Neil McMahon - Dead Silver

Guns, jewelry, guns, musical instruments, and guns were his top moneymakers. But power tools in good condition were also welcome, and ours were on display when Madbird and I arrived at his shop. They weren't supposed to be on sale for the duration of the pawn ticket, another twenty-nine days, but Bill was also known for being flexible about that sort of thing. At least we'd gotten there before somebody beat us to it.

Bill was tending the glassed-in counter, where he kept pistols, rings, and other expensive items that might be easily pocketed. A rack of rifles and shotguns lined the wall behind him. At the room's far end, there was a small office where he ran his bail business. The rest of the space was filled with tables of used merchandise. Everything reeked with the smoke of the rum-soaked Crook cigars he favored and his brand of cologne, which would have broken up a riot faster than tear gas.

"How's it going?" he said, lumbering over to give us hearty handshakes. He was mostly Indian, built like an oil barrel on a pair of tree trunks, with a scarred, pitted face and a stare that made you want to shrivel down into your socks. In his younger days, he'd been the kind of barfighter that the toughest guys would take care to avoid-even now when he walked into a place, things tended to get noticeably quieter-and he'd done a couple years in Deer Lodge for assault. He even made Madbird nervous.

But he'd become my new best friend several months ago, when I'd done a little business with him. Since then, the situation had been somewhat like with Gary Varna. Bill made a point of being genial because he expected that one of these days, I was going to be in the market for another, much more expensive, bail bond, and he had his eye on my property as collateral.

"You guys looking for firepower?" he said. "I just got in a real sweet Glock forty-caliber. Just one owner, he hardly used it, and he ain't gonna be needing it again."

"Actually, Bill, the reason we're here-it's a little delicate," I said, and pointed at the tools. "A guy named Artie, you probably know him-he sold you those yesterday?"

Bill hesitated a beat, no doubt already seeing where this was going.

"Yeah?"

"They weren't exactly his to sell."

"Now, ain't that a bitch." He took a pack of Crooks from his shirt pocket, shook one loose, lit it in his thick cupped hands with an inhalation like an elephant sucking water into its trunk, and blew out a cloud of smoke that visibly darkened the room.

"Well, if I'd known it was you guys, I'd of kicked his ass and called you," he said. "But the way it is, I'm a businessman and I got an investment to protect. Plus handling, shelf space, all that."

"What'd you give for them?" Madbird said.

"Hunnert and forty," Bill said, with a touch of pride. I winced. Replacement value would be close to two grand, and he could sell them for at least half that.

"How about we cash you out and call it even?" Madbird said. "That way, you ain't lost anything."

"Yeah, but I ain't made anything, either."

"Come on, Bill, those tools are our living," I said. "We can't afford new ones, or even to buy them back from you."

He gazed thoughtfully out the window.

"What the fuck," he finally said. "Call it seventy, we'll split it. Just remember, Bill LaTray gave you a break."

We assured him we'd never forget, dug the seventy bucks out of our wallets, and schlepped the tools out to my truck. A chunk of cash and half a morning pissed away recovering our own property, but we felt like we'd won the lottery.

As Madbird and I drove away, I confessed my disloyal intentions.

"Let's get some lunch, but I might skip out on the job while Renee's here."

"You know, I wouldn't mind a couple days away from Split Rock myself," he said. "I ain't exactly Mr. Popularity out there right now."

We celebrated the recovery of our goods and the riddance of Seth Fraker by getting cheeseburgers to go at an ancient drive-in called Al's, one of the few non-chain places left in town and the venue of choice now that the legendary Gertie's was gone. These were the great old-fashioned kind of burgers that came wrapped in greasy white paper, big as a saucer and half an inch thick, with an aroma that filled the cab of my truck. High roller that I was, I bought an extra one to take to Renee.

When we got to her place, Madbird said, "I'll start picking up tools," and headed off to the carriage house to leave her and me alone. He was no stranger to the morning-after-the-night-before scenario.

She and I hadn't talked about what might happen next, and I was on edge about it. But as I climbed the porch steps, she came out to meet me like she had the first time, and she made the awkward moment easy-gave me a quick kiss and embrace, looking genuinely glad to see me. There was no hint of regret or blame.

When I offered her the cheeseburger, she pressed her hands to her heart and went wide-eyed.

"For me?"

"The sky's the limit, kid."

"It looks wonderful. I'll get plates."

I took hold of her wrist lightly. "We'll handle this however you want. I'd like to be with you, but if you're uncomfortable, I'm out of here."

"I don't know what I want," she said, turning her face aside. "But there's something I need to tell you."

That took a bite out of my brief gladness, but I tried to get her joking again.

"Another skeleton in a closet?"

She stayed serious. "Kind of. I don't want to just blurt it out."

"Sure. Let's go ahead and eat," I said, and went outside to get Madbird.

In fact, I suspected she intended to tell me that our little fling had already run its course. I wasn't naive enough to think I'd been anything more than a temporary comfort for her, at a time when she was frightened and in need. I didn't expect anything different, just as I hadn't expected it to happen in the first place, and I sure had no complaints. I'd never spent a sweeter night.

The real problem was, it lit up a big neon arrow pointing at a void that had deepened in me over the past years. It didn't stem just from living alone, but from a composite of that and other absences that could start you wondering why you were living at all. Most of the time, I managed to ignore it.

I stepped into the carriage house and informed Madbird that luncheon was served. He glared at me with wounded dignity.

"You expect me to come inside and eat with you white people?" he said.

"Renee does."

"Well-since she don't know any better, plus she's pretty, I'll do it this once."

"We have an invention called ketchup, that goes pretty good with the onion rings," I said.

"Wahss. First you get us hooked on firewater, now this new shit. Any of them beers left?"

Wahss-I didn't know the right way to spell it, or even if it could be spelled-was something I heard him say often. As near as I could tell, it meant bullshit, fuck you, c'est la vie, uff da, oy vey, and other such sentiments all rolled into one, along with an edge of its own.

"Yeah, if I can keep you from pouring them down the sink," I said.

After lunch, Madbird and I went back to the carriage house to finish collecting our tools. I still wasn't sure what Renee had in mind or how long that would take, and he needed to get going, so we decided he'd drive my truck to the job and swap it for his van. She could give me a ride out there to get it.

We gathered our gear quickly, with the unconscious precision of having done so countless times before. But this time I hit a minor snag. The five-sixteenths socket from my set, about the size of a cigarette filter, was missing. I was sure I'd left it on the workbench, and at first I thought it must have rolled off. It was bright chrome and should have been easy to spot, but I checked the area carefully with no luck.