Old Habits

The next morning was spent thinking of places Gabe could have possibly hid the money. I knew he wasn’t stupid enough to keep thousands of dollars on him, so he had to have put it somewhere he considered safe.

  If I could figure it out in time, I would be able to take the money back to Geet, potentially saving our lives. Of course, our twenty-four hours were over half up, and I had no idea where to start searching.

  I laid on my back in Fuchsia’s bed; I had left the building to get a cup of coffee and clear my head after speaking with Gabe, and by the time I returned, she was gone. The bed was lonely without her, but I had to keep my head in the game and focus on what mattered most at the moment, finding the money.

  My cell phone rang, and I jumped at the sound. I wasn’t used to hearing it ring. In fact, I wasn’t sure if had done so the entire time I had been in Chicago. Harrison’s drug deal jobs always came via text.

  “Hello?” I asked groggily. I hadn’t slept.

  “Hello, Jamie,” Geet said. His voice sounded weird over the phone, more cheerful than I was used to. Maybe his terrifying presence caused his voice to sound scarier in person.

  “I wanted to remind you I’ll be by the apartment in a few hours to pick up Harrison’s money. I trust you’ll have it.”

  I bit my lip, thinking of what to say. “I’ve honestly been working on that little problem all night,” I said.

  Geet laughed, “Little problem.”

  “Gabe and I aren’t exactly seeing eye to eye on how to handle things. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  “My brother can be very stupid sometimes.”

  I considered asking him for an extension on getting the money back, but knew better of it. Instead, I waited patiently to see if he was going to say anything else. He did.

  “There’s another sale to be made. I trust you can handle making the deal without stealing any more money from your boss?”

  I paused, not sure how to respond. If I didn’t manage to return the money within a few hours, Gabe and I were as good as dead, but Geet was asking me to make another Manic sale. This confused me, but I decided not to ask questions. If Harrison trusted me to make a deal, maybe he knew Gabe was the real reason the money hadn’t yet been returned.

  “Of course,” I said.

  I could practically hear Geet smiling through the phone. “You’ll need to meet up with Robert Shank. He owns a pawn shop on the south side. I’ll text you the address when I hang up.”

  “How much will he need?” I asked.

  “Just one tablet. It’s a small deal, but he’s been a regular customer for some time. He and Gabe go way back, actually.”

  I waited for more information, but Geet did not speak. “I’ll get it done,” I said.

  “Jamie,” Geet said, “I know you have a certain respect for my brother, but Harrison greatly appreciates your loyalty. Maybe, if things go badly, he’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I really don’t have any respect for your brother.”

  “Even better,” Geet said before hanging up the phone. Minutes later, he had texted me the address of Robert Shank’s pawn shop, and I was leaving the apartment and catching a southbound train.

  Sitting on the train, I began to weigh my options as far as the next few days were concerned. However, my thoughts quickly derailed and turned into question about how I could actually manage to survive the coming days. The main question boiled down to: How do I survive when Gabe refuses to return the money to Harrison?

  By the time the train arrived at the 75th street station, I still didn’t have an answer.

  Robert Shank’s pawn shop was only about a mile from the station and was marked only by a simple neon sign above the door that read “Pawn.” The windows were covered with metal grates, and a sign almost as large as the one over the door hung in the window, advertising that the premises was being monitored by security equipment.

  A tiny bell above the door rang as I walked through the door, and a man standing behind the counter raised a hand to me in greeting. “Help you?” he asked, seeming only slightly annoyed by my presence.

  “I’m looking for Robert,” I said coolly. I was admittedly in what could be considered a “bad” part of town, though I had been in more unwelcoming places.

  “I’m Robert, what’s it to ya?” He looked to be only a few years older than me, but something told me he was actually much older. His face was filled with red stubble, though his hair was about as blonde as it could be.

  “My name’s Jamie,” I said. “I was told you were looking to buy some Manic.” I tried not to cringe at my delivery; I was usually a lot more discreet, but my mind was in other places.

  Robert eyed me cautiously, walking towards me behind the counter, but staying behind the counter all the same. “That’s a hell of a sales technique you’ve got there. Take a tip from someone who owns his own business and work on the way you talk to your customers.”

  I nodded to him. “Sorry,” I said, “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “And you can call me Bob.”

  I looked around as I pulled the small plastic bag and Manic tablet from my pocket. The store was stocked with anything you would imagine a pawn shop to be stocked with: DVDs, older electronics, guitars, drums, keyboards, and weapons.

