Pawn Shop Laptop Pt 1

I provide for my family, Brian thought, popping a nicotine pouch into his lower lip and readjusting himself on the mechanic stool behind the register.

He ran his hand over the top of his bristly, buzzed hair and swiped across the tablet screen. So far he’d managed to acquire two MacBook Pros, a set of Milwaukee power tools, a dirtbike and a 2008 Subaru WRX. All of these treasures, and he’d only sent four grand out the door. Did he expect to get the money back?

He laughed to himself as he scratched his inner thigh through his sweatpants. People never came back for their shit. He really wanted to scratch his balls, but he was afraid of what the itch might mean.

I should’ve wrapped it up last night. Should’ve just avoided the bar. No good comes from the bar. He knew the girl’s cousin, though, so — if she really gave him something he could at least track her down and call her a whore.

Dustin walked out from the back. He’d been looking over the car. The interior needed a good cleaning, but Dustin gave the thumbs up.

“You wear gloves?” Brian asked.

Dustin shook his head, laughing. “Pussy shit.”

“Could be fent. Could be needles.” Brian said. Dustin laughed again. “Yeah, whatever. I ain’t liable if you stick yourself.”

“Worry about yourself,” Brian said. Fair point, he thought, scratching some more.

I provide for my family, Brian thought. And what does that bitch do all day long? His phone rang. It was her — the wife. He grimaced. Undoubtedly she’d managed to find something around the house to bitch about; probably something she’d broken. The list was a mile long — overfilled the washing machine and ruined the bearings, knocked a vase off the table and cut her leg, ran the car into the garage door — she was pretty good with the kids, though. He was hesitant to answer the phone, but she’d call back until he did. That’s how Darla always got what she wanted — through obnoxious persistence.

“Y’ello, sweety,” he said. The door jingled and Brian caught a glance at a disheveled man who limped through carrying a brand-new Hoover vacuum, still in the box. The man looked as though he’d just crawled out of a dumpster. Guys like this were hit or miss, depending on their motivation. Sometimes, if they were hooked on some really good shit, there was no end to the lengths they’d go for another fix. At the peak, and just before their collapse into full-on useless junky-hood, those types made the best customers. Afterwards they were useless, and a month later they were usually dead.

This one had thick, twitchy eyebrows and a clean-shaven, pock-marked face. Brian spun his mechanic’s chair toward the back and slid off his comfy red throne.

“Honey! Can you check the—” She paused. “Brian. Can you check the camera now?”

“What do you mean?”

He whistled to Dustin, thumbing toward the front.

“There’s some guy just — sitting on the porch,” Darla said. He put his hand over the speaker. “I don’t want any fucking vacuums,” he said as he passed Dustin, then returned his attention to Darla. “What guy? Why’s he on my fucking porch?”

Brian heard his son Keith crying in the background and got even more agitated. He was five and it was time to stop sniveling like a baby. “Make him stop, damnit!”

“Look at the damned camera!” The dog was barking now. Keith started wailing and Brian took the phone away from his ear.

Warehouse shelves—twenty of them, tall and metal—filled the middle section of the pawn shop. Junk no one was going to return for was nearly falling out. Dustin would need to go through and figure out what could be sold here in town and what would need to be traded with the other pawn-shop boys a thousand miles up the highway. One thousand miles away, where no one would come find their long-lost possessions that the crafty crackheads had sold to Brian. Every month or so, items were moved around between half a dozen locations. Brian was pretty good with the local police, but if it came down to it, he didn’t want to put anyone in an uncomfortable position.

I provide for my family. But sometimes, I just want to take my money and run the fuck away.

Loving them was work, and he already had enough to do.

He approached the Subaru that sat in the garage with the doors open. A trash bag hung out of the passenger seat. He pushed it aside and sat on the seat, thumbing through his apps until he got to his security system. There was, indeed, a large man sitting on his porch, eyes closed, seemingly unfazed by the snow. The 4K camera provided staggering detail; the man’s tongue was creeping out from between his teeth.

“You see him?” Darla asked. Brian jumped, nearly dropping the phone.

“Yuh,” he said. Either his junk had stopped itching, or he was too focused to notice.

“Should I call the cops?”

“No. You don’t call the cops. We don’t call the cops. If anything we call Reese, but we aren’t calling anyone yet. Just — hold on…”

In most cases it would’ve sent Brian into a furious rage, but now, the way he was sitting — cross-legged with his black jacket and hat like a man who knew something secret and profound — it was unsettling. He stood, shutting the Subaru door. In addition to the dog barking and the five-year-old screaming, Brian heard himself breathing, and it was unsteady.

A MacBook Pro landed next to him, the keys breaking out and scattering across the floor. He turned and between the rows of stolen gear he saw Dustin, hands raised, and behind him…

“What’s that?” Darla asked. The dog was still barking.

“Wasn’t a vacuum,” Dustin said, shotgun pressed into his spine. Suddenly the crackhead no longer seemed like a crackhead. Suddenly, he was walking very tall and proud. Suddenly, his trench coat and gloves looked like the regal and expensive outerwear of a professional killer. The man smiled, sticking out his tongue, and all at once Brian knew —

“My brother says you hev’ beautiful house for thief.”

“Brian?” Darla asked. The man raised his fingers to his lips. Suddenly the man seemed very Russian mafia. “Nothing. Just — uh… stay put, alright? Stay put and I’ll call you back.”

“I’m calling the police,” Darla said.

“Don’t you fucking call anyone, alright? You listen to me, goddamnit. I’ll call you back. I love you. It’ll be okay.” Brian hung up.

The man pointed the gun at Brian, and nodded toward Brian’s hip. A shotgun blast from this distance had enough spread that it didn’t matter how accurate his aim was — whole body parts were at stake.

“Disarm, please. Or I ‘vill disarm you,” he whispered. The man swept his foot in front of Dustin’s shoes and shoved him to the ground. It was unexpected, and unlike in the movies it wasn’t graceful. Dustin tripped and didn’t even attempt to catch himself. The man threw in an extra kick for good measure while keeping the shotgun raised at Brian. Dustin’s head struck the ground with a thud and he was out cold.

Brian threw his pistol on the ground. “You hev’ laptop that belongs to important man. Laptop stolen three weeks ago. Nice laptop.” The shotgun was now against his chest. The man kicked the pistol under the Subaru. There was a puddle of blood forming under Dustin’s head.

“Three weeks…” Brian thought. Three weeks ago Brian swapped with Vincent, who took the truck up the highway to Marco’s shop. Marco probably sent half the shit further on to Leif’s shop, which was the busiest shop.

The phone rang again. “Answer. Tell your wife my brother is nice man. Tell your wife it will be okay when you give me laptop. I show you picture. On one of these shelves, yes?”

“No. It’s not here.” The man thumbed through his phone now with the gun still raised at Brian’s chest. “I don’t need to see it, damnit! It’s not here.”

The man’s face soured as he lowered his phone. Brian sensed that this answer was unacceptable.

“But I can get it. We can get it.”

The phone continued to ring.

“Yes.” The man nodded. “Where?”

”Up the highway. It might take a while. We’ll take my truck.”

”Nyet.” He said, motioning toward the subaru. “We take WRX.”