Free The Emerald Cat Killer by Richard A. Lupoff Page B

Gold lettering on the glass read CASA DE EMPEÑOS.
    Chocron said, “You know what this place is?”
    It couldn’t be anything but a pawnshop. Lindsey admitted as much.
    â€œAll right. I sold the computer here. Pawned it. I don’t know if they still got it. I don’t see it in the window.”
    Lindsey pointed. “Isn’t that it?”
    Chocron shook his head. “Nope. Look at the logo. Wrong brand. Not mine.” He studied the contents of the window, then said, “Come on in. I know the prestamisto. The pawnbroker.”

SIX
    The prestamisto should have been Rod Steiger with a fake mustache and sleeve garters and a green eye-shade, standing behind a barred window and smoking cigarettes furiously. Or maybe Ed Brophy in his trademark derby, or Jesse White with a cigar in the corner of his mouth.
    No such luck.
    Lindsey found himself wishing he could plan his strategy with Marvia Plum before talking with the prestamisto . Work out a plan with Marvia or with Captain Yamura or Sergeant Strombeck or even, heaven help him, with Ducky Richelieu in Denver. But he couldn’t interrupt the proceedings to place a phone call. Rigoberto Chocron was too dicey a character for Lindsey to risk spooking him. Lindsey was relieved that he had turned off his own cell phone. Much as he would have welcomed a chance to talk over the situation with Marvia or one of her colleagues, a ringing cell phone might have wrecked his fragile rapport with Chocron.
    The prestamisto— Lindsey could almost hear Señora McWilkins at Las Lomas High in Walnut Creek lecturing about genders of Spanish nouns while fifteen-year-old sophomores giggled uncontrollably—all right, prestamista was young and eye-catching in a scoop-necked blouse and Mexican skirt.
    â€œRigo.”
    â€œCrista.”
    â€œWhat can I do for you today?” She must have pegged Lindsey for a non-Spanish speaker and used English as a courtesy.
    Chocron said, “You remember that laptop I pawned here?”
    â€œI do. You have the ticket with you?”
    Chocron dug a battered wallet from his jeans. He fished a printed slip from it and laid it on the counter—a plain, glass-topped counter—in front of the prestamista.
    Crista picked it up and smiled sadly. “You know better than this, Rigo. Look at the date.”
    She laid the slip back on the counter. Peering over Chocron’s shoulder Lindsey could see the date on the slip.
    â€œYou see,” Crista said, “it’s expired. We don’t have it anymore. We sold it. But I have some good news for you. We got more than the redemption value. You have some money coming to you. Wait, I’ll write you a check.”
    Chocron said, “You know I don’t do checks.”
    â€œOh, that’s right.” Apparently the two were not exactly close, then. “All right. I can give you cash but you’ll have to sign for it.”
    When the transaction was completed, Lindsey asked the prestamista if she had a record of the buyer.
    Crista smiled. “I’m sorry, Señor, that’s against policy. I cannot tell you that.”
    Lindsey felt Rigoberto Chocron’s strong fingers on his elbow. “Just cool it, my friend,” Chocron half whispered to Lindsey. He moved him bodily away from the counter. Lindsey took the hint, decided to study a fascinating twenty-year-old, bright red clock-radio with a major crack running the length of its plastic exterior. There were people who collected such things. If the radio had been intact it might have been worth a couple of hundred dollars to the right buyer. In its present condition, it would probably be salvaged for parts.
    Rigoberto Chocron and the prestamista Crista had their heads close together. Chocron was using all his charm on her, stroking her upper arms, whispering in her ear, nodding and gesturing. Cesar Romero, definitely Cesar Romero. All he needed was a sombrero de diez galónes with silver