  The weapons ranged from anything from your ordinary, everyday handguns and knives, to more eccentric options like razorblade playing cards and throwing stars. They all sat behind locked glass cases and a handwritten sign hung on the wall behind Bob reading ALL LEGAL PAPERWORK MUST BE FILLED OUT BEFORE PURCHASING ANY WEAPON!

  “See something you like?” Bob asked, shaking me out of my trance. I stood slack-jawed, not sure how to respond. “I only carry the highest quality weapons; the throwing stars are stainless steel, and everything is legal in Illinois. I can’t guarantee any other state.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’ve got a nice selection.”

  “You a weapons collector?”

  “A what?”

  “Most of the people your age who come in here drooling over the weapons are collectors of some kind. You’d be surprised how many kids like to collect these things. Most of ‘em look a little nerdier than you, though.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’ve only ever held a gun once. They freak me out a little.”

  Bob nodded, smirking slightly beneath his red beard. “They’re nothing to be afraid of if you know how to use ‘em. Not that I would condone using ‘em on anyone, but if you’re gonna buy one, you need to know how to use it properly.”

  I nodded again.

  Bob walked to the case and unlocked it, much to my surprise. From it, he pulled a small black handgun and held it out for me to take. “This is the Steyr M9-A1, a very underrated gun, if you ask me. It’s small, but powerful, like all guns are, I guess. But, that’s what it’s all about, you know?”

  “Power,” I said quietly. I did not take the gun.

  “Exactly. People, especially all the gangbangers, make a big deal out of big, flashy guns, but this right here is where it’s at. Small, easily concealed, but powerful enough to get the job done… whatever job it might be.”

  “Do you see a lot of gangs around here?” I asked, trying to make casual conversation that didn’t lead to me being asked why I would be interested in a gun anyway, aside from the obvious fact of being a drug dealer.

  “Nah,” Bob said, sounding almost sad. “Not since all the gentrification. You got fancy coffee shops and day spas moving into all the abandoned buildings around here. Rich kids using their mommy and daddy’s money to avoid getting a real job. Gangbangers have all moved on to other neighborhoods, places like Park Manor.”

  All this talk of gangs and guns made me wonder how I fit into the spectrum of criminal activity. I wasn’t, nor had I ever been in a gang, but I’d done some pretty terrible things and was currently working for a drug lord. I sold drugs and had graduated fro
m marijuana to something, in the police’s eyes, was probably far more sinister, but I’d never killed anyone, at least not directly.

  I was an upper-middle class gangbanger.

  Bob slid the gun back into the case, and just when I thought he had finished trying to get me to hold dangerous weapons, he pulled a knife out, holding it out with both palms of his hands.

  “This is what we call the Straightedge,” Bob said, sounding proud. “Black carbon steel, hard sheath, seven and a half inch blade; this thing is a beauty. Perfect for hunting.”

  “Hunting what? A bear?” I asked.

  “Hunting anything you might need to hunt,” Bob laughed.

  The knife was both frightening and beautiful, but as far as I knew, I didn’t and would never need anything quite so destructive, even if it wasn’t a gun.

  Or would I?

  If I failed to find Gabe or the money in the next few hours, I was as good as dead, so wouldn’t I need some protection? I had no intentions of going down without a fight, as pathetic of a fight as it may be, so having something like the Straightedge might just give the advantage I needed if worse came to worse and I found myself fighting to the death against one or more of Harrison’s men.

  I extended my hand and took the knife from Bob’s hands and stared at it in my own. It only weighed about a pound or a little more, but something this sleek and powerful felt as if it weighed twenty.

  “It’s nice, right?” Bob said.

  “How much?” I asked.

  Bob took a step back and laughed. “Now hold on there, partner. You can’t just buy a knife like the Straightedge over the counter. There’s paperwork and background checks that go along with these things.”

  I took a deep breath, still examining the piece of steel in my hands. I was not familiar with weapons and definitely didn’t consider myself a violent person, but I liked the way it felt against my palm.

  “I’m here to sell you drugs, right?” I asked. “Are you telling me there’s no way around all the paperwork and legalities if I wanted to buy this knife right now? What if it meant you got a significant discount on what you’re buying from me today?”

  Bob mulled the thought around in his mind, opening his mouth to speak, but not actually saying anything at first.

  “Look, if I don’t buy this right now, I probably never will. I need it, but I’m not someone who has the time or patience to wait around for paperwork and background checks.”

  “What do you need it so badly for?” Bob asked.

  I continued to stare at the knife’s black hilt and blade. “Protection,” I said.

  I slide the Manic tablet across the counter towards Bob and smiled. “Half off,” I said.

  Bob smiled, knowing this was a good deal, saying, “I think we can work something out.”

  (A Flare for the Dramatic)