getting Jerry the zombie back to his former vivacious self.
I moved into the deeper gloom at the back of the pawnshop. On the counter, I saw the basketball-sized crystal ball in its ornate birdbath-shaped holder, sparkling with reflected light. A set of antique bookends had been knocked sideways and lay on the countertop. Snazz’s old coffee cup, proclaiming him to be World’s Best Gremlin, was also tipped over, its pencils and pens scattered everywhere, several of them on the floor. The chicken-wire barricade had been torn loose.
Behind the counter, I found Snazz, dead—and not from natural causes.
When you discover a body, especially a murder victim, several thoughts go through your head. First is a burst of paralyzing surprise. Because the pawnshop was so quiet, I hadn’t expected to find anyone there at all, and if I did encounter the pawnbroker, I would have made some excuse, had a conversation, worked something out. But you can’t have a conversation with a dead guy.
Snazz lay sprawled there, tufts of yanked fur strewn around, his slitted eyes bulging, tongue lolling out between pointed teeth. His little paws were extended upward as if still trying to fight off an assailant....
The second thing that goes through your mind is fear. You wonder if maybe the killer is still around. So I drew my .38 and cautiously looked from side to side. I was sure I would have heard someone slipping away, or an assailant stalking me. The pawnshop remained silent, even though the shadows seemed even darker now.
The pawnbroker beside me had obviously been strangled; I could tell from the crushed fur around his throat, the cocked angle of his head. Judging by the scattered objects on the counter and around the body, there had been a struggle—not surprising, since victims tend to struggle when they’re being strangled.
The third and perhaps most important thing that goes through your mind is the sensation that can only be characterized as “Oh shit, I’m in trouble now!” I had broken into the pawnshop. I was trespassing. Someone might have seen me slipping down the alley. I’d probably left fingerprints. It was no secret I had told Mrs. Saldana that I intended to get information out of Snazz, one way or another.
I could have run, done my best to wipe off the fingerprints, and hoped that I left no mark. When someone eventually found the gremlin’s body, no one would think to interrogate me—at least not right away.
I didn’t like those odds, though. Instead, I pulled out my phone. My best bet would be to stay where I was, report the crime, and come clean. I slanted things in my favor, though. I called McGoo directly.
Shortly after I called, I realized I’d miscalculated. Blame it on panic, which makes a person do stupid things, or maybe residual effects of the bullet hole through my brain. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have worked open the combination lock in the gremlin’s credenza, found the ledger, gotten the information I needed, and then called in the crime.
Too late now.
Hurrying, not sure how much time I’d have before the cops arrived, I bent over the credenza lock, spun the dial back and forth, pretending to be a safecracker, but the gremlin had kept this as well oiled and polished as everything else in the pawnshop. I kept trying to get the drawer open, realizing this was a big risk to take for a pro bono case.
On the fifth try, I still couldn’t get the lock open. I turned to Snazz’s glassy eyes. “You aren’t going to offer any help, are you?”
Then I heard the sirens coming, and I knew I wouldn’t get the drawer open in time. I made a halfhearted final attempt, then wiped my prints off the lock and stood up, trying to make myself look as harmless and innocent as possible.
McGoo arrived with the first batch of police. He must have been halfway home, but he had rushed back to the Quarter when he received my call, radioing for backup as he came. The cops entered Timeworn Treasures with guns drawn.
“Hands up! Stay where you are!” one of the cops growled—a rookie, I imagined.
McGoo walked in beside him. “Calm down. He’s the one who called it in.”
“He’s still under arrest! This is a murder scene.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said.
“That remains to be proved!”
“Oh, don’t go overboard,” McGoo said to the rookie. “He’s already been a murder victim. I very much doubt he’s a murderer.” I wasn’t convinced