V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“Wouldn’t that be something,” I said. I let him go on telling the story his way. I knew he had a problem—why else would he be here?—but the faster I pushed him, the sooner I’d be in the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet bowl. I figured that could wait.

“Anyways, I’m giving you the background.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Thing is, my wife’s got this engagement ring. One-point-five-carat diamond set in platinum, worth three grand easy. I know, because I had it appraised two days after it came into my possession. This was in Texas some time ago. She hasn’t been wearing it because she says it’s too loose and bothers her every time she goes to wash her hands.”

“I can’t wait to see where you’re going with this.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the other thing. She’s lost a lot of weight. She looks like a runway model only bigger in the tush. You probably don’t remember, but she used to be . . . I won’t say fat, but on the far side of plump. The past fifteen months, she’s taken off sixty pounds. I came home, I didn’t recognize her. That’s how good she looks.”

“Wow. I love success stories. How’d she manage it?”

“Diet supplement, an over-the-counter upper that’s not FDA regulated because, technically speaking, it’s not a drug. She’s so buzzed all the time, she forgets to eat. She has to be on the go every minute or she gets whacked out from too much nervous energy. As a side benefit, the house’s never looked so good. Drop of a hat, she’ll do all the windows, inside and out. Anyways, she tossed the ring in her jewelry box six months back and she hasn’t touched it since. Now she wants to have it sized so she can wear it on the cruise. She’s all stressed out because she can’t find it anywhere, so I said I’d look.”

“You hocked it.”

“Pretty much. I want to do right by her, but I’m low on funds and it’s tough to find work. I don’t like taking handouts from the woman I love. Problem is, the skills I have aren’t exactly in demand. What happened was, I put together a stake using the ring as collateral on a four-month loan. This was way last spring after I got out of Soledad. I went down to Santa Anita to play the ponies. I don’t get to the track every couple of months, I tend to brood. I’m a moody guy to begin with and the nags take my mind off.”

“Let me guess. You lost your shirt and now you need to get the ring back before she figures out what you did.”

“There you have it. I couldn’t come up with the principal so I paid the interest and rolled it over for another four months. Now that’s up and the ten-day grace runs out Tuesday of next week. I don’t pay, that’s the last I see of it, which would break my poor heart. Hers, too, if she found out.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“That’s all you got for a ring worth three grand?”

“Sad, but true. The guy lowballed me on the deal, but it’s not like I had any choice. I can’t borrow from a bank. I mean, picture the loan docs, me wanting two hundred dollars for a hundred and twenty days. Can’t be done. So now I owe the two in cash plus another twenty-five in interest. Be honest about it, I might not get the money back to you right away. I mean, eventually, sure.”

I stared at him while I considered his request. I had cash in my wallet so I wasn’t worried about that. The key picks he’d given me had served me well, as had the tutorial he’d provided before he got sent up. Also counting in his favor was the fact that I liked the man. Profession aside, he was a good-hearted soul. Even a burglar suffers the occasional financial woes. Finally, I said, “How about this? I won’t give you the cash, but I’ll go with you to the pawnshop and pay the guy myself.”

His look was pained. “You don’t trust me?”

“Sure I do, but let’s not tempt fate.”

“You’re tough.”

“I’m a realist. Your car or mine?”

“Mine’s in the shop. You can drop me off there afterward and I’ll pick it up.”

4

Santa Teresa Jewelry and Loan is located two doors down from a gun shop on lower State Street. There’s a gas station across the street and a tattoo parlor around the corner. The area is short on tourists and long on bums, perfect for urban renewal if the city ever gets around to it. The pawnshop itself is narrow, wedged between a thrift shop and a package liquor store. Pinky held the door for me and I went in.

Inside, the air carried the faint scent of alcohol, which stirred when the door closed behind us. A percentage of the cash out on loan probably traveled next door to the liquor store, where the exchange rate was keyed to red wine of the lowest denomination. A green neon sign with the three-ball symbol for a pawnshop sputtered at a speed that would cause seizures in the unsuspecting.