Excerpt of The Blade Itself by Marcus Sakey
(Page 3 of 6)
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Danny dropped his hand. Evan gunned the engine quick and hard. With a
screech—tortured, but barely audible over the train—the metal latch gave.
The gate ripped open, chain still attached, hinges straining from the pull
of the car. For a second Danny thought Evan might tear it right off the
wall. But brake lights washed red across him, then the white of reverse, and
finally the engine fell to silence.
The chain felt warm as Danny detached it and crouched to check the
revealed door. Twin Schlages. He slid the Crown Royal bag from his inside
pocket. Some guys cut down hacksaw blades, some liked the professional kits.
Personally, he’d always found the bristles of a street sweeper made the best
lock picks, hard but flexible. He’d popped both deadbolts by the time Evan
had stowed the chain.
The rattle of the El faded as they stepped into the cramped pawnshop
office. Danny generally liked to take a moment inside to listen to the
darkness, but Evan already had the flashlight out. As it glared to life,
Danny caught a glint off the gun in Evan’s other hand. Showboating, chasing
the thrill. He thought about saying something, decided against it.
“There.” A battered metal desk winked in the flashlight beam, below a
calendar with a swimsuit model cozying up to a carburetor. He could make out
a rumpled mattress on the floor beside it. “Terry said the bag would be in
the manager’s desk.”
“Not in a safe?”
“Owner’s a gun nut, apparently. Figures no one will mess with him.”
Evan nodded, moving over to test the drawer. “Locked.”
Danny smiled, pulled out the Crown Royal bag again.
“I’m going to look around.” Evan had the door half open already.
“What?”
“It’ll take you a minute, I’m going to check the front room. See if
there’s anything in the register.”
“The flashlight—”
“Relax, Danny-boy. I’ll be right back.” Not waiting for an answer, he
slid into the pawnshop.
Shaking his head, Danny fumbled in the dark to find his own flashlight
and set to work. He ran a pick down the inside of the lock, counting clicks.
Four. Factory-issue. He eased in the tension wrench and started with the
farthest pin.
Twenty seconds later, the lock twisted open. He pulled the top drawer,
rifled around, his gloves inky in the flashlight’s warm glow. Papers,
pushpins, day-job junk. The second was crammed with Hustler magazines from
the seventies. In the third drawer lay a sleek black automatic pistol, big,
with an extra-long clip jutting out the bottom. It looked like it could
punch through an engine block, and something about its cold, machined intent
sent shivers down the backs of his thighs. Next to the pistol sat a nylon
bank bag with a brass lock. The bag was two, maybe three inches thick.
Jackpot. He stood up and slid through the door, his soft-soled gym shoes
silent on the concrete. The pawnshop was a forest of dim shapes, electric
guitars strung above what looked like power tools, a couple of racks of
looming TVs. Danny couldn’t see Evan, but a glow behind the counter marked
his spot. The cabinet doors on one wall stood open, and there was a thumping
sound.
“Come on, man.” Danny pitched it low but urgent. “I found the money.”
“Give me a hand.” Evan’s voice was muffled.
“With what? Let’s go.”
“I was thinking.” Evan rose behind the counter, stretching, vertebrae
popping as he flexed his broad shoulders. “Man sold weight, right? So
there’s gotta be a pound of dope here, maybe two. That’s another couple
grand easy.”
Copyright © 2007 by Marcus Sakey. All rights reserved.
