Chapter 07

The wooden door clinked as it welcomed Michael into the dusty air of the pawn shop. This late, near closing time, there were no other customers in the cluttered warehouse that housed the many knick-knacks and assorted things they bought and sold daily. The counter looked far away, a long slab of solid wood and glass display cases, where the more valuable and enticing things were kept visible. It was mostly hidden by rows upon rows of old clothes and assorted memorabilia. Things that once belonged in homes, memories stored on shelves that had fallen on harder times than the families who had been forced to sell them to make ends meet.

Am I not the same? Michael wondered, and perhaps had he not received the silver bar, he would have considered selling some of his meagre belongings so that he could keep delving the dungeon a bit longer. Magic was just that enticing, especially with the promise that one day he could get just the right skill to turn his life around.

I could already do that with the healing skill, now that I think about it. But I would need to be very careful, if it gets out to the public I’m pretty much screwed.

Weaving thought the cluttered space, careful not to breathe in the clouds of dust that came from the older clothes haphazardly thrown on ill-fitting mannequins and battered hangers, he made his way to the old man who had been watching him since he set foot inside the warehouse. The lights were dim, powerful white floodlights affixed to the ceiling too far up to really work in the dusty air, but at least close to the counter where the real deals were made, there were warmer and more pleasant lights to make the atmosphere feel less oppressive. A diminutive window showed the setting sun, surrounded by corrugated metal painted blue, a reminder that it was way past dinner time and Michael was famished.

Don’t they say that one should never close deals while hungry? There’s a diner close by. Let’s get this over with quickly.

He took out the silver bar from his pocket without uttering a word, half because he didn’t know what to say to an old man working in a pawn shop—presumably the owner too—and secondly because he didn’t want to show just how out of place he felt. The man studied him for a moment, before turning his attention to the bar and humming.

“This is an interesting piece. What do you want to do with it, kid?” The man’s voice was surprisingly clean, for someone with so many wrinkles Michael had assumed he smoked three packs a day, but perhaps he had assumed wrong.

“I need cash, quickly. How much for this?” He asked, speaking a little too quickly. A twinkle appeared in the man’s face.

“We can work out a deal. I’m Old Dave, by the way.”

He offered a meaty hand. He was not a fat guy by any means, but he was tall and full enough that Michael had wondered whether they had a raised platform behind the counter he could not see, but seeing how large his hand was, he was reconsidering it.

“Michael,” he said as they shook.

“Let me call my buddy Mustang. Get this beauty appraised for you, shall we?” At Michael’s nod, Old Dave yelled something barely intelligible.

A man soon joined them, letting the door to an unseen office slam shut behind him, sending a vortex of air to ruffle the old clothes back in the warehouse part of the pawn shop. The man was large, almost larger than he was tall, and Michael had the confirmation that indeed there was no raised platform behind the counter, simply Old Dave was very tall for an old man. Michal himself was slightly over six feet, but the old man had to be nearing seven.

Perhaps he’s a retired basketball player.

The large guy, Mustang, muttered and hummed while he studied the bar with several instruments. Most of his verifications were by means of the “old reliable human eye,” as he put it while he examined the bar under many magnifying lenses. Sure enough, though, soon Michael heard what he wanted to hear.

“Where did you get this?” Old Dave’s mask of composure was broken for the tiniest of moments, almost imperceptible to the conscious mind. “It’s almost pure silver, man. That’s uh… rare, if you want to call it that.”

There was a second meaning implied there. He thinks I stole it. But this is a dusty pawn shop, they don’t care.

Michael just shrugged. “Does rare mean it’s valuable, then?”

The old man chuckled at that. “200 bucks. The market for silver is shit, but we know people who know people, and can place it. Don’t expect to buy it back, though.”

Michael thought about it for a moment, debating with himself whether to haggle over the money or not. In the end, he chose to try and raise some more cash, even though the difference was bound to be laughable, with the secondary objective of laying the groundwork for future deals. If the dungeon keeps throwing valuables at me, I need to build a good relationship with the guys who can take them from me and give me cash, no questions asked. I need to show them I’m no pushover.

“220 and I come back here when I have other… valuables to sell.” He said.

Old Dave thought about it for a moment, or at least he pretended to, making a show of it in a practiced way that really screamed he was the owner of the place.

“Tough sell kid. I haven’t seen you here before, how do I know? How about 210. Most I can do for a stranger, if you get my drift.” He paused for a long moment. “For a friend, however, then we can get talking. You say you have more stuff? Bring it to me, and we’ll see if we can be friends.”

With that, Old Dave grinned, a single golden tooth glinting in the sterile light coming from the ceiling lamps. The other, warmer lights cast shadows on his wrinkled face, making him appear ominous, like a devil willing to purchase a soul. Michael’s hands went to his left pocket, where the copper coins were like a reassuring weight, with their smooth texture and their powerful mana presence. They calmed his nerves a bit, enough that he met Old Dave’s steady gaze with a grin of his own.

“Deal.” He said.

