The Pawnbroker by Aimée Thurlo Page A

off.

 
    Chapter Five
    The truck must have cut his speed. The Dodge struck the truck’s rear end with a sickening thud, then bounced to the right. Charlie clung to the steering wheel as he slammed hard on the brakes, fighting the momentum as he tracked toward the narrow sidewalk and bridge railing.
    His right tire bounced off the curb, throwing him up into the ceiling and yanking his feet off the floor as the Charger jumped onto the sidewalk. Only the shoulder belt kept him from losing it completely.
    All he had to hang on to was the steering wheel. He straightened it out, scraped the steel side railing with the passenger side panels, then eased back down onto the street. Just as he found the brake and gas pedal, the flat left front tire grabbed the pavement, throwing him into a crabbing sideways slide. The tires were screeching so loud that his teeth hurt. He’d roll the car if he didn’t act fast.
    Charlie forced the wheel left again and pressed down on the clutch, gearing down to first. Something in the front right popped, and he slid to a stop. The smell of burning rubber was almost overwhelming now. He shifted into neutral and turned off the engine, not wanting to pump any more gas or throw sparks into the mess.
    He shook for a moment, mostly out of anger, knowing that his car wasn’t going anywhere on its own now. Down the road, all he saw were the taillights of the plumber’s truck. The guy who’d nearly run him into the dry canal was no plumber.
    Charlie set the emergency brake, checked the rearview mirror, then opened the door and stepped out. Grabbing his cell phone, he glanced down at the crumpled front end of his car and the shredded tire. The engine was probably okay, but his insurance man was going to have a heart attack. The guy who had tried to kill him just now, however—and, even worse, trashed his ride—was going to die a much slower death.
    â€œCall Gordon,” he said to the phone, his voice clear and calm now that he’d made the promise.
    *   *   *
    â€œWe’re going to need to hire someone, at least part-time, Charles,” Gordon said, Lobo coffee mug in his hand as he looked toward the big clock on the shop wall of movie posters. “We’ve run into a hassle and that’s going to take lot more of our attention. In a half hour we open for business, and we can’t just shut down like yesterday.”
    â€œWhat about one of the former employees that Baza supposedly let go? They’d know the place and the routine, and we can start them with a decent wage and a percentage of anything they sell. There was a woman, Ruth, that Eddie mentioned, and the older guy, Salazar? The initials JS are on most of the transaction forms that don’t have Baza’s so I guess that would be Mr. Salazar. I don’t recall any other employee signing off, though—no R, for sure,” Charlie said. “Curiously enough, all the employee records are gone or deleted. I wonder why Baza would do that?”
    â€œYou got me. Maybe we need to dig back earlier, or just haven’t found any with her initials yet. Or maybe Baza gave Ruth other things to do.”
    â€œWell, until my rental gets here, I can’t run any errands anyway, so let’s check for either one of those names in the papers Baza left scattered around. I’ll give Rick a call and see if he’s managed to recover any employee or personnel folders from those backup drives.”
    â€œHow about talking to the owner of the laundry on the corner when they open up? If Eddie wasn’t lying about that too, someone there might be able to give us a heads-up,” Gordo suggested. “A last name for Ruth? Salazar’s first name and new address?”
    â€œGood idea. I can prime the pump by taking in that wool Navajo rug on the wall over there. You never want to wash one, I know that, but some of them can be dry cleaned. The laundry can test the