Soon patrol cars rolled into the alley and the detectives loaded in the two suspects, who both wore the glum resignation of the career criminal who knew such indignities would occasionally occur.
Then Mark and Pence went in through the pawnshop’s open back door. The interior was only slightly better illuminated than the alley. Three of the back-room walls were lined with shelves, most of the two-by-four and plywood variety, filled with every kind of cheap merchandise imaginable. The fourth was home to a desk, atop that a computer whose screen saver consisted of beautiful naked women (this would seem as close to them as Slowhand was likely to get), and next to the desk a tiny table supported a small flat-screen TV. Whatever Slowhand was up to back here, it wasn’t immediately apparent. The crime scene team would be combing through this junk for days, and that didn’t include the stuff in the shop’s larger front end.
While Pence thumbed through the messy stacks of paper on the desk, Mark strolled along the shelves, shining his penlight into the darkness. Televisions, computers, portable hard drives, Blu-ray and DVD players, stacks of DVDs (predominantly porn), power tools, musical instruments, and one shelf’s worth of piled clothing.
The latter turned out to be costumes — Indian chief, firefighter, policeman, power worker, leather guy. Had the Village People hocked their wardrobe? This was apparently the inventory of a costume shop. He just shook his head. Pawnshops were amazing places — people would pawn anything, from a screwdriver to a samurai sword.
“Take a gander,” Pence said, and Mark left the shelves and crossed to the desk.
Pence pointed to the computer monitor, where Slowhand’s eBay page was displayed. The pawnbroker was selling a lot of stuff online. Not unusual, this day and age.
“There was a screen saver going,” Mark said. “You touch something? Crime scene unit wouldn’t appreciate that.”
His partner shook his head innocently. “You stompin’ around must have vibrated the desk or something.”
“Oh-kay.”
Ignoring Mark’s skepticism, Pence said, “Item here you might like to add to your eBay watch list.”
Mark leaned in. “That’s the Lladró sculpture from the Mohican Avenue job. In Collinwood.”
Pence nodded. “How about this one? Catch your fancy?”
“Hah. That upscale grill from the North Royalton burglary.”
“Yeah. Which tells us what?”
They had already determined that while the two robbery crews overlapped, some territory appeared unique to each.
Mark gave his partner half a grin. “Either this bunch of turds is invading the other ring’s turf or...”
Pence said, “Slowhand is fencing shit from both rings.”
“Detective Pence — nice going.”
The bigger man puffed up. “Back atcha, Detective Pryor. Now, shall we go interview a certain scumbag pawnshop owner?”
Mark gave him the rest of the grin. “We shall indeed.”
As they were walking out, Pence asked, “Turds? Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Mark’s grin turned silly and embarrassed.
“Are you blushin’, kid?” Pence grunted a laugh. “You are one of a fuckin’ kind, my boy, one of a freakin’, fuckin’ kind.”
In the interview room, they found Slowhand sitting at the scarred table, drumming his fingers — nerves or boredom? In any case, the pawnbroker said nothing when they entered. In fact, he didn’t look at either cop, as Mark took the chair opposite him and Pence remained standing, prowling like a big anxious cat. Up in the corner, a video camera captured everything, and Mark knew Captain Kelley was on the other side of the one-way glass behind him.
Pence took the first swing at the little round pawnbroker. “In all my many years on the force, I have had the misfortune of dealing with some dumb sorry fucks, Robert my man, but you might well be king of the dumb sorry fucks. My apologies we ain’t got no throne available for your royal ass.” He shook his head, then leaned in, getting right in Slowhand’s face. “eBay, for shit’s sake?”
The truth of that hit Slowhand hard enough to make him cringe; but he said nothing.
Prowling again, Pence added, “And fencing for two burglary crews at the same time? Two competing crews, workin’ the same basic area, who probably like each other the way a couple of street gangs would? Bold, imaginative thinking, Robert... or maybe the kind of greedy shit that could get you fucked up if one crew thought they were getting the short end of the stick.”
His fingertips making small circles, Slowhand massaged his forehead. If this was a nervous habit, maybe it explained his baldness: he’d simply rubbed his hair off.
Pence’s comment had struck a jarring chord not only with the pawnbroker, but with Mark, too. Slowhand was just one of many fences for high-end goods in a city the size of Cleveland. Dealing with two competing crews put him seriously in harm’s way, not wise for a man not as fast on his feet — or with a gun — as he once was.
Why would an experienced crook like Slowhand risk courting this kind of trouble?
Unless...
“You weren’t just fencing for them,” Mark blurted. “You were running both crews.”
Slowhand’s cool evaporated, and he sat there gaping at the young cop. Pence gaped at Mark, too.
“That’s why you could risk working with two crews, working the same territory,” Mark said, running with his theory. “They were working for you.”
Slowhand shook his head, no, no, no, and his trembling hand seemed about to rub away the flesh above his eyebrow.
“We have two suspects in custody,” Mark said. “One of them is going to get a heck of a deal tonight. The other isn’t. But this is your lucky night, Slowhand, because we talked to you first. You get first shot.”
Pence, keeping up, smiling to himself, no longer pacing, said, “Your lucky fuckin’ night, Robert. What say? Or should we go talk to the mope next door?”
Slowhand sat there twitching like a dog with fleas, but he did not respond, did not look at either detective.
“Looks like it’s somebody else’s lucky night,” Mark said, and started out, Pence falling in behind. The second Mark’s hand touched the doorknob, Slowhand said, his voice firm and loud: “All right! All right.”
Pence turned and said casually, “All right what, Robert?”
“...All right, I’ll talk.”
The two detectives returned to the table. Mark took his chair opposite Slowhand, and now Pence sat as well, next to the pawnbroker.
Slowhand said nothing for a while.
Mark said, “We’re listening.”
Finally Slowhand said, “It was about... retirement.”
Pence frowned in confusion. “Retirement?”
Frowning back but in irritation, Slowhand said, “I’m seventy-eight years old, you dumb cluck — y’think I wanna work forever? I meet these kids, they’re already into the burglary thing, but they’re strictly smalltime.” He used his thumb to tap himself in the chest. “I taught ’em how to make some real dough. How to choose where they hit, and what kind of swag to score.”
“Fagin,” Mark said.
“Hey, fuck you, I’m straight!” Slowhand yelped. “Watch your mouth, kid.”
Mark started to explain but Pence waved him to quiet. Slowhand seemed about to continue.
“Me, I figured to bank some dough,” Slowhand said. “Take my ass down to Florida to live out my golden years. Learn to play fuckin’ shuffleboard, maybe.”
Pence said, “I’d pay to see that, Robert.”