identification, and it was too easy to get ripped off.
A buyer, then. Garry’s finger hovered over the button behind his desk for a fraction before he pressed. With a buzz and a clanging sound, the door sprang open.
The man walked slowly through the aisles. Past the other two customers, who were still staring longingly at the hi-fis that Garry had known from the moment they entered they could not afford. Past the ranks of mountain bikes and racing bikes that Moffat was now dusting. Garry saw the assistant’s gaze follow the older man as he headed towards the furniture section, and then return to the coloured guy.
Garry shifted his weight on the stool and it squeaked again.
“Damn thing,” he muttered.
He stepped off it and fumbled underneath, his fingers exploring the area where the seat was attached to the four steel legs. The problem was here, he was sure. A screw that needed tightening; a nut or a bolt that was misbehaving. He couldn’t feel anything wrong, though. He squatted down, tipped the stool sideways and peered underneath. Couldn’t see anything wrong, either. He’d have to take it home tonight and dismantle it, see if he could put it back together in a way that would make him feel he wasn’t sitting on top of a badly tuned musical instrument every time he moved.
“Baas!” Moffat’s voice was loud and insistent. At the same time, he heard a harsh, barking cough from the other side of the counter.
Garry heaved himself upright, catching the stool with his knee and sending it clattering to the floor. He’d expected to see the big coloured man there, but he was wrong.
The dark-suited gentleman was standing by the counter, leaning over it and examining the contents.
Rattled that the man had got so close without him noticing, Garry drew himself up to his full height of six foot three, and faced the smartly dressed man.
“Help you?” he asked.
Close up, the man was older than he thought. In his fifties or sixties, Garry guessed. His dark skin was dull, with a greyish tinge, and deep lines carved their way from his surprisingly aquiline nose to his full lips. The joints of his fingers, gripping the head of the walking stick, looked swollen and sore.
“Yes, please.” The man spoke softly, dropping his gaze to the display under the glass counter.
That was where the knives were kept. A selection of about twenty, ranging from short to long, from smooth to cruelly serrated, all with their blades uncovered. Unusually for stock in a pawnshop, Garry’s knives were always brand-new. In the entire history of Cash Is King, nobody had brought one in to sell secondhand. He got them straight from the manufacturers—ends-ofranges, old stock, surplus items.
Garry didn’t feel good about the knives, but he didn’t feel bad either. They were just something he sold, like the secret stash of hard-core porn movies that he showed to only a few selected customers.
In the display there were a few fire department rescue knives, with their dark steel fold-away blades flipped outwards, and a couple of ak-47 fixed-bayonet knives. These were displayed out of their leather pouches, with broad, smooth six-inch blades and a button to hook them up to the rifle, should anyone who bought one possess such a weapon and wish to attach a knife to it.
But it wasn’t those that the man was staring at.
He was looking at the four traditional Scottish sgian dubhs that Garry had noticed while shopping in Edinburgh a few years ago after travelling there for a friend’s wedding. He’d bought six, kept two for his own collection, and put the other four in the shop. And at a hefty price, which was why they hadn’t attracted much interest. Up until now, that is.
The short knives had plain black handles—he’d learned that the words “sgian dubh” actually meant “black knife”—and short, wickedly sharp spear-point blades forged from Damascus steel. When he first saw them, they had lain next to their simple sheaths, the same
A buyer, then. Garry’s finger hovered over the button behind his desk for a fraction before he pressed. With a buzz and a clanging sound, the door sprang open.
The man walked slowly through the aisles. Past the other two customers, who were still staring longingly at the hi-fis that Garry had known from the moment they entered they could not afford. Past the ranks of mountain bikes and racing bikes that Moffat was now dusting. Garry saw the assistant’s gaze follow the older man as he headed towards the furniture section, and then return to the coloured guy.
Garry shifted his weight on the stool and it squeaked again.
“Damn thing,” he muttered.
He stepped off it and fumbled underneath, his fingers exploring the area where the seat was attached to the four steel legs. The problem was here, he was sure. A screw that needed tightening; a nut or a bolt that was misbehaving. He couldn’t feel anything wrong, though. He squatted down, tipped the stool sideways and peered underneath. Couldn’t see anything wrong, either. He’d have to take it home tonight and dismantle it, see if he could put it back together in a way that would make him feel he wasn’t sitting on top of a badly tuned musical instrument every time he moved.
“Baas!” Moffat’s voice was loud and insistent. At the same time, he heard a harsh, barking cough from the other side of the counter.
Garry heaved himself upright, catching the stool with his knee and sending it clattering to the floor. He’d expected to see the big coloured man there, but he was wrong.
The dark-suited gentleman was standing by the counter, leaning over it and examining the contents.
Rattled that the man had got so close without him noticing, Garry drew himself up to his full height of six foot three, and faced the smartly dressed man.
“Help you?” he asked.
Close up, the man was older than he thought. In his fifties or sixties, Garry guessed. His dark skin was dull, with a greyish tinge, and deep lines carved their way from his surprisingly aquiline nose to his full lips. The joints of his fingers, gripping the head of the walking stick, looked swollen and sore.
“Yes, please.” The man spoke softly, dropping his gaze to the display under the glass counter.
That was where the knives were kept. A selection of about twenty, ranging from short to long, from smooth to cruelly serrated, all with their blades uncovered. Unusually for stock in a pawnshop, Garry’s knives were always brand-new. In the entire history of Cash Is King, nobody had brought one in to sell secondhand. He got them straight from the manufacturers—ends-ofranges, old stock, surplus items.
Garry didn’t feel good about the knives, but he didn’t feel bad either. They were just something he sold, like the secret stash of hard-core porn movies that he showed to only a few selected customers.
In the display there were a few fire department rescue knives, with their dark steel fold-away blades flipped outwards, and a couple of ak-47 fixed-bayonet knives. These were displayed out of their leather pouches, with broad, smooth six-inch blades and a button to hook them up to the rifle, should anyone who bought one possess such a weapon and wish to attach a knife to it.
But it wasn’t those that the man was staring at.
He was looking at the four traditional Scottish sgian dubhs that Garry had noticed while shopping in Edinburgh a few years ago after travelling there for a friend’s wedding. He’d bought six, kept two for his own collection, and put the other four in the shop. And at a hefty price, which was why they hadn’t attracted much interest. Up until now, that is.
The short knives had plain black handles—he’d learned that the words “sgian dubh” actually meant “black knife”—and short, wickedly sharp spear-point blades forged from Damascus steel. When he first saw them, they had lain next to their simple sheaths, the same
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