Chapter 07

  The knickknack on the wooden door clinked as Michael walked into the dusty air of the pawn shop. This late, near closing time, there were no other customers in the cluttered warehouse filled with forgotten things and assorted baubles, some bought and sold daily, others left to gather dust for years.

  The counter was 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, but a hint of its precious content glinted in the harsh light coming from the ceiling. Things that once belonged in homes concealed the rest of the counter, 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 meager belongings so that he could keep delving the dungeon a bit longer. It would have run out, eventually, leaving him with the regret that one day he might have gotten just the right skill to turn his life around.

  But then again, he thought, he could already turn his life around if he wanted. All he had to do was sell his services as a healer, and people would pay their weight in gold just to be able to stand in his magical aura. Find a few right people, and he would be set. But it was dangerous, the kind of danger he did not feel confident in facing without some more magical helping hands.

  Weaving through 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?” he thought. “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—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.

  A quick peek revealed that the man was not standing on a raised platform. Instead, he was easily seven feet tall, intimidating even though hunched and old. His arms were still strong, and his shoulders were massive under clothes that did nothing to hide his width.

  “I need cash, quickly. How much for this?” Michael asked, speaking a little too quickly to the intimidating man. He realized his mistake when 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 huge but not fat, and even though the skin on his hand was loosened by age, the grip was strong.

  “Michael,” he said as they shook.

  “Let me call my buddy Mustang. Get this piece 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 who emerged 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. Michael himself was slightly over six feet, but the old man had to be nearing seven.

  Perhaps he’s a retired basketball player, he thought. Perhaps he was a thug who could break things and people in half back in his prime. Even now, with a little more effort.

  The fat 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. They don’t really make bars out of solid silver.”

  There was a second meaning implied there, a veiled threat.

  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 I can place it. Don’t expect to buy it back, though.”

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  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 kept giving him loot, this place might become a regular stop.

  “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, perfectly straight teeth 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 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, of course you do, don’t you?”

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

  He thought of his passive skill, enhancing him even now and without demanding payment in the form of mana to do so.

  Old Dave snorted. “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. Thoughts gathered: doubts and second-guesses. Perhaps the man knew, had his methods. Then the doubt faded as the man smirked.

  “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 his mounting monetary worries on hold for now. He didn’t feel unburdened by the news, however, his mind cluttered by a lot of things for the rest of the drive home. He snacked on what little was left of his supplies in his pack as he drove, 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.

  He thought about getting rid of the useless ball of lard, but then reminded himself that those days were over.

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

  “Intuition?” Mustang said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “It served you well so far, didn’t it? What makes you think he’ll do it?”

  There it was, the desire to slap some faces. Old Dave suppressed it and shrugged, not for the first time today and not for the last time either.

  “He said he’ll come back for more. Makes it easier to work him, little by little. Plus, 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, 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 the pay is good.”

  “Speaking of: that bar of silver.” Mustang said inquisitively. “Silver might not be worth much, but that purity is 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. But why would a rich asshole keep silver at their home?”

  Mustang rolled his eyes, “rich people do strange things.”

  “Anyway. He didn’t look like a house robber, but his clothes… something was off with him.”

  “I did see he was wearing trekking shoes.”

  Old Dave nodded. “Then maybe you are right. He found an isolated house. Holiday house of some rich fuck, burglarized 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.”