the pawnshop was dark and closed. Snazz had no set business hours; apparently, he worked among his treasured items whenever he liked, which made sneaking inside rather difficult. I was pleased to see the Closed sign hanging in the door next to a flat plastic clock: “Will Return At . . .” with the hands set to 12:00, although there was no indication whether that meant midnight or noon.
Ducking along the shadows—which was perfectly normal behavior around here, so I attracted no undue attention—I huddled against the locked door, removed my tool kit, and attempted to dissect the lock. I fumbled one of the picks and dropped it to the ground. No one noticed the noise. I retrieved the tool and went back to work.
Before being shot in the head, I was quite nimble, but zombies have trouble with dexterity. (You don’t see many zombie trapeze artists, for instance.) Still, I knew what I was doing, and all I required was patience; after so much practice during my regular life, I had muscle memory—the occasional rigor mortis notwithstanding.
I eased the door open, careful not to jangle the customer bell. I expected the hinges to squeak, as is the time-honored tradition, but they were brass hinges, and the gremlin pawnbroker, with his fixation for all things shiny, had polished and oiled them. The door glided open, and I slipped inside with only the slightest tinkle of the bell overhead.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom. This would be a quick in-and-out. I needed to get to the front of the store, work open the combination-locked drawer that held the ledger, find the information I needed, then slip back out with no gremlins the wiser. What could be simpler? A zombie’s heart and soul were at stake.
Moving through the pawnshop, I was surrounded by the sinister curiosities Snazz had collected over the years. It was indeed a treasure trove, if you like that sort of junk. The price on the slightly used monkey’s paw had been marked down yet again; maybe the gremlin wanted to get rid of it after all (no surprise, given the poor industry safety record of such items). I crept toward the front counter and its chicken-wire barrier.
A tingling sensation went up my back, and my uncooperative skin crawled. I sensed someone watching me, but when I turned around, I saw that it was only a jar of preserved eyeballs floating around and directing their gazes at me. Nothing to worry about. Since they couldn’t tattle on me, I let them look all they wanted.
I worked my way down the aisle, listening for movement, worried that the gremlin might sleep inside the shop, but nothing stirred. A thick spell book, written in blood and bound in human skin, gave off a dim phosphorescent glow; it was one of the Howard Phillips Publishing special limited editions.
On a row of shelves I saw a pile of new acquisitions, which were stacked without price tags. As I squinted into the dimness, I was surprised to discover costumes, theater props, and the traditional smiling and weeping masks that symbolized Comedy and Tragedy in Shakespearean plays.
I did a double take. Shakespeare’s ghost had insisted that all the props perished in the fire, but apparently the arsonist had decided to make a quick buck as well as make a point . . . which didn’t sound like Senator Balfour’s minions. At least now I could recover the lost props for the theater troupe, help them get a fresh start. A bonus.
But I could do that during the pawnshop’s normal business hours. I wouldn’t need to steal them now. Since I could prove that the props were stolen property, I could even get McGoo on my side, if Snazz proved intractable again.
As a matter of fact, if I were going to steal anything, I’d retrieve the family jewelry that Sheyenne’s brother had pawned. The very thought made my blood boil. Travis damn well better use the money to get himself out of trouble—and then get himself out of the Unnatural Quarter for good, so he didn’t bother Sheyenne anymore....
But I’m not a thief. Much as I disliked the gremlin, technically Snazz had done nothing wrong. He had acquired the items honestly, and I have my own code of ethics (let’s not count the breaking and entering). I merely wanted a glance at the ledger—no harm, no foul—before I melted back into the night. Snazz would never know, and I could get on with the process of