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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.
    To my right, high up on the wall, fifteen hocked paintings had been mounted, artfully arranged around a security camera, angled on the two of us. This allowed me to view myself in full color as seen from above, me checking out the camera while the camera checked me. In my jeans and turtleneck I looked like a homeless person down on her luck. Below the paintings, shelves held an assortment of power tools, air tools, hand tools, nail guns, and socket wrench sets. The lower shelves were crowded with secondhand electronics: clocks, headphones, stereo speakers, turntables, radios, and big clunky television sets with screens the size of the windows in airplanes.
    On the left, a row of guitars hung behind the counter, along with enough violins, flutes, and horns to constitute a small-town orchestra. A series of glass display cases ran the length of the shop, holding tray after tray of rings, watches, bracelets, and coins. Dispirited household items—a child’s bone-china tea set, a ceramic vase, a cut-crystal figurine, and four graduated teak nesting bowls—sat together on a shelf. There were no books, no weapons, and no articles of clothing.
    This was where once-cherished items came to roost, sentiment surrendered for cash. I pictured a constant round-robin of relinquishment and redemption, items converted into currency and then claimed again as personal fortunes improved. People moved, people died, people retired into nursing homes where there was so little space that much of what they owned had to be sold, given away, or abandoned at the curb.
    The place was doing better business than I’d expected. One man took down a wall-mounted leaf blower that he examined for some time before he carried it to the counter to purchase. A second man browsed the electronics while a third at the rear labored to affix his signature to a document with a shaky hand. Of the four employees I counted, two greeted Pinky by name.
    The woman who stepped forward to assist him was middle-aged, with wavy red-gold hair that she parted on the side. A two-inch-wide swath of gray hair showed at the roots. Her eyeglasses were framed in thick black plastic that seemed too emphatic for her fair coloring. She wore slacks and a white cotton blouse with a bow at the collar, apparently meant to disguise the width of her neck, which put her in a league with weight lifters given to heavy steroid use. She winked at him, held up a finger, and then retired to the back room. She returned moments later with a padded tray covered in black velvet.
    â€œThis is June,” he said of her and then nodded at me. “Kinsey Millhone. She’s a private detective.”
    We shook hands. “Nice meeting you,” I said.
    â€œSame here.”
    Pinky watched as she untied a ribbon and opened two cloth flaps. In the center was the ring, which to me looked small and unremarkable. Then again, Pinky never claimed it was a family heirloom, at least not in his family. The diamond was the size of a wee rhinestone stud, not that I owned anything so grand.
    He smiled at me shyly. “You want to try it on?”
    â€œSure.” I slipped it on my finger and