This week’s story is a fun one for me. A couple of years ago, I wrote a short story (it’s actually the free short you get for subscribing). I wanted to live in that world for a while, so I wrote a few more stories in that same timeline, same plotline. I thought I might create a novel through short stories.
It seemed like an interesting idea. But as I sat with it longer, I realized I wanted to write a real novel with these characters. This story doesn’t give anything away in the novel and it doesn’t actually appear one-for-one in the novel, but just know that this story was part of the inspiration for the novel I’m currently working on.
I hope you enjoy!
Pawn
Stori Guerrero heard the bell and looked up from behind the counter. He had to squint to see in the old Dodge Duster’s rearview mirror he’d hung in the corner. He used to have a big circular mirror up there like you’d see at a convenience store, but he’d ripped that thing down and stuck the car’s mirror up so he couldn’t forget. No matter how hard he squinted, the only thing he could see in that little mirror was the night 12 years ago. It wasn’t until Gordie rounded the corner of the shelf-lined entry that he realized who’d come in.
Gordie ran his free hand along the glass covering rusty pocket watches and old typewriters. He stopped at the case with the set of arrowheads that Stori told everyone who’d listen came from honest-to-God Apaches. Gordie smiled, shook his head, then turned to Stori.
“Still can’t unload these, huh?”
Stori slid one ass cheek off the stool he sat on behind the counter, just enough for the toe on his left foot to touch the ground. If he had to move, he wanted as much of an edge as he could get. He said, “No one appreciates Native American history anymore.”
“Especially not a history manufactured by a Mexican pawn shop owner.” Gordie turned and walked toward the counter.
The first time Gordie had been in the shop, he’d sold Stori a set of wheels that the police came and took off his hands a few days later. Two hundred bucks out the window. When it happened, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t deal with Gordie anymore, but he also knew who Gordie ran with. So, Stori had kept doing business with that skinny white boy even if it might cost him a few bucks here and there. Right up until the last time when he looked in that old car’s mirror, saw her face, and swore on her name he wouldn’t take another thing from Gordie.
As Gordie got closer to the counter, Stori realized he was carrying something wrapped in a t-shirt.
“Only two things come in t-shirts like that,” Stori said. “Dead animals and stolen guns.”
Gordie stopped short of the counter. “That right?”
“That’s right, and I don’t want neither.”
“No one’s ever come through here with something special that they wanted to protect? Something they wrapped up to keep safe?”
“Not in a shit-covered t-shirt, no.”
“It ain’t shit, Stori. It’s oil. Now quit fucking around.”
Stori took another look at the mirror in the corner, wondering if he deserved what came next. He’d done this job so long that he knew it’d end the same way it began. The violence wrapped up inside that nasty t-shirt would echo through Stori’s life. “I’m not buying anything this week.”
Gordie set the t-shirt down on the glass counter with a thud. Stori wished he’d done like the community policing liaison had told him a few years back. She’d told him that people were mostly good and the neighborhood was getting better, but for those times when the stragglers came through, a nice thick sheet of bullet-resistant glass would come in handy. Stori’d gotten hung up on the “resistant” part and wondered why he’d pay for something that wasn’t a sure thing.
“That’s good to hear because I’m not selling.” Gordie pointed at the t-shirt. “This is special, and I need you to do me a solid.”
Stori shook his head and inched a little further off the stool. High school was a hell of a long way away, but back then Stori could run. Ran track and cross-country. They all used to call him Shit Stain back then because he was brown and ran like a streak. He didn’t mind. Winning made people like you, and he won a lot. He didn’t think he could win much anymore, but if he had too, he’d pick running back up right now. “I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Stori, you’re a part of it man. You know why?”
“I’m not—”
Gordie slammed his hand down hard on the counter, and Stori worried the glass would break. But it held. Probably as strong as that bullet-resistant glass, he thought.