They shook hands again. Old Dave gave him the money, then seemed to ponder over something for a while, long enough to pique Michael’s curiosity and make him resist the urge to just leave immediately. Once the old man saw that he was hooked, he nodded theatrically at him, buttering him up with words.

“You have a nice grip, kid. Strong hands, calloused. I can see you know how to use your body well. And you’re tall. You need money, don’t you? Walking all shady and shit in here with a bar of silver.” He paused, studying Michael’s face, who was in turn struggling to hide any reaction. “Listen. How about you spend that cash I gave you to buy some meat, hit the gym and put some more muscles on those shoulders? I might be able to get you some jobs around here. There’s clubs and… other stuff, but that’s for later. Clubs, I know the owners. You interested, perhaps?”

Michael thought about it for a moment, or at least he made a show of it. “I might be.”

The old man chuckled. “That’s an odd look on your face right there. Almost… eager. You have the itch, don’t you? Your hands itch for a face to slap sometimes. I get you. And those torn clothes. Perhaps you might even enjoy the work we can give you. If you prove you can be trusted. You know how to fight, clearly, don’t you?”

“I know karate, and I have good reflexes.”

“And more you are not telling. It’s fine, kid. Not my place to pry. Alright then. Hit the gym. You are tall, but you aren’t big enough to scare people off, you know? People in this sort of work need… presence.” He squinted at him, and Michael had the impression that perhaps this old man was seeing more than he let on, as if he perhaps knew. But that’s impossible, isn’t it?

Except it wasn’t, Michael realized. Perhaps the man knew he had magic. Perhaps that’s what he was implying. Realizing he was going on paranoid tangents, Michael refocused on what the old man was saying.  

“You don’t have presence yet, kid, no need to make sour faces. It’s just the truth. In the meantime, build some trust with this old man here, show me I didn’t misjudge you. Bring me whatever stuff you can get your hands on, and I’ll personally deal with it, no questions asked, nobody will ever know it’s you.”

And with that, the deal was concluded. Michael walked out $210 richer, enough to put a damper on his mounting monetary worries, but with a lot of things on his mind for the rest of the drive home. He snacked on what little was left of his supplies in his pack on the way home, right hand often crawling to where he had stored the bulk of the copper coins in his pack, feeling their reassuring presence and calming his mind.

***

“Do you think he’ll do it?” Mustang asked. He had waddled back out of his stinking office, mildly ruining Old Dave’s mood, but he was the best appraiser he could get his hands on, so he stayed quiet and turned up the air whenever Mustang passed by with his greasy stink.

“Dunno, maybe.” Old Dave said noncommittally. “There was something different about him, hard to tell what, though.”

“You’ve been asking every tall kid you see, none have come back for it so far. What makes you think he’ll do it?”

Old Dave shrugged, and not for the first time. He usually did whenever Mustang confronted him about the topic, but this time he did not treat his employee with silence afterwards, instead choosing to elaborate.

“He said he’ll come back for more. Makes it easier to work him, little by little. Plus, as I said, I have a hunch.”

“Didn’t look like he needed much work, to be fair.” Mustang conceded.

“That’s true enough. He is doing shady work already, the difference is that we are professionals. I am, anyway, you just appraise things.” He paused, waiting for a retort that did not come. Satisfied that Mustang finally understood his place, if anything due to rote repetition, he went on. “It’s not like it’s bad work either.”

“Bodyguard stuff, right?”

“More or less,” Old Dave said.

“Is it legal, though?”

“It is legal. I mean, it would be if I didn’t pay him cash with no insurance. I reckon it’s legal enough, and he doesn’t look like he cares about that sort of stuff, so long as they pay is good.”

“Speaking of: that bar of silver.” Mustang said inquisitively. “Silver might not be worth much, but that purity was something I’ve never seen before. Hard to tell without proper equipment,” he shot him a look, “but still. What do you think, he went to raid some of the villas by the mountains? Opened up their safe?”

Old Dave hummed. “Close to the Trail? Perhaps. He didn’t look like a house robber, but his clothes…”

“Roughed up good. But I did see he was wearing trekking shoes.”

Old Dave nodded. “Makes sense. Find an isolated house. Holiday house of some rick fuck, burglarize it till it’s clean.”

“Then why only bring us a single bar?”

“Emergency money. He didn’t want to tip his hand, give proof he’s doing illegal stuff. He needed the money though, and it was a way to test us, if we whined about it or not.” Old Dave said. His gut feeling only intensified the more he thought about it, old instincts kicking in, as well as newer instincts honed by years owning a pawn shop.

“Think he’ll come back?”

“Come on.” The old man laughed. “Shady pawn shop. We asked him almost no questions. Gave him a little extra. He basically promised to return. Besides, with me talking about the possible job? He’s hooked.”

“Damn boss. You read him like a book.”

“No,” he shook his head. “It was all instinct. Gut. You’ll get there, if you ever want to inherit this shit shop from me when I finally bite it.”

Of course, he didn’t mean it, not really. He cared little for what happened when he finally died, but he needed to butter up fat Mustang, so he worked harder without asking for more pay. After all, every cent counted.