Read Online Last of the Independents by Sam Wiebe - Free Book Online Page A

it. It was the kind of book where you have to read every sentence at least three times to figure out what’s going on, and by then you’ve forgotten the context. I try to alternate reading something educational with reading something fun, a sort of Nabisco Frosted Mini-Wheats reading program. I’d finished the Leonard on Monday; before that it had been Eric Hoffer’s The True Believer . I liked Hoffer: every other sentence read like it could have been on a fridge magnet. The Veblen was harder going. Occasionally, though, you’d come across something like this:
As has been indicated in an earlier chapter, there is reason to believe that the institution of ownership has begun with the ownership of persons, primarily women. The incentives to acquiring such property have apparently been: (1) a propensity for dominance and coercion; (2) the utility of these persons as evidence of the prowess of their owner; (3) the utility of their services.
    I was struggling with that when I saw a hairy arm twist the sign on the door to W E A RE O PEN . A moment later, the neon sign flickered to life. It was 10:02 a.m.
    Imperial Pawn was located on the corner of a strip mall. There were a few parking spaces in front of the shop, and a larger lot around back. Cliff Szabo’s Taurus had been parked on the side street. I’d looked the area over when I arrived, as if the months between the disappearance and now might have left some trace. But of course there was nothing to see. No traffic cameras, no nearby stores. Across the street were a Value Village and a large, empty parking lot. Doubtless the people there had been grilled by the police, but I made a note to ask them again once I finished with Imperial Pawn.
    An electronic bell dinged when I entered the store. “Morning,” I said to the corpse behind the counter. He was sitting on a stool behind a cash register, arms crossed as if daring business to shows its face. Thick beard and thick eyebrows, a Chia Pet growing on each arm. A flattened Roman nose. He gave the slightest of nods.
    Glass counters ran nearly the length and width of the store. Under the glass were cameras and iPods and Xboxes and paintball gear and jewellery. A shelf of DVDs stood in the middle, a CD tower in the corner. Shelves bolted to the wall held TVs and computer monitors, the odd turntable or snare drum. The cement floor around the shelves was reserved for power tools and speaker wedges. Behind the case was a door, open just a crack, leading to what looked like storage. In the corner above the cash register was a camera, trained on the exit.
    â€œMy name is Michael Drayton. I’m a private investigator. I’m sure you remember Cliff Szabo and his son.”
    Recognition in his eyes. He said nothing.
    â€œI’m also sure you told the events of that afternoon to countless people — the police and the media, and maybe other investigators. But I’d like you to tell it again, if you don’t mind. What can I call you, sir?”
    He seemed reluctant to answer, but at last he said, “Ramsey.”
    â€œMr. Ramsey, okay. And do you own the store, Mr. Ramsey?”
    No response. He stared at me, unblinking, a statue of diffidence.
    â€œWere you working here on Friday the 6th of March? If so, were you in the store when Mr. Szabo and his son were here?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œBut you do know who Mr. Szabo is?”
    He nodded.
    â€œYou do business with him every so often?”
    Nod.
    â€œHow would you characterize Mr. Szabo?”
    No response.
    â€œWhat’s he like? Good guy?”
    Ramsey cleared his throat. “Good guy, yes.”
    â€œAnd his son Django?”
    â€œA good guy, yes.”
    â€œHow often did Mr. Szabo come in?”
    Pause. “Three times.”
    â€œIncluding March 6th?”
    â€œFour times.”
    â€œYou saw him on the 6th?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid he usually buy or