Read Online Going to the Bad by Nora McFarland - Free Book Online Page B

asked the owner if there were any other pawnshops I might have missed.
    â€œYou could try Pawn Max. He’s retired, but his wife keeps the shop open a couple days a week. Doubt they’d advertise in the phone book. I think she only works to get away from all the craziness at home.”
    He didn’t have a phone number, but the address he gave me wasn’t far from the station. I decided to drive over and check it out.
    Pawn Max did business in a commercial strip cutting between a neighborhood on the upswing and one in decline. The businesses looked as if they were sliding the wrong way, despite the best efforts of the shopkeepers.
    Just as I’d been told, the Pawn Max sign above the storefront was discreet. Less discreet were the plywood and the police tape covering the door and the windows.
    They’d been robbed.

SEVEN
    Christmas Eve, 12:36 p.m.
    I retrieved my gear bag and camera from the van before walking down the block looking for an open business. I hoped to find someone who could get me in touch with the owners of Pawn Max, since they obviously weren’t going to be opening the store anytime soon.
    I stopped at Kincaid’s Pharmacy and Gifts. A blast of air, thick with heat and potpourri, hit me as I pushed open the door. The flowery odor went with the cute teapots, stationery, and tea towels they were selling. It did not go with the security guard sitting by the door.
    The female cashier was busy ringing up a customer with a last-minute Christmas gift, so I spoke with the guard.
    He was a large man, but probably too old to stop an actual robbery. I guessed he was there more as a deterrent to shoplifters than anything else.
    He spoke in a deep bass. “I’d help you if I could, but I only know the Pawn Max lady to say hi.” He pointed to a Caucasian man in a white coat behind the pharmacy counter. “But I think Mr. Kincaid is friendly with her.”
    I thanked him and walked through the aisles of laxatives and deodorants to the rear. As his Scottish name suggested, Kincaid had red hair. It had probably dimmed a little with age, but hadn’t gone gray.
    â€œI’m from KJAY,” I said. “I’m hoping you might know how I can contact the owner of Pawn Max.”
    â€œI can give you the store’s phone number.”
    Despite its not being offered, Kincaid probably had a homenumber for Mr. and Mrs. Pawn Max. At the least he’d know another business owner on the block who had it. I tried to quickly size him up.
    Pushing fifty, but still trim. Vain enough to make the extra effort to stay in shape. Single, judging by the lack of a ring, but not a player. Probably divorced. Pictures of golden retrievers taped to the register where you’d expect to see kids. It appeared that he made his employees, although there were only two of them, refer to him as Mr. Kincaid.
    Instinct told me he’d want to be on TV, want it real bad. His brain would replay fantasies about old rivals and enemies seeing the segment. If he did have an ex-wife, he’d probably call and tell her to watch.
    â€œCan I interview you about the robbery?” This was a twofer. I actually wanted a sound bite for the five o’clock show, but also hoped interviewing him might help me get a home number for the Pawn Max owners.
    â€œI don’t know if that would be good for business.” Contrary to his words, he straightened the white pharmacist’s jacket and ran a hand through his thinning red hair. “Things are bad enough without scaring off the customers we have left.”
    â€œI understand. Thanks anyway.” I started to turn, wondering how far I’d get before he stopped me.
    â€œAlthough they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” He took a few steps and tried to see himself in the mirror running along one of the walls. “It might even be good for business.”
    I positioned the tripod, then set the camera’s white balance off