“Did you enjoy your meal?”
“It was all very good.” The same smile that I had seen on Tak’s face tugged at the corners of his father’s, but he didn’t take the money. “I really do have to be going.” I set the two bills on the hostess stand and left before he could stop me.
*
I drove away from Hoshiyama’s and pulled the scooter into the parking lot next to Bobbie Kay’s office. The lights were on. I hopped off and unbuckled my helmet while I was walking inside.
Bobbie sat on the floor in front, surrounded by patches of brown fur. A bag of fiberfill the size of a beer keg sat next to her. Behind her, a sewing machine sat unattended on the desk.
“Teddy bear fund-raiser coming up soon. I have to build up inventory.” She held up her right hand, hidden inside a half-stuffed bear. His head had taken shape, but his arms and torso dangled limply. His legs hadn’t been sewn together yet, so the fabric flopped around like that of a puppet. “You want to help?”
“I can’t—not tonight. I have to go to the pawnshop.”
She set the bear down. “Margo, there are better ways to get money than to pawn your possessions. You could donate them to charity and take the tax write-off. And you’d be helping those in need.”
“I’m not going to sell,” I said.
“You’re going to buy? What could you possibly need to buy from Rudy’s Pawn Shop?”
“I need to talk to the owner. His name is Rudy?”
“Rudy Moore owns the pawnshop out Main Line Road. It’s the last stop out of Proper, or the first stop if you’re coming back in. Does this have something to do with Ebony?”
“Yes.” I walked past her and sat down in the chair behind her desk. “Apparently the pawnbroker said Ebony came in and sold him a bunch of jewelry that was stolen from Linda Cannon’s house. I need to find out why.”
“Sounds risky.” She turned the teddy bear on her hand toward her face. “Doesn’t it?” she asked him. He nodded his fully stuffed head twice. She turned him back to me.
I picked up one of the frames on Bobbie’s desk. It was a picture of her in high school, the day she’d gotten a letter from the president. Two days later she’d checked herself into the recovery center. I admired how committed she was to her life of fund-raising and helping people. Her grades and her acclamations would have landed her a job with a Fortune 500 company after college, but she’d veered off that track when she went into rehab. As I watched her push another wad of fiberfill into the teddy bear’s torso, I couldn’t help but be proud.
I left Bobbie’s office with a promise to call her in the morning and drove back to the costume shop to change into something that might make Rudy more apt to talk to me. I pulled a navy blue shirt and pants from the wall of uniforms and changed in the stockroom. The patch on the shoulder was generic; the word security was stitched in red thread against a white background. While technically it was a costume, we often rented this kind of thing out to people who were too cheap to hire real security guards but had recruited a volunteer to dress up and help maintain the presence of law and order at their event.
The pants were big in the waist, so I belted them with a belt from the gangster section, and then laced on a pair of black boots. I pulled my hair back into a low ponytail and left.
*
RUDY’S Pawn Shop was a small brick building that sat off to the left of an abandoned Laundromat. There was ample parking for what must have once been a thriving strip mall. I drove through the lot and parked close to the entrance.
Neon lettering in the front window of the redbrick building said RUDY’S PAWN SHOP—THE END OF THE LINE. I wondered how many of his customers thought that was funny. Underneath were the store hours: noon until midnight. The pawnshop customer wasn’t an early riser. I locked my helmet to the seat of my scooter and went inside.
I wasn’t prepared for the bright interior and blinked several times as my eyes adjusted. Once they did, I looked around. Rudy didn’t seem to have much of a specialty. Walls were covered in colorful guitars, large paintings, framed sports jerseys, and wedding dresses. The latter surprised me. For some reason, the concept of a pawnshop had a masculine feel to it. I hadn’t spent much time thinking about the women who needed to make money fast, and the reasons someone might be willing to hock their wedding dress in exchange for money gave me pause.
“Can I help ya?” asked an old, shriveled man from behind the counter. He had no hair on his head, but he more than made up for it with his bushy eyebrows. He wore a white undershirt and faded jeans held in place by a thick black belt with a tarnished silver buckle. He tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans and faced me with his shoulders rounded and his chest concave.
“I’m looking for Rudy,” I said.