Dead Birmingham by Timothy C. Phillips Page A

open, and dashed inside, his friend right behind him.
    Francis and his men charged into the bar after them.  
    Inside, Ganato’s four men hesitated. It was dark in there, and they were slightly disorientated. Francis could hear just fine, though, and he didn’t like what he was hearing.
    â€œGuineas! Ganato’s gang!” men’s voices shouted. Chairs scraped and tables were thrown to the side.
    â€œLet’s kick some ass!”
    Several men jumped Francis’ companions, slapping their weapons from their hands. His men howled with rage and began slugging it out with Longshot’s thugs.
    Francis looked up to see a big red-haired man vault the bar, a Little League bat in his hand. He was running at Francis. Francis fired low, clipping the man in the leg. He fired another couple of shots into the ceiling.
    â€œEverybody just KNOCK IT OFF!” Francis pulled his handkerchief out with his left hand and mopped his brow. There was a scar on that hand, the scar of a bullet that had gone through his palm. It was something that had happened on another day when things had gone terribly wrong, a day much like today.
    â€œNobody wants to fight, you bunch of stupid pogues. We just want to ask Shakes here a few questions concerning a matter.”
    The red-headed man sat heavily on a bar stool and put his hand over the hole in his leg. But the bullet wound hadn’t dampened his spirits. He threw aside the bat and laughed, and nodded toward the back of the bar. “Well, if you weren’t blind, Dago, you’d see that he has already ducked out the back, so you can take your questions to hell with you.”
    Francis frowned mightily. “Ah, Christ.” He didn’t think that Don Ganato was going to be very pleased with the way things were working out.

 
    Chapter 13
    Â 
    Scott LaRue had things to do. He had places to be. Things had gone awry, maybe, but he was a never-say-die kind of guy, and he had a plan. He knew that he was walking into danger, and possibly even to his doom. He knew a second visit to Malvagio’s Antiques was a dangerous proposition, but he was ever the opportunist, and he realized that if he could get the key to the box and keep his skin, all his troubles were over.  
    And so, his first trip was not to the old man’s store, but to a very different shop, on First Avenue North, just over the Twenty-Second Street Bridge. The place was called Ponders Pawn, and the owner shared a very special relationship with Scott and his friends—he was their fence.
    Chance Ponder was a pawnbroker, and he had two simple rules: buy cheap and sell dear. If you always followed those two simple rules, you could make a handsome living. You could even get wealthy at it. Most of the time you were holding onto something for someone, collateral on a small loan. They paid you every month, with heavy interest, until they could finally pay off the loan. This made you most of your money. But there were catches.  
    There were slow months, and the bills still rolled in. Sometimes people came in with things they had no intention of ever returning for, so you had to be careful not to loan too much money out, or else you would take a hit on the item. People also liked to pawn stolen things, which you could not resell.  
    Unless, of course, you were a fence. Chance Ponder was just that, and it was a sideline that he had picked up during a slow month, when a group of young boosters had come into his store. Since that day he had been a fence of a most exclusive type—for them only.
    So on this particular sunny day when Scott LaRue came into his shop, Ponder merely smiled and nodded.  
    â€œScott. It’s been a while. What have you guys been up to?” Ponder noted that Scott had come alone, which was unusual. The young man carried a backpack, however, which he assumed was full of stolen goodies.  
    â€œWhat have you got for me today?”
    Scott said nothing for