Get the money, get to the airport and get gone. For good.
A solid plan.
But the tweed suit behind the counter wasn’t cooperating. He eyed the pocket watch, moved the medals and ribbons around the glass with his ballpoint pen. Lots of hemming, even more hawing.
“All legit stuff,” I said. “All valuable.”
The flight leaves in forty-five. I needed an appraisal, I needed cash. I needed both. Now.
Then the door to the pawn shop jingled. I turned, saw one of her thugs.
The tweed suit wasn’t evaluating, he was stalling.
I should’ve known.
She had people everywhere.
The Weekday One Hundred 