Chapter 6 - The Pawnshop on 8th Avenue
The streetlights flickered on along 8th Avenue, casting sickly yellow pools of light onto the rain-soaked asphalt. Richard wandered aimlessly through the crowds of commuters, his designer shoes ruined by dirty puddles, his soaked hair plastered against his forehead.
He was entirely cut off from the world he had known.
His corporate credit cards had been declined when he tried to buy a hot coffee at a corner deli. His private black card had been swallowed by an ATM. His Maybach was gone. His penthouse in Tribeca was sealed behind police tape.
All he had left in the world were the clothes on his back and the luxury items he was currently wearing: his platinum Rolex Daytona, his diamond-encrusted cufflinks, and the heavy gold signet ring on his pinky.
He stopped outside a dingy, iron-barred pawnshop. The neon sign buzzed and sputtered in the damp evening air: *EMPIRE JEWELRY & PAWN – FAST CASH.*
A week ago, Richard would have crossed the street rather than walk within ten feet of such a place. Now, he pushed open the heavy security door, the mechanical bell dinging above his head.
Behind the thick bulletproof glass sat a bald, bearded man in his fifties, chewing on a toothpick while watching an old boxing match on a portable television. He looked at Richard’s soaked, disheveled suit with mild amusement.
“Can I help you, buddy?”
Richard stepped up to the counter, his throat raw. He unclasped the platinum Rolex from his wrist, took off the diamond cufflinks, and slid them under the glass tray.
“I need cash,” Richard muttered, keeping his head down. “This watch is a limited-edition platinum Daytona. Retail is over ninety thousand dollars. The cufflinks are two-carat VVS diamonds. I need twenty thousand. Right now.”
The pawn broker pulled the tray through, picked up an eye loupe, and began examining the watch with agonizing slowness. He checked the serial number, flipped the clasp, and weighed the case on a digital scale.
“Nice piece,” the broker murmured.
“It’s authentic. I bought it at the boutique on 5th Avenue,” Richard said impatiently, tapping his fingers on the laminate counter. “Give me fifteen thousand. I have an urgent legal retainer to pay.”
The broker put down the loupe. He didn't pick up a stack of cash. Instead, he pulled out a laminated printed memo that was taped to the inside of his register.
“Name?” the broker asked.
“What does my name matter? I have the watch!”
“Federal law on luxury buybacks over five grand, pal. Name.”
Richard swallowed hard. “Richard. Richard Sterling.”
The pawnbroker’s eyes flicked to the printed memo, then back up at Richard. A slow, knowing grin spread across his weathered face.
“Well, well, well,” the broker said, leaning back in his squeaky swivel chair. “The famous Richard Sterling. Wondered if you’d show up in one of these shops tonight.”
Richard stepped back, his pulse spiking. “What are you talking about?”
The broker tapped the memo against the glass. “Got an urgent electronic bulletin from the New York Diamond District Wholesaler Network and the Regional Pawnbrokers Association about four hours ago. Issued by the SDNY Receiver’s Office. Serial numbers of all personal luxury goods registered under the Sterling name are flagged as disputed marital property subject to an active federal seizure order.”
The broker slid the Rolex and the cufflinks into a lockbox beneath the counter and closed the lid with a metallic thud.
“HEY!” Richard roared, slamming his hands against the bulletproof glass. “What are you doing?! Give those back to me! Those are mine!”
“Not according to the federal court order, buddy,” the pawnbroker said calmly, picking up his landline phone. “State law says if flagged stolen or frozen property is presented, I retain custody and notify the authorities. I’m calling the local precinct right now. You want to wait around for the cruisers, or you want to leave through that door?”
Richard looked at the telephone receiver in the man’s hand. He looked at the locked metal box.
Total, unadulterated terror flooded his veins.
May you like
He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He turned around, shoved open the heavy pawnshop door, and sprinted blindly out into the freezing Manhattan night, penniless, stripped of everything, and running from the very shadows he had created.
***
