eased up with a grin.

“Wish they’d give us one of those high-roller-mobiles every now and then. Big Benz. Zero to sixty in, what, five something? This thing’s lucky to get out of its own way with a tailwind.”

The passenger murmured assent and reached over to stab the radio on, then settled back into his seat for another shift of waiting for the brother to do something besides go for walks and sleep.

“That’s it, over there. Pull into that space. I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” Jeffrey said, pointing to the glowing red sign over the display window, nothing but Chinese characters advertising the shop on a blue fabric awning that provided shade from the afternoon glare.

“It’s your money. But I gotta run the meter. You sure about this?” the taxi driver grumbled.

“Yeah. No problem. Like I said, it’ll be quick.”

The driver twisted the wheel and glided to a stop by the curb. “Suit yourself.”

They were in Chinatown, having pulled beneath an ornate entrance arch with three pagoda roofs that bridged the street as they made their way to the address on the pawn slip. The sidewalks teemed with pedestrians, a sea of black hair bobbing with the steps of the locals as they rushed to whatever destinations called to them. Jeffrey swung the door open and stepped out, narrowly missing colliding with a paunchy Asian man texting intently on his phone. The man grunted and threw him a dark glare and then continued with his errand, melting back into the crowd as Jeffrey got his bearings.

The shop was nothing special from the outside, televisions, stereos, and other treasures dust-covered in the window, and Jeffrey wondered what he was doing there as he ambled through the entryway. A chime sounded in the back as he made his way to the glass display case that held watches and rings and also served as the counter. An ancient gray-haired Chinese man who resembled nothing so much as a praying mantis with a Fu Manchu mustache emerged from the rear of the shop, thick coils of cigarette smoke following him out, the city’s business non-smoking ban clearly not rigidly adhered to in this neighborhood. He studied Jeffrey as if evaluating the condition of a boom box and nodded.

“What can I help you with?” he asked in surprisingly good English. Jeffrey wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but a part of him was prepared to negotiate whatever transaction took place with sign language or in pidgin.

“I’m here to pick up an item,” Jeffrey said, offering the man the ticket.

“Number two seventy. It’s in the lockup. I’ll get it. Wait here,” the man said, then spun with surprising agility and ducked behind the beaded curtain that led into the shop’s bowels.

Jeffrey’s gaze skimmed the collection of odds and ends in the cases, a palpable air of desperation tainting the atmosphere — at least that part had lived up to his expectations. The items were evidence of a last resort, the financial end of the road for their owners, willing to hock them for pennies on the dollar. Jeffrey knew these places existed, but thankfully he’d never had to set foot in one until today — a day of firsts, as it turned out.

The proprietor returned carrying a guitar with a yellow tag hanging from the headstock and set it carefully on the counter before removing the paper rectangle and squinting at the numbers.

“This was one I was hoping would go into default. 1969 Fender Stratocaster. I don’t need to tell you what it’s worth.”

Jeffrey looked the cream-colored electric guitar over, the finish faded and nicked, and nodded. He had a rough idea — both he and Keith played guitar, and this was a collector’s item, no question.

“Does it have a case?” Jeffrey asked, picking the instrument up and strumming a few chords.

“No. What you see is what it came in like. That’ll be three hundred sixty dollars.”

“Three hundred? That’s all?” Jeffrey gawped, surprised at the nominal figure.

“That’s all the owner wanted. Three hundred, plus interest and my fee.”

“No wonder you were hoping to never see him again,” Jeffrey said, and opened his wallet. He extracted the two hundred-dollar bills he kept folded behind his driver’s license in case of an emergency, and counted out the rest from the twenties he had. It left him with only sixty dollars, but he could stop at an ATM later or get money at the hotel’s machine.

The owner rang up the deal and asked Jeffrey to sign the receipt. “Where’s the guy who brought it in?” he asked as Jeffrey scrawled a signature.

“My brother. He had an accident.”

“Ah.” The single syllable contained a universe of possible meanings, like a hologram, where the smallest element encapsulated all other information within it. Jeffrey set the pen down and hoisted the guitar by the neck, careful not to bang it against anything.

“That’s it?”

“Unless you wanna sell a Strat,” the man shot back, his eyes half hoping that Jeffrey would take him up on it.

“Not today. Thanks…” Jeffrey said, then ducked out the door, mindful of the passers-by as he moved to the waiting taxi.

The driver didn’t comment when Jeffrey arrived with a Jimi Hendrix guitar in tow. He looked at Jeffrey uninterestedly in the rearview mirror and then edged into traffic, anxious to make it to their final destination so he could finish his long shift, which had started at six that morning.

Jeffrey watched the sidewalk streak past him as the taxi wove in and out of the stream of cars, heading north towards Keith’s condo, and wondered why his brother would have pawned one of his instruments — especially one that valuable, an easy twelve- to fifteen-thousand-dollar rarity. He supposed he would never know, but could understand why his brother wanted him to have it if anything happened to him. They’d both been rabid Stevie Ray Vaughn fans growing up, and had aspired to emulate the bluesy virtuoso’s talent as teens, before adulthood moved them away from their dreams and into the mundane world of grownups. A 1969 Stratocaster in the right hands sounded like nothing else in the world, and Jeffrey could remember playing it when he’d come to visit, along with several other guitars Keith had acquired over the years.

The thought of jamming with his brother caused a lump to form in his throat, and he closed his eyes for the remainder of the ride, Keith’s ghost visiting him in his memories as the cab bumped its way north along the shabby streets.