Over Tumbled Graves by Jess Walter

him. “You were in yesterday…askin’ about a…what was it?”
    “Bracelet.” Lenny walked over, calmly took the keys from the man’s hand, and locked the front door. He walked back just as slowly and showed the pawnshop owner a claim check for the bracelet, then turned back to the items under the glass.
    “Yeah,” the pawnshop owner said, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. “A bracelet. That’s right. Some chick you knew sold it.”
    “Yeah. You wouldn’t give it to me.”
    “Well, like I told you, after a certain time…I can’t sell it back at the pawn price…except to the person who pawned it.” He looked at the hunting knife in Lenny’s hand. “But you know what, for you I’ll make an exception.”
    “Thanks,” Lenny said.
    Relieved, the pawnshop owner edged behind the counter, Lenny following. He opened a drawer of jewelry and flipped through it. He looked up and forced a smile. “I think I retagged it. I’m trying to remember…”
    “It’s gold.”
    “Oh, right, right.” The man opened another drawer.
    “You gave her ten bucks. It was worth two hundred. She needed the money.”
    The pawnbroker looked up again, nervous. “Yeah, sorry about that. She didn’t make a big deal about it, I guess.” He held up a gold chain and Lenny winced when he saw it. He handed it to Lenny, who stared hard at it.
    The pawnshop owner backed toward the wall. “Yeah,” he said, “I remember you now. We talked about prison. Your tattoos. You just got out.”
    “Couple months ago,” Lenny said, still staring at Shelly’s bracelet.
    “Yeah,” the man said, “I asked if you liked being out and you said you’d never go back and I said, ‘Yeah, no shit.’ Remember?”
    Lenny stared at the bracelet, and its slightness made him angry. He wondered how they curled those little gold rings around each other, wondered at the grace and delicacy of some people’s hands, at the bluntness of his own.
    “Yeah, it’s coming back now,” the pawnshop owner said. “You asked about…uh…who was it? The girl who sold this thing…she was a hooker, right? Worked with that black kid who runs dope in the park. Did you find him?”
    “Yeah.” Lenny moved away from him to the glass case filled with handguns.
    The pawnshop owner kept talking nervously, hoping. “So, did he hook you up? The kid in the park?”
    “Mmm-hmm.”
    The man was pleased. “You get some good shit? Maybe mellow you out?”
    Lenny pointed at a nine-millimeter in the case. “You got ammo for this?”
    “Uh, I don’t sell ammunition.”
    Lenny turned his left arm over and noticed that his elbow was bleeding where he’d broken the glass case, that the blood was dampening his long-sleeved black T-shirt. He made a face more of irritation than of pain, took two quick steps, and flicked the knife at the pawnbroker, who put his hands up to protect himself and was cut across the palm.
    “Ah, Jesus! Okay!” he said. “There’s ammo in the bottom drawer.” He unlocked the drawer and handed Lenny a loaded clip and two boxes of nine-millimeter ammunition.
    “Unlock the case too.”
    The pawnshop owner hesitated, wiped his brow with his good hand, and unlocked the case. Lenny reached in, took the handgun, hefted it, pointed it at the front window, and then turned it over in his hand.
    The pawnshop owner clenched his bleeding hand as Lenny loaded the handgun. When he was done, he looked up at the pawnbroker with something approaching pity.
    “Why don’t you wash that shirt before you wear it?” Lenny asked.
    “Huh?”
    “That shirt. It’s dirty.”
    The pawnshop owner looked down at his shirt and swallowed hard. “I got it out of the hamper. I like this shirt.”
    Lenny scooped up the bracelet. The bright lights under the jewelry case glistened off the gold links.
    “I’ve been robbed before,” the pawnshop owner said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I never say nothin’. I did six months myself, man. Fraud and some business with