Upon A Pale Horse (9 page)

“Yeah. No problem. Like I said, it’ll be quick.”

The driver twisted the wheel and glided to a stop by the curb. “Suit yourself.”

They were in Chinatown, having pulled beneath an ornate entrance arch with three pagoda roofs that bridged the street as they made their way to the address on the pawn slip. The sidewalks teemed with pedestrians, a sea of black hair bobbing with the steps of the locals as they rushed to whatever destinations called to them. Jeffrey swung the door open and stepped out, narrowly missing colliding with a paunchy Asian man texting intently on his phone. The man grunted and threw him a dark glare and then continued with his errand, melting back into the crowd as Jeffrey got his bearings.

The shop was nothing special from the outside, televisions, stereos, and other treasures dust-covered in the window, and Jeffrey wondered what he was doing there as he ambled through the entryway. A chime sounded in the back as he made his way to the glass display case that held watches and rings and also served as the counter. An ancient gray-haired Chinese man who resembled nothing so much as a praying mantis with a Fu Manchu mustache emerged from the rear of the shop, thick coils of cigarette smoke following him out, the city’s business non-smoking ban clearly not rigidly adhered to in this neighborhood. He studied Jeffrey as if evaluating the condition of a boom box and nodded.

“What can I help you with?” he asked in surprisingly good English. Jeffrey wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but a part of him was prepared to negotiate whatever transaction took place with sign language or in pidgin.

“I’m here to pick up an item,” Jeffrey said, offering the man the ticket.

“Number two seventy. It’s in the lockup. I’ll get it. Wait here,” the man said, then spun with surprising agility and ducked behind the beaded curtain that led into the shop’s bowels.

Jeffrey’s gaze skimmed the collection of odds and ends in the cases, a palpable air of desperation tainting the atmosphere – at least that part had lived up to his expectations. The items were evidence of a last resort, the financial end of the road for their owners, willing to hock them for pennies on the dollar. Jeffrey knew these places existed, but thankfully he’d never had to set foot in one until today – a day of firsts, as it turned out.

The proprietor returned carrying a guitar with a yellow tag hanging from the headstock and set it carefully on the counter before removing the paper rectangle and squinting at the numbers.

“This was one I was hoping would go into default. 1969 Fender Stratocaster. I don’t need to tell you what it’s worth.”

Jeffrey looked the cream-colored electric guitar over, the finish faded and nicked, and nodded. He had a rough idea – both he and Keith played guitar, and this was a collector’s item, no question.

“Does it have a case?” Jeffrey asked, picking the instrument up and strumming a few chords.

“No. What you see is what it came in like. That’ll be three hundred sixty dollars.”

“Three hundred? That’s all?” Jeffrey gawped, surprised at the nominal figure.

“That’s all the owner wanted. Three hundred, plus interest and my fee.”

“No wonder you were hoping to never see him again,” Jeffrey said, and opened his wallet. He extracted the two hundred-dollar bills he kept folded behind his driver’s license in case of an emergency, and counted out the rest from the twenties he had. It left him with only sixty dollars, but he could stop at an ATM later or get money at the hotel’s machine.

The owner rang up the deal and asked Jeffrey to sign the receipt. “Where’s the guy who brought it in?” he asked as Jeffrey scrawled a signature.

“My brother. He had an accident.”

“Ah.” The single syllable contained a universe of possible meanings, like a hologram, where the smallest element encapsulated all other information within it. Jeffrey set the pen down and hoisted the guitar by the neck, careful not to bang it against anything.

“That’s it?”

“Unless you wanna sell a Strat,” the man shot back, his eyes half hoping that Jeffrey would take him up on it.

“Not today. Thanks…” Jeffrey said, then ducked out the door, mindful of the passers-by as he moved to the waiting taxi.

The driver didn’t comment when Jeffrey arrived with a Jimi Hendrix guitar in tow. He looked at Jeffrey uninterestedly in the rearview mirror and then edged into traffic, anxious to make it to their final destination so he could finish his long shift, which had started at six that morning.

Jeffrey watched the sidewalk streak past him as the taxi wove in and out of the stream of cars, heading north towards Keith’s condo, and wondered why his brother would have pawned one of his instruments – especially one that valuable, an easy twelve- to fifteen-thousand-dollar rarity. He supposed he would never know, but could understand why his brother wanted him to have it if anything happened to him. They’d both been rabid Stevie Ray Vaughn fans growing up, and had aspired to emulate the bluesy virtuoso’s talent as teens, before adulthood moved them away from their dreams and into the mundane world of grownups. A 1969 Stratocaster in the right hands sounded like nothing else in the world, and Jeffrey could remember playing it when he’d come to visit, along with several other guitars Keith had acquired over the years.

The thought of jamming with his brother caused a lump to form in his throat, and he closed his eyes for the remainder of the ride, Keith’s ghost visiting him in his memories as the cab bumped its way north along the shabby streets.

NINE

Memory Lane

“He’s in the flat,” the driver reported, listening to the feed from the condo over his ear bud.

“We’ll be there in two or three minutes,” his partner said. “Then it’s back to hurry up and wait.”

“At least he showed up, as predicted. The old man would have gone ballistic if he’d just disappeared and we’d lost him.”

“Nah. Like I said, the guy’s a civilian. He’s got no idea we’re on him.”

“Probably true. Which is nothing but good for us.”

“Roger that.”

Jeffrey twisted the knob and inched the door open, hesitant to enter his brother’s abode. Even though he knew Keith was dead, it still felt like a violation of his privacy. He drew a deep breath and peered inside the gloomy foyer, then bit the bullet and stepped across the threshold, taking care to lock the door behind him.

He glanced around, eyes roaming over the gleaming hardwood floor and contemporary furniture in the living room directly in front of him. A few pieces of Ikea art hung on the walls for color, framing the large flat screen monitor mounted above a stereo, with an adjacent cabinet containing at least two hundred CDs. Jeffrey walked over to where three guitars stood on stands in a corner and returned the Strat to its vacant stand, then slowly gazed around the room. Nothing surprising – typical Keith, a bachelor who prized music and minimalism. A few magazines sat on the coffee table in front of the inexpensive couch – a
Guitar Player
and a
PC Weekly
. Keith’s tastes obviously hadn’t changed much once in D.C., right down to steadfastly refusing to buy a car.

Jeffrey moved into the bedroom and was struck by how neat and organized everything was; then reasoned that if someone had gone into his apartment back in the Bay Area they would have walked away with the same impression. Old habits died hard.

The refrigerator contained a carton of milk that didn’t expire for another week, and Jeffrey found a glass and poured it full, more out of looking for something to do than thirst. He drank as he took a mental inventory of the condo’s contents, then when he was finished, carefully rinsed the glass and placed it in the sink, where several others sat – also rinsed, he noted.

Jeffrey ferreted under the sink and found a box of dark green garbage bags, whipped one open, and proceeded to empty out the refrigerator. He wasn’t sure when he’d be able to make it back, given his work schedule, but it could be a while. No point in letting the place turn into a science experiment in his absence.

A computer station caught his attention in the spare bedroom, which was set up as an office, and once he was done with the kitchen he walked in and slid open the file cabinet next to it. The computer was gone, which would make sense if Keith still toted a laptop everywhere, as he had as long as he’d been working. That was another habit Jeffrey and Keith shared. Of many.

Bank statements, a brokerage account, bills, mortgage payment receipts – all were neatly organized in clearly marked folders. The sense of spying on Keith again swept over Jeffrey, and he almost closed the file cabinet before shaking the feeling off and plodding forward. He looked at the mortgage – three hundred and six thousand owed. Jeffrey scanned the room again with appreciation. Keith had been an astute property buyer. He would have estimated based on the building and the neighborhood that the place was worth at least half a mil, even in the worst economy since the Great Depression. So old Keith had some equity built in, no question – the only one being, how much. That would be a subject for a real estate agent.

He opened the brokerage statements and did a quick tally. Another almost two hundred thousand in holdings as of the last summary. Jeffrey wasn’t sure how much Keith earned per year, but it couldn’t have been enough to sock away that sort of nest egg. But he recalled his brother telling him that he was doing well in the market, mostly with options on commodities like gold and silver. He just hadn’t hinted at how well, obviously. That was ten times the money Jeffrey would have guessed he’d accumulated.

Jeffrey turned on the lights as dusk arrived and continued his investigation, Papa Chubby crooning the blues from the stereo as he moved from the office and into the master bedroom closet, where there was a safe bolted to the floor. He’d need to get that opened by a locksmith, but he didn’t have the heart right then, and decided to leave it for his return. Whatever was in it could wait. It wasn’t like he didn’t have all the time in the world.

When his stomach rumbled, he checked the time and was surprised to see that it was already nine o’clock. Hours had raced by, and he’d been completely oblivious to their passage. Jeffrey sped up his inventory, and after another ten minutes returned to the living room, ready to call it a night. He powered the stereo down and did one final slow turn around the room.

His eye caught the shape of the Fender guitar his brother had pawned, and he stepped over to it before looking behind the couch – the natural place for a case to be stashed. Sure enough, a battered old rectangular case was wedged behind it along with the others. He freed the Fender’s and popped it open, sliding the guitar home, nestled safely in the orange interior. He reached over and retrieved the paperwork he’d found and placed it inside next to the instrument then closed the latches as he felt in his pants pocket for the house keys.

Jeffrey toted the garbage and the case out into the hall, then flipped off the light and locked the door, his project completed, at least for the moment. His chest was tight with grief as he walked slowly to the garbage chute and dropped the bag into the abyss, a part of his brother going down the slide with it. He knew it made no sense, but the feeling was undeniable, and his vision blurred as he made his way to the elevator that would take him back to the lobby, away from the shadows that seemed redolent with Keith, his essence in every nook, every object. It seemed sacrilegious to have gone through his things, like raiding a cursed tomb, but Jeffrey understood the necessity. The world kept on turning, even if Keith was no longer a part of it.

The thought depressed him more than he could have described, and when he exited the building, carrying his brother’s final legacy, his shoulders were hunched and he looked beaten, his steps uncertain and heavy on the cold concrete sidewalk.

The watchers exchanged glances and then the passenger got out of the car, determined not to lose him this time. He leaned forward and whispered to the driver.

“What’s he got there?”

“Guitar. His brother had a bunch of them. Probably a keepsake. We’ve already been through everything with a fine-toothed comb. It’s all clean, so it doesn’t matter.”